Mzungu Bye Bye

As a white person walks down the dusty roads surrounding Jinja-town, he or she can’t escape a series of greetings from the children along the way.
“Mzungu bye bye!” they chant, a routine cry of joy and excitement. (“Mzungu” means “wanderer” and is now used for “white person” now.)
The children drop their improvised toys, stand up from their mountains of dirt, and sometimes even emerge from a bath just to greet the white person passing by. The littlest of the children even boldly stand and attempt to shout it, often mixing up the syllables as they try to join in with their older siblings.

That’s the chant I heard every time I walked the roads to and from school in Uganda. And it’s what echoes in my mind now as I board a plane home from this experience.

In preparing to go, I’ve heard reference to going “back to the real world” a couple of times. I have to disagree with that terminology. Because if a world that trades connectivity for communication and productivity for relationship is more “real” than Uganda, something’s not right.

Even though I was here for only a brief time as a foreigner, this country welcomed me into their culture with open arms. And I jumped right in. I struggled, then I adapted, and now I’m leaving. Though saying goodbye was painful, I should instead focus on some of the things I’m welcoming into my life:

First, a newfound love of research – I love to ask questions, and I’m fascinated by the stories of others. Channeling those passions through research has quickly become addicting. Each conversation I have feels like a painter illustrating another part of the master picture. And Uganda was an interesting place to begin my work. Even though the lax attitude towards time made my interview schedule difficult to follow (a 10 am appointment would turn into a 2 pm), the willingness of the locals to engage in conversation greatly made up for it.

A wider lens on life – there’s something to being educated about another way of life. It’s something else to tour that place. It’s a whole other thing to try to live it. I’m so thankful to my hosts for including me in their community and to the seminarians across the street for their friendship.

Appreciation for simplicity – day to day life forced me to slow down and survive with less. It was also the smallest things that provided the happiest of moments. One of my favorite memories: I created shakers (instruments made out of a plastic bottle filled with rice or beans that you shake to the beat) for my students because they have no instruments at their school. I doubted myself, thinking it was too simple to be meaningful. But then I handed one to a student and watched him go wild with it – shaking it to the best, dancing with giddiness, and laughing his head off. I ended up making 25 of those shakers. A simple start for a school with no instruments. But a start nonetheless.

These are just a few takeaways that living in Uganda has provided. Though it was uncomfortable, I’m only beginning to see its rewards. And that’s why I decided to give this crazy idea a chance. This trip challenged me by targeting a lot of my weak spots. That was a challenge I wanted to tackle, and I couldn’t have accomplished anything here without the help of those around me.

And that’s my biggest takeaway – the rich relationships I developed here. Indeed because this process was so enlightening and communal, saying goodbye was that much harder.

St. Jude primary school performed a going away program for Brian and me with each class performing a dance or song or poem. I couldn’t have picked a better way to end my last school day. Yet it the quiet pleadings of one-on-one goodbyes with the students that made me realized how hard leaving would be.

One of my favorite students came to the house to visit after my last day of school. We sat on the front porch talking. She’d joke and say she needed to get headed home, but she was clearly trying to stay as long as she could. To the point that it was getting too dark for her to walk home. I began to escort her back. Part of the way to her home, she stopped walking. And I recognized her pain. Walking meant going home and me leaving for America and an education that would demand my time and attention.

I had no choice but to take her on a boda (similar to a motorcycle) to her home. A final goodbye, tears, and then a silent walk back to my home beneath the huge Ugandan sky. I knew that somewhere an ocean away my family was looking up at the same sky and waiting for me to come home. But all I could think about St. Jude’s that night and how far away they’d feel once I returned home.

Going into the trip, I was worried about how little these people would have. After experiencing relationship here, I’m leaving blown away by just how much they have in each other. So as I head back home, I reflect on how this trip was a lot of things – most of which are hard to explain. But undoubtedly, it was the biggest adventure of my life.

I’m not sure if it gets more “real” than that.

Speedwork – Uganda Style

I love living in a country that idolizes a runner as its arguably biggest sports star. Because the same land that bred Stephen Kiprotich (London Olympic Marathon champ) inspires all out sprints in front of primary schools. I’m talking full speed sprint races between students of every class.

