Just Show Up

We had just finished our staff devotions when I get a call from Julius, our Cherish driver, “Pastor Brent, the van is broken down.” This is obviously a phone call with some negative implications, like the fact we have a van full of kids on the way to their medical appointments stuck on the side of the road along with the point that the van will need to be towed and the possible costly repairs needed. I tell Julius I will head his way. Larry, a good friend, has just arrived that morning from the states for a visit and I tell him I need to go get the kids to the doctor and deal with the van and ask him if he wants to come. Without hesitation he jumps in the car and we head towards town.

We make a right hand turn out of the gate at Akaloosa Village and immediately notice a crowd of a hundred or so people gathered on the road about fifty yards ahead of us. You don’t have to live here very long to know that a crowd of people on the roadside is rarely a good thing. As we approach, the people move aside and now we are a part of the circle that is continuing to grow. Out of my window, about thirty feet off the dirt road, we see a young girl, maybe 13 or 14 years old, sitting on some bricks, at the base of a small tree. Her hands are tied behind her back. Standing over her is a middle-aged man holding a brick above her head about to hit her with it. He is yelling at her and we can’t understand a word he is saying.

Having seen quite a few mob justice situations in our time here it was quickly clear that this girl had done something this man deemed punishable by death. Those in the crowd either, 1. Agreed, 2. Were passive bystanders with no opinion watching the drama unfold, or 3. Disagreed with the punishment being levied upon her, but were driven by fear, or felt powerless, to intervene. I was in the 3^rd camp, but knew I needed to do something. One of our staff members, Waswa, happened to walk up at the same time. At a loss of what to do next I just started asking Waswa, “What did this girl do?” He said he didn’t know. I continue to ask him anyways, making my voice louder and louder. At this point all eyes are on me, including the girl and the man with the brick. My questioning turns toward the man with the brick, “What did this girl do?” I doubt he understood my English, but he definitely understood my tone. My heart was pounding and I am wondering what I will do if that man either doesn’t put the brick down, or turns the brick on me as often happens to those involving themselves in situations like these. I continue to ask him over and over again, “What did this girl do?”. The people continue to stare.

I can’t put into words the look on the face of the young girl. Head down, eyes staring up at me, no fight left in her, hopeless, and resigned to the fact that this is how her life will end. The man? Mostly just stunned that someone has interrupted his courtroom in which he has made himself judge, jury and executioner. As the clock seemed to stand still the motionless staring from the man left me praying, “God what am I supposed to do now?” Then almost as if God commanded the man to release the girl, he did. He dropped the brick, untied the girl and she took off running. Some of the crowd took to a foot pursuit, but quickly they gave up as she disappeared into the village. Then not 30 seconds later the crowd dispersed and all seemed as if nothing had happened. Larry and I looked at each other in shock asking, “What just happened?” “I think we saved that girls life.” “I think you are right.”

We continued up the road a bit stunned at the events we happened upon. How do you move on from that? We then start asking questions. Questions like:

–       What if we hadn’t have happened upon that situation?

–       Was that guy really going to kill her?

–       Had he done this before?

–       What did she do that caused him to decide that her death was the best way to resolve the issue?

–       What was it that made him put the brick down and untie her?

–       How come no one in the crowd was willing to intervene?

–       Where did she run to?

–       What was her name?

I still find myself asking those questions, unfortunately with few answers. What I do know is that somehow we were used and all we did was show up and say something. I didn’t know what to say or what to do, but when love and justice show up in a situation there can’t help but be some change. It might not be visible and it might not be the outcome you desire, but the love and justice of Jesus showing up in you will always bring about transformation, either now or later. Do I always show up and not allow fear to keep from speaking or acting? No, unfortunately not, but hopefully I am doing it more today than I did yesterday.

The kids and the van? We took them safely to the hospital for their appointments and the van was fixed by the time we got back to it. A traveling mechanic fixed it – broken oil line – $5.

“They are going to put Bo in jail.”

The phone call comes from Leah around 6:45 pm, “Bo pulled onto Entebbe Road after we thought the presidential convoy had finished going through, but it hadn’t. He was pulled over and now they want to impound the car. Can you come and get us?”

