A line of people coiled like a snake as far as I could see, and I just wanted a nap. “Follow the sign to immigration and have your passports ready.”
It was about 2 a.m., Seattle time, and we were in London after a 9-hour flight. “The security line looks even longer,” Amy, my sister-in-law, sighed.
“Oh well, we have LOTS of time to kill,” Lauren, her fourteen-year-old daughter reminded her.
We reset our watches, took our malaria medicine, and braced for a 9-hour layover at the airport followed by another 8.5-hour flight. As we tried to gather ourselves at the food court table. Spencer, my 13-year-old son wondered, “Mom, do eat breakfast or dinner?”
It was about 2 a.m., Seattle time, and we were in London after a 9-hour flight. “The security line looks even longer,” Amy, my sister-in-law, sighed.
“Oh well, we have LOTS of time to kill,” Lauren, her fourteen-year-old daughter reminded her.
We reset our watches, took our malaria medicine, and braced for a 9-hour layover at the airport followed by another 8.5-hour flight. As we tried to gather ourselves at the food court table. Spencer, my 13-year-old son wondered, “Mom, do eat breakfast or dinner?”
“Amy! We have to take a photo!” I said excitedly. The weary group humored me with a photo shoot in front of the sign. I’d felt God tugging me to come here for ten years. I was suddenly wide awake, and a part of me that I didn’t know existed sprang to life.
The 8 of us plus our luggage piled into a medium-sized SUV and headed north from Entebbe airport to the village of Lweeza, which was about 3 miles south of the capital city, Kampala. I stared out the window, taking in the tropical trees, the orange dirt, the vibrancy. We saw tiny houses built from home-fired bricks, roofed with corrugated metal sheets to keep out the rain. Other homes were merely irregular wooden boards overlaid awkwardly to create a box resembling a market stall. Occasionally, plastered houses and buildings dotted the roadside, signaling more wealth and status. There were streams of people walking on the side of the road carrying produce or other shopping items in baskets on their head. It was a mesmerizing cacophony of life on display out the window.
After a 30 minute drive toward Kampala, we arrived at the Anglican Church Conference Center in Lweeza. The buildings, which would serve as our accommodations for our two-week stay, were sparse and utilitarian, but tidy. We were shown our rooms, taught how to use the mosquito nets, and reassured that there were guards with bows and arrows who would protect us at night.
The center sits in a wide expanse of lawn with trees, flowering tropical shrubs, and a stand of bamboo with chatting monkeys. I marveled that it was landscaped with plants like philodendrons and ficus trees that we grow as houseplants. I felt out of place and yet oddly at home.
“Madame, you can unpack and refresh, and then we will go to the John T Miller School.” Pastor Paul Ssekabiira said to Amy. “John’s School” had been funded by Amy and her family as a legacy to her brother, John, who had passed several years prior- too early, and tragically from AIDS. The school had been recently completed, and the purpose of our journey to Uganda was to help register new students and set up the classroom with materials. These supplies had just arrived in a shipping container from Mike and Marie’s organization, Africa Village Classrooms.
The center sits in a wide expanse of lawn with trees, flowering tropical shrubs, and a stand of bamboo with chatting monkeys. I marveled that it was landscaped with plants like philodendrons and ficus trees that we grow as houseplants. I felt out of place and yet oddly at home.
“Madame, you can unpack and refresh, and then we will go to the John T Miller School.” Pastor Paul Ssekabiira said to Amy. “John’s School” had been funded by Amy and her family as a legacy to her brother, John, who had passed several years prior- too early, and tragically from AIDS. The school had been recently completed, and the purpose of our journey to Uganda was to help register new students and set up the classroom with materials. These supplies had just arrived in a shipping container from Mike and Marie’s organization, Africa Village Classrooms.
“What will we be doing today?” Lauren asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” Amy said, “but my goal is just to stay awake!”
Marie handed me a stack of name tags. “You can see John’s classroom, start to unpack the container, organize supplies and meet the orphans who are living at the school.”
I put the name tags in my day bag with my camera and giant water bottle, and then did a double take. “Orphans living in the school? What? Where are they from?”
“So, there are 17 orphans the pastors brought back from a mission trip to an area in Kassanda District. It’s three hours away in one of the poorest districts in Uganda.”
“Living at school? How old are they? Where do they sleep…?”
Marie laughed, “Let’s get going so you can see everything.”
The John T Miller School was not actually in Lweeza but 20 minutes away in a village called Wamala. The dirt road leading to it was lined with tiny houses, and through the windows of the SUV we saw women cooking, kids playing, some children doing laundry in a basin, and a group of men playing checkers on a small, rough-hewn table. We bumped and bounced our way up the potholed road until finally Pastor David pointed out the John T Miller School up on the hill. Amy caught her breath. “John’s School” was perched atop a steep hill like a beacon of hope. It was painted tan with a green-gray sheet-metal roof. Tears filled her eyes as she snapped a photo out the window.
We parked and were instantly swarmed by children jumping, clapping, and hugging our middles, arms, and legs.
“This,” Pastor Joseph said proudly, “used to be our offices, but now the orphans stay here.” There were four three-level bunk beds squeezed together, with just 2-3 feet to move in between.
The children streamed in and took their places on their beds. 17 children in 4 bunk beds. Many were two-to-a-bed, and each wanted a photo. Nikuze, one of the few who spoke a little English, tapped her bed. “Me! My bed!”
I would learn later that beds back in their village meant papyrus mats on bare, dirt floors. We took photos and the kids crowded around to see the images played back on the cameras. Laughing and pointing, the children would call out the name of the child pictured, who would giggle shyly, seeing their image—likely for the first time.
We were led next door to the classroom, and the pastors signaled us to sit on a bench. I immediately had two children vying for a spot on my lap with others pressing in close. Kamukama won a place. He was tiny and snuggled in. I guessed he was about four years old. From behind, a girl named Gloria smiled shyly as she touched my hair that was so different from her own. Gideon was intrigued by the blue vein on the white skin of my arm and traced his finger along it. I noticed the deep burn scars that covered his entire arm and the back of his head. I also noticed that all the children were barefoot.
“I brought you here for these children.” The words pulsed in my head like a heartbeat.
God was speaking. It was as if I was looking into a kaleidoscope, and all the shapes suddenly fell into place.