These natural runners, often shoeless and always grittily determined, prove to be a fatal matchup for this Sperry-clad, two-years-out-from-a-mediocre-high-school-distance-running-career white guy. But what I lack in ability, I make up for with heart. And years of perfecting the perfect lean-through-the-finish technique (which I rarely used in my 10+ minute races) help me finish in those last steps. I’d say the years of Usain Bolt role-playing, powering through the “homestretch” driveway after a long run, payed off as I executed a picture perfect lean to make the podium against a stacked heat of P5 students. (Yes, Primary 5. As in 5th grade.)

There’s little I love more than a good sprint race. On my first day teaching, I got a little carried away, taking on any challenger. I emerged with a damaged ego and tweaked quad, with no means of icing that night and no trainer to tape me up for the next day. Then I took stock of how I was wanting an athletic trainer and an ice bath after racing grade schoolers, and I rightfully forfeited the rest of my ego.

My medal chances are only locked when I’m racing P2 and younger. (Hey – P3 has some potential Olympians!) The P2 students put up a good fight for me, but I usually pull through with the win. That’s followed by the rest of the pack coming through the tape, and everyone claiming they are “Number 2!” And usually a student observing jumps in my arms to celebrate Teacher Jo-Eli’s dramatic victory. My remedy for the previously wounded ego: race a group of kids who remain mesmerized by my consistent winnings. And young enough to not realize that I’m only winning because I’m 13 years older and 3 feet taller. Eh, I’ll take any win I can scrap up on this continent.

Sidenote: Following Kiprotich’s marathon victory in London, a local water brand signed him and crafted the most brilliant branding campaign ever. The water brand is Aqua Sipi, based in Sipi Falls (the home and training grounds of Kiprotich). There are ads everywhere in Uganda with Kiprotich drinking an Aqua Sipi tag lined with “Kip Siping.” It’s brilliant. “Kip” is obviously an abbreviation of “Kiprotich,” but the kicker is that the Ugandan accent makes “keep” pronounced as “kip.” I’m obsessed with this branding gem, and Brian and Weston have heard more than what they’ve wanted about it. Seriously, it’s golden. Kip Siping!

Anyways, here are a few photos of those aforementioned photo finishes on the pitch in front of St. Jude primary school. Note the photo of a post race celebration after my biggest fan jumped into my arms to help throw up the “1’s.”

Field Trip!

I keep thinking that nothing should overwhelm me anymore, but the adventures of Friday set a new record. On Friday, St. Jude Primary School loaded up around 100 students into two coasters (that’s right – 2 vans carrying over 100 people) and headed to the Agriculture Show. We piled out of our vehicle into a field filled with other school children, all filled with excitement. Turns out that the Agriculture Show is much more than just plants – there are plants and animals and circus rides and mobs of people and thieves. With overwhelming anticipation and not much of a plan for keeping these kids together, we entered into that mess.

I started the day strong, but within a couple of hours I faded from the leader (Me: “Let’s look at the water melons!”) to the straggler (Student: “Sir, your legs, they are paining you?”). I channeled my inner Nebraska Cornhusker and got these kids pumped for some agriculture! We spent a lot of time in the morning waiting in line until we could be allowed in… I entertained those around me with some agriculture Q and A, just trying to get the agriculture conversation started you know. Leading questions like “What is your favorite agriculture?” (Mango was the dominant winner) or “What is your best food?” (Bananas, duh) catalyzed a fruitful discussion for all (my one pun allowance of this post). Brian attributed my sudden enthusiasm for agriculture to having not eaten breakfast (my fatal mistake of the day – more on that later), but in actuality it was just my inner Nebraskan coming out. Highlight of the morning – a rousing chant celebrating all things agriculture. Me: “When I say ‘agri’ you say ‘culture'”. Me: “Agri!” St. Jude’s Students: “Culture!” And so forth. We did it with everything I could think of: Man-go, Water-melon, Avo-cado, Mai-ze…

It was while I was chanting “Agri-culture” in a crowd of Ugandan school children on a field next to the Nile, with a bag of rice in one hand and a baby in the other, that I thought of my younger siblings back home at the annual County Fair. While they were perusing 4H projects of baked goods and nibbling on funnel cakes, I was trying to keep check of way too many kids in a confused snapshot of dust, heat, and African chaos.

Out of necessity, I was vested with protecting the littlest of students with us. “They are not enjoying the watermelons. Take them to the circus,” one teacher instructed me. And with that, I was leading a pack of little ones through the mob into the carnival area. I won’t say that I did the best job as their (somewhat) fearless leader, but I am going to give myself credit for saving a dozen or so Ugandan children’s spines. The rides have no fences protecting viewers from the twirling swings, and those kids would have been crushed without me. If I’ve accomplished nothing else on this trip, I can be satisfied with at least that.