Bo and Leah had taken one of our staff girls to the doctor and were on their way back. They just so happened to be on the same road at the same time that Uganda’s President Yoweri Museveni and US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton were travelling from the airport into town.

Typically, if you are pulled over by a traffic cop in Uganda they either take your license or impound your car, or both, to insure that you will pay your traffic fine. Once the fine is paid you can get your license and/or car back. I hopped in our other car and headed up the road to go and get them. About 15 min. later I receive another call from Leah, through tears she says to me. “They are going to put Bo in jail.”

“What?”

She repeats, “They are going to put Bo in jail.” I tell her I will be there soon and start accelerating through the traffic.

I pull up to the police station, enter and see my wife seated in a chair in front of a desk, crying. Bo is surrounded by 4 or 5 police officers and I start asking questions:

“What did my son do wrong?”

“Why do you need to detain him?”

“Isn’t this just a traffic violation?”

“Who is in charge?”

All of these questions go unanswered. I then look to a man who is writing a report and ask him if we could work something out. He gives me the phone number of the head of traffic in Kampala and says this is the man I must deal with. I immediately call him. He answers the phone right away.

“My name is Brent Phillips and you are holding my son Bo Phillips…”

He cuts me off, “His actions were a breach of national security and I cannot allow it to stand. He interrupted a convoy of his Excellency, the President of Uganda and your secretary.” Click…

This can’t be happening. Does he think Bo is a “breach of security?” Is he looking at my 18 year old son and my crying wife thinking they have planned an attack that he has now foiled and Bo will have to pay the price? I start pleading with the officers in the station.

“Can I stay in jail in his place?”

“No, you are not the offender.”

“Can I stay in there with him?”

“No, you did not commit a crime.”

They go on to explain to me that he will go to court tomorrow and he will be prosecuted then. Prosecuted?!? The men start pushing Bo toward the cell. Leah’s cries get louder, Bo looks at me with fear in his eyes and I am pleading with God asking what I should do. I tell the men I need to see the cell before you put my boy in there.

“Fine.”

It is a dark empty room with no one in it. There is a light bulb hanging from a wire coming out of the ceiling, but it doesn’t work. There is a window with bars on it and a locked steel door that leads to the outside with a rusty hole in the bottom.

The officers ask Bo to take off his shoes, his belt and empty his pockets. They put him in the room and shut the door. I will never forget the look on his face as the door closed. I tell Leah to wait there in the lobby and immediately run around the building to that window I saw. I call out Bo’s name and kneel down to the rusty hole in the door. He is already kneeling there. Up to this point Bo had been so full of courage and strength, even comforting Leah in the lobby. But now, I am looking into the eyes of my son and he isn’t 18 anymore – He looks like he is 10. We start praying through that rusty hole, asking God for strength, courage and freedom. I say Amen and Bo looks deep into my soul and says, “Dad, don’t leave me.”

“Bo, I am not leaving this place. I will be sleeping in front of this door or the other door until you are out of here.”

I go find Leah. “Babe, can you and Lilly go get some food at that little market right there?”

She heads off to the market and I step back into the police station. By now all of the officers have left except for one – Nelson.

“Nelson, can I stay here all night, sleeping in front of this door?”

“Yes, you can. And when your madam returns I can let your son out into the lobby here and you can all eat together.”

“Thank you so much.”

I tell Bo the plan up to this point through the door and let him know I am going to make some phone calls. I start calling everyone I can think of that might have some sort of wisdom, experience or pull in this situation. Then someone mentions the US Consulate. Great idea! I just so happened to have the US embassy’s emergency phone number in my phone. I saw it on a piece of paper when I was at the embassy a few weeks ago getting a Texas DPS document notarized for Amy.

“You have reached the US embassy in Kampala, Uganda. We are currently closed. If you are an American citizen and you are having a serious emergency, please press one.” Of course, I pressed one and anxiously awaited someone to pick up the phone. A very nice gentlemen picked up the phone and asked me what my emergency was. I explained to him the situation and he promptly sent me through to another gentleman.

“Special Ops. Agent ________. How can I help you?” I explained the situation again. He very reassuredly explained to me that this is not right and ended the conversation with, “I will call you right back… and we will get your son out tonight.”