Turns out taking a heat-stroke-prone and dehydrated, hungry white guy to an outdoor fair in Africa is not the best idea. “The sunshine is too much for you,” one teacher aptly noted. Truth. I don’t have the “built in sun protection” of the Ugandans. I managed to get through the day though; I have no reason to complain when these students have had to become accustomed to eating almost nothing each day. I would generously describe my afternoon as “trying.” The kids helped me rally though (“Sir, you stand and we move to the pigs!), and my newfound love of agriculture kept me going. The students were fascinated by the pigs, and everyone cracked up when one was named Joel. “Sir,” they crowded me, “you are big and fat and healthy like the pig. You resemble.” (While I thank them for the complement, they must not have noticed I’ve lost around 18 pounds since coming here.) In addition to “resembling” the pig, I was also told that I “resembled” every single person there who was not African. It’s a tough concept for the little students to wrap their head around that the Chinese man is not, in fact, my brother. So after a while I just let it slide. To those students, I belong to one huge interracial and multi-generational sibling pack. Which is pretty cool.

I can’t describe the chaos of that fair. It was a marathon blur, and the homestretch presented challenges of its own. We assembled and counted, only to realize that we’d lost a student. Sent out a few rescue brigades. Found the missing student. Recounted. Had lost 8 more in the search attempt.

Eventually, we gathered everyone and exited the fair. (We thought we lost 5 more in transit, but it turns out we just miscounted – that was a scare.) It would take a couple of hours as dusk faded to darkness until our coaster (van) would arrive to take us back to St. Jude. A day of exhaustion started to affect us as inevitable sleep overcame my worries about laying in the grass. The two littlest students – two adorable little boys who could just barely walk and spoke no English – had grown really close to me throughout the day (after I scooped them up one in each arm frequently to save them from danger). They were adamant about sleeping on me. Even when I was overcome by tiredness and laid on my back, those guys were sleeping across my chest. I looked up at the night sky and felt those little students snuggling against me and had to smile. What a strange and beautiful world we live in.

‘Nothing that you can hold but everything that it is’

Recently what has been resonating with me has been from Blessed Mother Teresa, C.S. Lewis, and Macklemore. I know, I know – one of these is not like the other. But Mama T always delivers, C.S. Lewis is everything I want to be as a writer and thinker, and Macklemore is killing it with his song “Ten Thousand Hours.”

That song talks about putting in the hours to work for something, and look at what you get: “nothing that you can hold but everything that it is.” In many ways that sums up my time here. I continue to drive away at the research and the teaching. But this experience is far more qualitative than can be articulated in worldly terms.

It’s tough. It’s challenging. Each day leaves my feet aching, body improperly fed, and face tired from smiling all day long. It’s helping a small child carry his tub of water that’s as big as him and not being able to speak a word to each other. It’s failing as a teacher. And then it’s learning, planning, and delivering. It’s a fist pump from my P2’s. It’s a boys vs. girls dance off. It’s missing your family from 8,000+ miles away. And then it’s focusing on giving your all to God’s family you’re surrounded by in Africa.

But most of all, it is being and not doing. Relationships rise to the top as conversation is the only form of entertainment you have. A late night discussion of economic justification for the arts or the plan for the next day or how your heart is. Or just your favorite song. Always, conversation. Connection. Sometimes conversations I stagger through entirely on body language and intonation. (All the speech coaches who quip the “conversation is only 10% what you say” stat – I agree!) With few distractions, being in tune with those around you becomes possible.

I’m in a culture where I’m expected to prioritize being there for others instead of doing things for myself. It’s a world away from the familiar. But it’s also a world away from incessant goal setting and internships and classes and professional trajectories. Be and not do.

And as I reflect on this, I suddenly realize how incapable I am at articulating what this experience is for me. Because adventuring down the Nile rapids for an entire sun filled morning, teaching the Cotton Eyed Joe on a Ugandan soccer pitch, and discussing faith on top of the hill overlooking Jinja lit only by a backdrop of stars… Those events make for exaggerated retellings, ideal photo opps, and blogs that read as gimmicky. Attempted articulation is tainted by kitschy descriptions – and that’s not what this experience is. Those events can’t be captured in a photo or blog. Because this isn’t about doing, it’s about being.