As I hung up the phone I was starting to get a bit worried why Leah hadn’t shown up yet. She had been gone longer than it should take to get a bit of food. She later told me that she was crying in the store as she was gather things up. As she went to pay, a customer in line straight up asked her is she could pray for her. Leah told her briefly what was happening and the clerk shared that the same thing happened to her father – Wrongly accused and thrown in jail. After a month her dad was released and everything is fine now. A month? Leah thought, I could barely handle a night. Oh God, please release my son. The customer shared their journey of getting him out and how God had used this situation to bring others in jail to a saving knowledge of Jesus. Then she encouraged Leah that it would be OK. They prayed together outside the store and my wife was so thankful for this angel who encouraged her in a dark hour. About the time I felt I needed to send someone to go find Leah, she shows back up. Once again, we are all together.

Even if you don’t know my wife very well, you do know this Italian momma makes sure the people around her have plenty of food. She shows up with fruit, water, chicken, Pringles, bread and eggs. How she found all of this at that little market I have no idea. The officer then lets Bo out of the cell and we start eating and talking with the officer, “I don’t think he should be here. I don’t understand why we are holding him.”

The phone rings and it is the embassy – the same agent I had talked to before. He tells me, “Bo will be released, as will his license and the car. There will be no court tomorrow and this will be finished. The call from Nelson’s superior should come anytime now.” I hang up and share the news with all in the lobby. Relief…

Time continues to tick on, though with no call. 10 minutes…20 minutes…30 minutes… so, I call him back. “We still haven’t received a call,” I said. He seems a bit more frustrated now, but assures me what he said will happen, will happen! “In fact I will have his superior call you, his name is Major _______ and he will explain to you how this will all be finished.” He then asked me where in the states we were from.

“We were in California for about 35 years then spent the last 8 years in Austin, Texas.”

“Are you a Longhorn?” he asks.

“Yes, in fact I am wearing a burnt orange Texas Longhorn shirt right now.”

“Consider all of this an act of grace”, he says, “I am a graduate of Texas A & M.”

More time passes and hope is rising. There is more laughter than crying and we feel great appreciation for every person involved who desired to help us. Around 10:00 pm, Bo is released and we all head home.

It was on the way home, we talked of the fear, the worry, and the unknown of the situation as well as the grace, the mercy and the power of God in all of it. Bo said, “I am not sure all the things we are supposed to learn from this, other than make sure the convoy is all the way finished. But, as soon as the door closed and I was alone in that cell Paul flashed into my brain and I just thought if God sustained Paul in much worse conditions than this, He can take care of me too.”

Natasha

It was approx. 11:45 pm as I was standing at the airport in Entebbe with Randy (one of our teachers from the U.S.), waiting for Robert Beasley, Andrew Barlow and the White family to come through the doors. They all had rides from the airport, I just wanted to greet them on behalf of our family as they first set foot on Ugandan soil. My phone rang, which is always a bad thing at that hour. It was Augustine, the Head of Childcare at Cherish. He was calling to let me know that Natasha was not well and needed to be taken to the hospital. He was calling to see if I could take her since he was in Kampala, about one hour away. Since I was at the airport I called Leah and asked her to ask Bo to take her. (Kate was not doing well and she needed to stay home minding her.) Bo agreed, and took the car over to Natasha’s house to pick her up.

About 20 minutes later the White’s came through the door, minus Rex as he was standing at the lost baggage counter. Terri informed us that Robert and Andrew were also there as well.

As we were waiting to greet the others, my phone rang. It was Bo. There was panic in his voice.
“Dad, you need to come right now. Natasha is not waking up.”
I told Randy that we needed to go and off we went. About 60 seconds later my phone rings again. It is Bo.
“Dad, she died.”
“What? What do you mean she died?”
“The doctor said she didn’t make it.”
I replied, “I will be there as soon as I can.” Click!