Those events are about my relationships with those around me – a collection of ND’s finest, dedicated Ugandan teachers, and a slew of students who are slow to complain and quick to smile. So apologies for not being able to deliver consistent or eloquent blogs. Most of what I try to write feels inadequate to the experience. I wish I could better capture how this feels, but the little I write will have to pass. This place is all about being and not doing, crafting memories I cherish but struggle to explain… Which is why I felt justified in quoting a Macklemore song in this blog’s title, because that’s the only way I can explain this experience:

Nothing that you can hold but everything that it is.

Happy 4th of July from Uganda!

I’ll admit that, if not for a sudden burst of wifi, I’m not sure if I would’ve remembered today is the 4th of July. This is my first time away from home on this day. Though I’m across the pond (and a couple of deserts away), I still feel obligated to give America a shout out today! It would be easy to contrast the differences between America and Uganda, but that would require pointing out negatives from each place. And that’s no fun. Why complain when I’ve had the chance to enjoy two beautiful countries? It would then be logical to rave about the bests of each country, but it would be much more fun and challenging to articulate it in clunky and unnecessarily stifling lists. So here we go…

Things Ugandans Love:
5. The thrill of dangerous traffic (or maybe the freedom of having almost no traffic rules)
4. Handshakes. And holding hands with you for the entire conversation
3. Saying “mmmmmmm” – not a sound of satisfaction but rather a hum in response to anything in the conversation… It’s used to convey anger, approval, dissatisfaction, dismay, and just about anything you can think of. By far the most versatile sound I’ve encountered, I’m afraid I won’t be able to break this habit when I go back home
2. Greeting each other! Everyone greets everyone thoroughly. At times it is exhausting; you can never get away with a quick hello. And then you are constantly being asked to send greetings to others. It is the most welcoming and caring social event. I told my students about NYC, where everyone walks quickly and no one greets each other – they were absolutely horrified.
1. Going with the swing of things. “African time” is pervasive here. Things are kind of planned but not really ever. And everyone’s ok with that. Time is a loose suggestion, and spending time with each other is much more important than any schedule.

Things I Now Appreciate About America:
5. Having resources to access information at all times
4. Being able to make phone calls and hear the other person
3. Washing machines
2. Cement paths
1. Peanut butter

Things Ugandans Love About Visiting Americans:
5. Their helpfulness and compassion
4. Assuming that it always is snowing everywhere all the time in America and asking, “How is the snow?” Proceeding to being concerned that there is not snow. Also, describing winter clothing as “dressing as if you are to be on the moon”
3. Feeling our hair. Especially arm hair or leg hair. That is a foreign and mysterious jackpot for the kids here.
2. Asking for biscuits. Ok, this is only the children, but they sing invariable a chant asking the white people for biscuits whenever we pass. While I’m sure they’d be stoked if I actually have them a biscuit, they don’t really know what they’re saying; it’s just their fun way of saying hello.
1. Thinking that we all are related. “You resemble,” we are told. Sorry to say it, but apart from us all being white, we do not really resemble. No, Weston is not my twin. No, Madam Anna is not my sister. No, I am not Mr. Greg’s father. It cracks me up, and I think that most of them are still convinced that we are all related.

Things I Love About Uganda:
5. All of the children greeting me wherever I go
4. Being mistaken for people I’m not (ie Justin Bieber, a Mormon, Mr. Greg, etc) because I’m white
3. The focus on being and not doing
2. Simplicity of life forcing us to focus on one another. Everyone is so in tune to how everyone around them is feeling. Removing distractions brought on by electricity will do that.
1. Feeling welcome. This is the most welcoming place I have ever been. It’s tough to describe how warm every greeting is. “You are most welcome” is repeated to me time and time again. Uganda is a culture of community, laughter, and welcoming.

Gulu

The most gifted athletes I’ve ever had the chance to play with!

A child playing futebol nearby

Rock climbing wall in the Recreation Center outside of Gulu

Fields scattered with sunflowers on our walk outside of town

This last weekend I headed up to northern Uganda to visit Gulu-town and fellow ND students working there.  So many adventures and eye-opening experiences up there; I’m glad Weston, Brian, and I endured the public transportation to see it.

Perusing the weathered Uganda guide book in my home, I read, “Gulu is a place with no reasons that should draw a tourist to it and more than enough to convince you to stay as far away as possible.”  After my weekend there, I have to disagree.