I am not sure how fast I was driving, but I could not get there quick enough. The medical center where Bo was calling from was only a few miles away, but it felt like it took forever. As I pulled in the parking lot, the only car there was ours. The back doors were open, with Bo standing there, next to the open door. Natasha’s mom, Auntie Margaret, was leaning on the hood of the car. As I pulled next to the car I could see Natasha’s body laying in the back seat. I bolted out of the car, hugged Bo and went to find Natasha’s pulse, praying the doctor had made a mistake – no mistake, there was no pulse.

I told Bo, Auntie Margaret and Randy that we were going to pray. We prayed for about 30 minutes as we pleaded with God to bring Natasha back to life. I knew He could, and really felt as I prayed, that He would, but He didn’t. I don’t know why. From my perspective, what would bring Him more glory than if she had sat up in the back of that car? Apparently something else, because she never sat up.

As we sat there praying I was amazed at what was happening with my son. When I rolled up in the car next to him he looked like a deer in headlights. Shock, disbelief, and fear were all over my boys face. We started to pray and something different came over him. He was standing next to me, with his hand on Natasha, calling on God to raise her from the dead and I heard compassion, power and faith in his voice. God was doing a work in him as he leaned into that car and prayed.

After we prayed he started to tell me what had transpired over the past hour or two:

“We (Auntie Margaret and Bo) put her in the car and she seemed sick, but OK. We helped her into the back seat and she lay down to sleep on the way to the hospital. We then drove up our dirt road. As we got to the main highway she coughed a weird cough. We pulled into the medical center parking lot and tried to wake her up and she didn’t wake up. As Auntie Margaret kept trying I called you dad as I ran in to get the doctor. He came out, checked for her pulse and said she didn’t make it and walked back into the clinic, leaving her in the back of the car.”

My heart still breaks for Bo having to be the one to endure those moments. He is an amazing kid, man really, and I have no doubt God will use this in his life (He has already), but for my boy to be standing there in the parking lot with Natasha lying in the back seat and her mom crying on the hood of the car is something a father doesn’t ever want his son to have to endure. Death came while Natasha was in his care.

Now what do we do? In America the body is taken into the hospital, we go and start ministering to the family and making arrangements for the funeral. But the body is still in the back of our car, it is about 1:00 am and we at Cherish have never lost a child. The rest of the leadership team had arrived by now and we sat and talked about what comes now. We decided to send Bo back with Leah and Larissa to start ministering to those who already know something is up. When all the cars of the leadership team leave in the middle of the night, people know something is not right. Then myself, Augustine and Rachel decided that we needed to go to the government hospital in Entebbe to get a death certificate and get the body prepared for burial.

The ride to the hospital, as I drove our car, alone, with Natasha’s body in the back seat was an odd one to say the least. It seems so cliché to say it was a surreal moment, but I don’t have any other words or ways to describe it. It felt like this shouldn’t be happening, this shouldn’t be me, and most importantly, this shouldn’t be one of our kids in the back of our car.

As I entered the parking lot of the hospital the guard asked why I was coming. I didn’t know what to say, so I told him that I had a dead girl in the back seat. He calmly said OK and opened the gate. My only thought at the moment, “Is this another day at the office for this man? Does this happen so often that there is no reaction from him anymore?”

The nurse met us at the car and told me to carry her into the hospital (I use this term very loosely – Ugandan government run hospitals are not a pretty place). I picked her up and instantly realized her body had completely let loose and her bowels had emptied. As I laid her down, in her soiled clothes, on a bare metal table, I just kept thinking how she deserved more than this. The back of my car, a metal table, and the conditions of this hospital – I know she is dead, but her life was worth more than this.

Despite the deplorable conditions of the hospital, the nurse on duty that night was so nice. She gave me a place to wash-up and asked Rachel to help her clean-up Natasha.

After some discussion, the nurse informs us we must take the body to Mulago, the government hospital in Kampala, for an autopsy, a death certificate and proper preparation for the body to be buried. We decide that I should go back to Cherish and Rachel and Augustine will take the body about an hour away. It is now around 3:00 am.

Driving into Cherish, the heaviness hits like a ton of bricks. The place has literally had the life sucked out of it and everyone who is up (all the staff and all of the older kids) is in shock. I step into Natasha’s home where Leah, Larissa, our house moms and all of our older girls are sitting. No words are being spoken, but much sadness is being communicated. I sit down with our older girls, asking them if they have any questions, and answering their questions straightforward and honest. There are many tears. We spend time praying together and just sitting in the silence and the pain.