It began with 16 hours of Ugandan public transportation – gotta love it.  A little part of me wishes every American had the experience of traveling across Africa in public transportation… Oh my goodness this place forces you to be patient.  It’s kind of awesome.  After a four hour delay in Kampala (accompanied by a tear gas scare), we bussed it up to the North.  Rain welcomed us into a city haunted by its horrid past.  Though NGO’s and upper class Ugandans have returned since the war’s end, the few years of time and dirt have done little to erase the eery effects of this town’s past.  Mention of the past is not too far off of the lips of those who’ve stayed through it all, and it is an all too recent and real memory.

We stayed at the Catechist Training Center outside of town.  Brian, Weston, and I were in Round Hut (yes – a proper noun) on the compound.  Oh man, the adventures of Round Hut.  It was actually a perfect place for us to stay because we bravely (naively?) are much bigger than anything Africa can throw at a few white college guys.  I’m looking at you, Black Mambo. (No worries – the Black Mambo did not make an appearance in Round Hut while we were there. To our knowledge.)  At home, snakes would terrify me.  Adults would reassure me that the little garter snake was nothing to be afraid of.  Here, I have had to adapt an attitude of courage.  The adults have to step in and tell us that those snakes are dangerous.  I jokingly asked the priest at the compound about it the next morning, playing it off like we were scared of seeing a snake when we had no reason to be.  He gravely turned to me, “No snake here is ok!” So that’s exciting. (Note, mostly for my parents: I am completely fine and no animal is going to harm me.)

The highlight of the weekend was attending the celebration for an ordination ceremony. So much dancing and singing and smiling.  We even briefly met the Archbishop, who is one of the most important figures in recent Catholic history and all of international development for his work here.

On Monday I visited BOSCO, one of the many NGO’s that has swarmed the area.  It’s an incredible collection of people and resources working to providing internet to remote communities in Uganda.  It completely brought out my love of computers and hooked me as a heartfelt mission at the intersection of technology and development.  Really awesome work.  In the afternoon, we got the chance to visit the Recreation Center – a forest sanctuary of obstacle courses and rock climbing walls created to allow those torn my Gulu’s past to heal through play.  On our way back, I got the chance to play in a game of volleyball.  They let me play left side the entire game (rotation is not a thing here) mostly out of respect and welcoming to the visitor.  I did not deserve the balls I was being set.  And let’s just say my blocking matchup with the 6’3″ish ripped Ugandan man opposite me was not ideal.  It was the most fun I’ve had in so long (I kind of live for volleyball.)  All the Ugandans on the court were the best mix of intense competition and lighthearted joking.  And it was almost all in a language I shouldn’t have been able to understand, but I felt like I was in on all of it.  Again, so much laughter.

Here I’m tempted to make some ambitious overarching statement about how much the history of Gulu means to its current state.  But I’m in no position to do that.  Instead, I can’t help but reflect on how simple play – a log to balance on in the forest, a missed serve in the volleyball game – can bring a simple smile.  I won’t begin to entertain discussion on the current state of Gulu, and I definitely don’t have the plan to move forward.  But the simple value of play resonated with me from my trip to Gulu.  Smiling. Laughter.  The differences between myself and the Ugandan schoolchildren of this town didn’t matter at that Recreation Center.  Everyone laughs at a white guy falling off the balancing log.

 

Queen Elizabeth National Park

In Gulu (Northern Uganda) for the weekend now, but I am just getting enough Internet to put up a few pictures from last weekend’s adventure in Queen Elizabeth National Park.

1. Safari-ing it up! Early morning safari in Queen Elizabeth.
2. Catching the sunrise out in the park
3. This guy just snacking on some leaves
4. Water buffalo everywhere! For the first time in my life, the song “Everyone’s Got a Water Buffalo” rang absurdly relevant. In Queen Elizabeth National Park, it seems that everyone does indeed have a Water Buffalo. (Also note the bird hanging out on the one’s back – mutualism at its finest.)
5. Friends Brian and Ro on the safari
6. Later in the afternoon, we took a boat tour where we see these elephants!
7. Hungry hungry hippo
8. An elephant walking on (“through” if you’re cynical) water.
9. Close encounter
10. With Weston and Colleen
11. Priest/seminarian house outside of Fort Portal where we stayed on the way back
12. With Weston and Brian

Organized Sound

Today I had a P5 student come up to me during a break and very earnestly ask, “Sir, what is music?” English is an often disjointed and trying situation here, so I assumed he was asking what we were going to learn the next day or something. But no, he wanted to know how I define music. He explained that he’d been thinking about it last night and the best way he could explain it would be “organized sound.”

Pretty articulate for a student still learning English.

When pressed, I couldn’t build too well upon that definition. Organized sound (or “organised” as I would write when teaching here) stands strong in describing music to a culture of disorganization. If the analogous leap to cultural chaos is too much for you, consider the literal: I learned today that Uganda was recently ranked as the country with the highest noise pollution. Even in my rural area outside of Jinja-town, constant cries from children, animals, cars, and botas fill the air. Those noises – so many that a few are bound to sound suspicious – augmented by an over active imagination often keep me up throughout the night.

So for my P5 student named Joel (Joel, albeit its different pronunciation, is a very common name here!), music would seem odd in his day full of noise. (The debate between noise and music is one in which I will not explore here – explaining why I did not add that music must be enjoyable organized sound). My real and gritty experience with the culture leads me to attribute music as a redeeming source of consistency and clarity for my students. Buy that thought or not. But if you could understand the life here – time means nothing, children are confused by inconsistent standards in school, creative outlets are nonexistent – you would surely recognize how this music fulfills all of those needs for these children.

In a life of chaos, organized sound.

If I can provide that for these children (and, most importantly, make it sustainable), I’ll consider it a success much greater than a few new songs learned in a distant African village. I hope you will too.

Nerves

Flashback to a sweaty weight room and a high school cross country coach talking to his tired runners the day before their biggest race. “Nerves,” he explains, “are a good thing. Most people go through life worrying about nerves. They get a bad reputation. In actuality, nerves just reveal what we care most about.” He repeats this a few times, riffing around the central idea he wants to impart to his nervous team: nerves are nothing more than an indicator of passion. You take those nerves, embrace them, and then you execute under the pressure.

Replace that weight room with an airplane layover in Rwonda, a noisy classroom in Jinja, a confused conversation in Kampala, and you start to understand my mentality throughout this trip. Every hour seems to bring a new challenge. I’ve quickly learned to let nothing surprise me. I can’t count how many fears and hurdles I’ve overcome in matter of days. I am incessantly stretched out of my comfort zone.

I have to admit that the final stretch of the plane ride here allowed the doubts I’d been blocking for months to creep in. Those uncontrollable nerves are tamed only by my coach’s words echoing in my head. A quick mental check: my mandolin is in the overhead compartment intact, my passport is in my pocket, my passions took me to Africa and I’m not looking back… I repeat these facts and breathe.

Being thrown into a classroom on day one with little gauge for how much English my students know – surprise, some know none – and trying to teach… Deep breath, pray, and smile. Try to think of another way to communicate, to make a difference in their education. Constant challenge as I pivot through teaching strategies on the spot. Forty adrenaline-filled minutes later, my class is over. The students mob me with questions and song suggestions for next time. Somewhere from the back a student asks me to break dance while the child next to me requests me to teach songs in the local language (of which I know none). A quick personal reminder that I can do it (a lie of sheer utility), and that I’m blessed to have the coolest summer job ever (despite its challenges), and I’m off to my next class – an eager group of P3’s with little focus and less English knowledge.

Pursuing conversations with educators and administrators, tearing down any fear of embarrassment and cultural barriers… Failed attempts at social interaction are followed by a cringe, mental regrouping, and another attempt. Resilience is the only way to continue. Luckily, I am in a country filled with friendliness and welcoming. I try to reciprocate while taking advantage of every opportunity to strike up conversation and learn.

I’m in an entirely new situation, and it is filled with challenges. I revel in that. And I cannot emphasize enough how, despite the challenges, I am incredibly blessed to be here. This adventure is asking me to grow in all kinds of ways, and I am surrounded by people who help me answer those challenges.

How exciting it is that my days are filled with moments that make me nervous. Multiple times everyday I am thrown into a situation that invites a host of nerves; I can only respond by trying to be as resourceful, bold, and compassionate as possible. At these times I hear my coach’s voice:

Nerves reveal about which we care the most.

Forget those nerves, fight through the uncomfortableness, and put on my game face. Because I’m here and boy do I have something that I care about. It’s time to execute.

Pictures

I’m trying to immerse myself as fully as possible, so I’m hesitant to take pictures. I know some of you are curious to see what it looks like though, so I snapped some yesterday.

1. Students of mine at St. Jude’s
2. Wild child – her name is Gertrude, but no one can pronounce that so they instead call her an African name I cannot pronounce. Figures. She is out of control on the soccer field.
3. This is the kid they designated to be my defender during a game. Ouch.
4. Home sweet home
5. Typical house
6. Corn (to keep me from getting homesick)
7. Some beautiful English notes from class from one of my P4’s (about the equivalent of 4th grade)