The sun is starting to rise and the rest of Cherish is waking up. Rachel and Augustine have since returned, having left Natasha’s body at Mulago. We are still sitting in Natasha’s home and in walks Vicky, Natasha’s blood sister. Joselyn, the house mom, sits her on her lap and starts to explain to her, in Lugandan (Vicky doesn’t know English), what had happened the previous night. Vicky has no response. She just stares off into the distance, answering what questions she is asked. Vicky gets off Joselyn’s lap and goes onto Leah’s – still no real response from Vicky. We as a leadership team spend the next few hours praying and talking to children and staff – heart wrenching to say the least.

We gather as a staff to talk about what is next. Natasha’s body must be picked up, we must prepare for the all-night vigil that will now take place at Cherish with Natasha’s body and we must contact Natasha’s relatives (she has an aunt) and let them know what has happened.

It is decided Augustine and I will head back to Mulago to purchase a casket and pick up the body. Augustine slept in the car as he and I made the hour drive into Kampala. Once we arrived at Mulago, I woke up Augustine and he directed me to the mortuary. The best way I can describe the mortuary is by likening it to a loading dock. No, it isn’t like a loading dock, it is a loading dock. There are cars backed up to the dock, either delivering dead bodies, or taking them. You see, there are no cemeteries here in Uganda. Everyone buries their family on family land. When someone dies, you bring the body to Mulago for an autopsy and formaldehyde injections (to preserve the body for the all-night vigil and the trip to the village for burial).

We step up to the desk and present our “receipt”…and then we wait. Meanwhile, people are coming and going.

I was struggling with what I should be feeling at this moment. There seemed to be no grief anywhere around me. Many people delivering bodies and picking up bodies, all done as very normal business transactions. Why were there no tears? Are these just hired hands to move the bodies or are these family members receiving goods and services from the local mortuary?

A blue police pick-up truck backs up along the line of cars. In the back are two benches where the police officers sit – maybe about eight of them. As the truck reaches the edge of the dock, they jump out, drop the tailgate and pull out a dead man by his ankles. He is placed on a metal gurney and rolled in; furthering my confusion as I am trying to figure out this cultures view of death, which also reveals their view of life.

Shortly after the police truck drives away, having spent only about 60 seconds delivering their “package”, our name is called. Augustine and I go in and receive the death certificate. Cause of death: a rare form of meningitis. The one who performed the autopsy looks at us and says, “This child was not sick for long, was she? I am sure it came and she died suddenly.” We shook our heads in agreement, paid our $20.00, received the death certificate and were led to the room where Natasha was. She was wrapped up in a white sheet, lying in the casket. A couple of guys helped us load her into our car and told us as we were leaving they had no Formaldehyde, so we must go back to the government hospital in Entebbe to get the body prepared for burial. Yes, this is the place we were just at the night before.

Our 1 ½ drive back to Entebbe was full of traffic, Augustine napping, Jesus Culture playing o the radio and hunger. I asked Augustine if he wanted to stop and get something to eat. Drive-thru’s and fast-food are non-existent in Uganda, so we stopped at a little roadside grocery store. We spent the next 20 min. sitting in the parking lot drinking water, and eating crackers and ice cream – Me, Augustine and Natasha. I thought just driving around town with her in the casket in the back was a bit strange, but sitting in the parking lot eating ice cream was just plain weird.

The hospital in Entebbe was a flurry of activity, compared to the night before. We were directed where to park and waited for instructions on where to go for the formaldehyde. All of a sudden a man shows up at the window of the car, and he says he is the one to inject the body with the formaldehyde. I recognize him and realize he is the gate guard from the night before.
“Are you the one who will do it?”
“Yes, I am the one.”
“Where do we go?”
“You can stay here. I will do it with her in your car.”

I open up the back door, we remove the casket cover, unwrap Natasha’s body and he starts his work. During the autopsy she had been cut across the top of her head and from her neck down to her pelvis, and meticulously sewed back up and now he was going to start injecting her. This girl that lays in front of me, who just hours ago, was so full of life, is now nothing but a shell, nothing but a vessel that used to hold Natasha. He took a large syringe and, what seems like randomly, injects about 15 syringes full of the formaldehyde into her body, rewraps her, puts the lid back on, jumps out of the car, collects his $25, hops on a motorcycle and leaves.

We drove into Cherish and everyone stopped what they were doing – all kids and all staff, and just stared at us. They knew where we had been and they could see the casket in the car. It was as if time stood still as we wound down the road from the gate to Rachel’s house, where the viewing would be. Men immediately surrounded the car when we stopped and carried the casket into the house. We set her on the floor in the middle of the room and in a matter of minutes the room was full of children and adults. I have never in my life heard wailing and crying like I did that day. Never! For the next couple of hours the normal peace and quiet that fills Cherish and the sounds of kids playing was full of crying, wailing and pain. We sat in the room comforting our children. Words were not adequate, so we hugged, rubbed backs and held our children. Some of them wept uncontrollably while others sat and stared at Natasha’s casket.

As the day started to turn to night things outside were a buzz. Wood was being brought for a bonfire, fires were started for cooking, mats and blankets were being delivered for sleeping, all the while the mourning continued in that room. As darkness fell, the fires lit up the night. People were everywhere. Everyone was talking, praying, singing, eating and mourning. Upon a death in Uganda, an all-night vigil takes place the night afterwards. Men, women and children either sit around the casket or around the bonfire All. Night. Long.

It was approx. 2:30 am when the storm blew in. It was one of those Uganda thunderstorms that is like none other. The wind came out of nowhere, and in a many of minutes you could hear the rain coming. People scattered everywhere – under nearby porches, up to our school, inside houses, wherever they could go to get away from the rain. A group of women bedded down in our living room the remainder of the night as our family retired to our beds. I looked out the window to see the last vestige of the bonfire disappear from the downpour of rain.

The next morning most of Cherish (except for the real young kids, a couple of moms and security) boarded two buses and headed to Mukono for the burial. Some of Natasha’s relatives have some land there and wanted her buried on their property. Three hours later we arrived. After greeting the family we went to the gravesite to see if we could help. The gravediggers were already there. Every village has a group of men like this – Men who dig the grave and then line it with cement and bricks. They look at their job as a service to the community, but they expect to be paid… in liquor. When we showed up one of the gravediggers asked me if I had the alcohol. I told him I didn’t and they stopped working. They were clearly already very drunk. In a matter of minutes our guys sprang into action. They were digging, hauling water, and lining the grave. It was a beautiful thing to watch.

The service was much like a service in the states – A preacher honoring the deceased and encouraging all of those who don’t know Jesus to do something about that. A few people shared, a group of our girls sang, and the casket was buried. It was a heartbreaking experience.

Having officiated my fair share of funerals in the states I have seen many mourners. In the states it is a quiet affair. People get out of their cars and walk up to the church or gravesite without saying anything. They sit and say nothing. There are tears, but they are hidden behind glasses and under hats. There is something to be said about the way Ugandan’s mourn. There is something to be said for the outpouring of emotion, the sitting with the casket for hours allowing the idea to really sink in that they are dead, gone, not coming back. In the states we whisk the body away, and the next time it is seen it is dressed, made up with cosmetics to look still alive. Not in Uganda – it is raw, real, loud, and I might add, probably healthier. Sometimes our advanced culture advances a bit too much.

The problem comes the next day, after the body is buried. The whole situation is never talked about again. I think this is where things turn a bit unhealthy as life goes on as if the death never happened. We at Cherish have done our best, and continue to try to help our kids and staff mourn. We continue to talk of Natasha, try to leave space for questions and have hired a counselor to come out and talk with them. Be praying for us as we continue to walk this journey. Natasha needs no prayer, but our kids and staff sure do.

Haagen Dazs & a Jerry Can

The other day I walked into a small store in Entebbe that sells produce and wine. It is a high-end store, which mostly caters to the UN crowd who is stationed in Entebbe. We normally get lettuce there when we are craving a salad. They also have a row of freezers full of items you can’t easily get here in Uganda – very expensive things I might add. For instance, there are specialty foods such as frozen shrimp and ice cream. I have never bought anything from these freezers, but always longingly look at the forbidden fruit. I know…I know…

This particular day something new caught my eye. It was a pint of Haagen Dazs ice cream – chocolate no less. Like a parched man seeing the mirage across the desert floor I slid open the freezer to grab a hold of it to see if it really was what it appeared to be. Indeed it was. It was cold, hard, and solid – everything I expected it to feel like in my hand. It was also…$30.00. What? $30.00 for a pint of ice cream? I couldn’t believe it. I set it back into the freezer, slowly closing the door, all the while double-checking the price, and hoping I had read it wrong. I paid for my $1.50 bag of lettuce and headed to the car.

As I got close to home I could see something happening on the road right in front of Cherish. There seemed to be a lot of water on the road and many people standing around with their bright yellow jerry cans. Inching closer, I realized a tractor had just gone down the road and busted the water pipe. Unbelievable! It was free water for the entire village. Generally a jerry can of water costs ten-cents, but today it was free and the village was taking advantage of it. It either spills onto the dirty road, or it gets gathered and used. For the record I vote for gathering it up as it comes out of the broken pipe rather than it going to waste.

It wasn’t until later in the day when I thought about those two situations together. There is a store in Entebbe with a $30 pint of ice cream, and then a few miles down the road are people who are making up some serious income by filling their jerry cans from a broken water pipe, saving ten cents per jerry can. It left me with many questions and no real answers, like:

–       How can these two worlds exist, together, side by side?

–       Has the person who buys the next pint of Haagen Dazs ever had to fill a jerry can with water for drinking?

–       Have any of those gathering water from the broken pipe ever had ice cream, let alone a $30 pint of ice cream?

–       What would Jesus be thinking about this? Really?

–       Do I have any responsibility to do anything?

–       Should I get these two worlds to meet, for the mutual benefit of both?

–       Why does this dichotomy exist all over the world?

–       How many jerry cans can you fill for $30.00? (I do know the answer to this – 300)

This all went down about a month ago and I don’t have any more answers than I had before. I still go into the same store and see the Haagen Dazs staring back at me. The flavors change on a regular basis, so I know it is being purchased. I still go down our same dirt road and see jerry can after jerry can being carried either from the lake or from a tap where the ten-cent transaction took place. These worlds do exist, each moving forward and each doing some good in this world. I do wonder what the Haagen Dazs crowd thinks of me driving a 15 year-old car and living in the village? More importantly I wonder what the jerry can crowd thinks of me driving a car and living in a house with plumbing and electricity? And most importantly, how does Jesus want me to relate to both of them?

Almost Missed It

Last night, a little after midnight, as I am heading to bed, I realize I had left my phone in the car. I grab a flashlight and walk out onto our lake fly infested porch to get it. As I am approaching our car I can hear my phone ringing inside. The caller ID says its Michael, one of our security guards, who is calling me. Since he is not on duty that night, and the hour is so late, there must be an emergency of some sort. Never a good feeling! So, I answer the phone and Michael explains to me his wife is in extreme pain and asks me if I can take them to the hospital. My flesh is screaming out, “No”, but the Holy Spirit, along with my wife, Leah, win out. Hence, I go pick up Michael and his wife from their home.

As Michael helps his wife into the car, sadly she is screaming in pain. She is seven months pregnant and probably weighs less than 100 lbs. soaking wet. We start down our 5-mile dirt road and with every bump she moans and screams. Needless to say, our road has a lot of bumps.

Within about 30 minutes, we arrive at our nearest local governmental hospital. It is now around 12:45 am. The maternity ward is the only building lit at this time of night. Michael and I carry his wife up the ramp, past three different rooms, which are full of women in labor. Most women have a bed, with a few on mattresses on the floor. The walls are dirty white; the floors concrete and the beds look like they were from a WWII M.A.S.H. unit. The feeling of depression and desperation come over me in a big way. All of these women, suffering alone, and crammed into a room that should have maxed out long ago.

Entering into the main entrance, a nurse asks us if we have our supplies. You see, in Uganda a patient must come to the hospital with their own supplies: 8 pairs of rubber gloves, 2 plastic bags and a roll of cotton. However, we did not have these things. Michael explains they had purchased them but left them at home. Seeing how she is only 7 months pregnant he did not think they were needed at this time. This did not matter. What happened next still plays through my head and rips my heart out. The nurse proceeds to berate his wife, who by the way is still crying out in pain, for not bringing in the items. The nurse says she can’t see her unless we have them in our possession. We try to convince her to examine her while we go get them, but she refuses to look at her until we have what is needed in hand. Thankfully, she tells us of two places nearby, which are open 24 hours, where we can buy all we shall need. Michael and I head out. The first place nets us only 3 pairs of rubber gloves. The second place is worse. We walk in and can’t find an employee anywhere. We decide to head back with only our 3 pairs of gloves and hope the nurse will see her.

As we enter the hospital we can hear Michael’s wife crying. She is still sitting in the same spot, in the same amount of pain. We explain to the nurse why we don’t have the items she requested and ask her to see us anyways. She begrudgingly agrees to do so. After she examines her, she reports to us that she needs lab work done, but it can’t be done until the morning. “Go into the ward and find a bed”, she tells us. As we head out into the courtyard I ask Michael to find a bed for his wife while I wait with her.

I am more than slightly annoyed at this point – The degrading way in which the nurse is talking to Michael’s wife, the fact of a hospital not carrying the needed supplies, Michael having to go a find a bed for his wife, and it is 2:30 am. Prayers for Michael’s wife and prayers for my attitude fill my heart.

From where we are standing in the courtyard, we can see into one of the wards. It is a room that contains about 30 beds, each one with a laboring mother, and a few lying on mattresses on the floor. Due to the hour, most of the women are sleeping, some are in active labor, and there is one woman who is standing by the door closest to us, which has a large glass window at the top, and a wooden bottom. All of a sudden she lets out a loud scream. Three other moms come running over to her. There are no medical personnel in that room. A few seconds later the baby drops from the mother’s womb. Due to the wooden bottom of the door, I can’t see if the baby hits the floor or if one of the other moms catches it. There is a cry for a pair of scissors and the umbilical cord is cut. One of the mothers grabs the silent baby and runs out the door, right by us, with the mother of the baby right behind them. All three of them disappear into the same exam room where we had just been earlier. After what seems like an eternity the baby starts to cry. As I look around at the others standing near us no one is shocked at the events that just transpired in front of all of us. Again, the weight of the depression and desperation is almost too much.

Meanwhile Michael finds his wife a bed in one of the lower wards. We take her down and get her settled in. Between his limited English, my limited Luganda, the early morning hours and the fear that Michael is feeling, the ride back home was more quiet than not.

Michael lives in a little house right in front of one of the witch doctors in our village. We pull up in front of his house and before Michael gets out of the car I ask him if I could pray. He welcomes the suggestion. So, I start praying for him and his wife when all of a sudden the car begins rocking back and forth like someone big is pushing on the side of the car. Immediately, I stop praying and look in my mirrors, out all of the windows and see no one. The car continues to rock back and forth. At this point I have a real strong sense this is demonic and I must continue to pray. As I start to pray again the shaking stops. Michael heads into his house and I head home.

Arriving back at Cherish, I have this overwhelming sense of peace. I know it sounds crazy after the hours I had spent with this suffering woman and the demonic encounter. But it was if in the mist of the storm I knew that I knew, suffering is real and hard, the demonic world is real and hard and yet God is real and good…great…mighty. He does have the power to defeat the enemy and God does have the power to heal Michael’s wife. And that same power is available to me if I only ask. I would have missed that if I had been too tired to take them to the hospital, too critical to look beyond the poor care in the ward, or too selfish to see all that God is doing and can do. So I ask you, are you seeing all that is happening around you? And in the midst of it, do you see how all of it is spiritual? God is connected to it all, wants to speak to you through it and wants to make His presence felt and known, no matter how desperate it may feel. As your world starts to rock, keep on praying. As the situation around you continues to go down hill, don’t stop seeking Him. He wants to bring peace and healing.