(This post is part of the Julie's Journal series)
We exited the Entebbe airport to find three pastors and a young man with a shy smile waiting for our small team. I was back in Uganda in October of 2006, a little over a year after my first visit.
“Hi. I’m Julie. I guess you sort of work for me,” I said awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you, Tomusange.” I butchered his name.
He smiled and shook my hand with the welcoming, soft Uganda 3-step handshake and said in flawless English, “It is a pleasure to meet you. You can call me Tom.”
We piled into the pastor’s SUV, and Tom and I began to discuss the program for our two-week trip. He had set up meetings with several children’s organizations in Uganda to learn from their experience since we had NONE. From that, we hoped to develop plans and procedures for the care of the 17 orphaned children living in the John T. Miller School I had come to serve the year before.
But there had been a last-minute item added to the agenda for this trip by surprise. A branch beyond providing for the care of those 17 children…
"This is a small space for so many children, but they seem happy," I tried not to sound critical.
"I know, but it's the only space we had. We only have this one building. These two rooms were our offices. We brought as many of the 50 orphans from the village as we could. The children were so badly off there." His voice trailed off . "We managed to squeeze in 17."
"What about the other children?" I asked.
"They are still in their village. The village pastor does what he can. And we sent some food packages a few months back."
He led me into the classroom next door and pulled out a few loose photos that were on the teacher's desk. "We took these the day we delivered the food packages. A Sunday School Class at Westminster Chapel in Bellevue, Washington sent money so we could buy four bunk beds and deliver food for others. These photos are for them."
I remembered flipping through the photos. The contrast to the happiness of the children at the school stung. They were two to a bed in offices, but it was clearly so much better than where they had come from.
Now, as we drove toward Kyakitanga Village, I reflected on the turn 
of events bringing me back. It had started when Heidi, a new friend at church, had looked through the photo album of my first trip to Uganda. Afterward she’d offered to do a garage sale to raise funds “for the kids.” I’d hoped it would raise a few hundred dollars to help provide vaccinations, shoes, food. In the last year, despite searching for an organization to partner with for the care of the kids living in the school, doors had remained closed. We had reluctantly assumed the responsibility to help the pastors care for them. There were so many needs.
Heidi had hosted the garage sale a few weeks before I returned to Uganda for this second trip. Right before we’d counted the money, I’d asked her how she wanted us to use the funds raised since she had organized the event. Heidi’s response had caught me off guard, “I’d like to use the money to send the other 33 orphans back in the village to school. How much would it cost to pay for their school fees so they can go to school, too?”
“Oh wow. That would be a new branch,” I had thought to myself. We were already out on a limb with the care of 17 kids and taking on more wasn’t on the radar.
But I did the math on my phone. “I've heard it’s about $60/year to attend a government school. For 33 kids that comes to $1980.” I had answered, reassuring myself that a garage sale wouldn’t come close to that target.
And yet, when we counted the garage sale money, it totaled $1989.50. Once we’d subtracted the cost of a dump run to clean up after the garage sale, we’d realized we had, in fact, raised $1980.
“That's enough! What are the chances of raising the exact amount? This is a God thing!” Heidi had said. I admitted it seemed like a message and tried to hide my disappointment that there wouldn't be support for the current expenses.
They’d seemed accustomed to the flies that landed on their faces and the threatening black wasps that buzzed us as we tried to drum up some spiritual encouragement to share with the crowd gathered in the sweltering church. When we’d passed out candy to the children, the adults pushed past them with hands pressed at us calling, “Sweetie! Give me sweetie!” The people had seemed somehow untamed. Their despair tangible. Kyakitanga Village was the only place in Uganda I’d visited on my first trip that I never wanted to go again. 
We waded through the “Kampala jam” finally reaching what I would later name “Smelly Fish Circle” at a round-about on the far side of town. I stared out the window at large storks resembling pterodactyls as they fed on waste from the fishing boats that lined the river. 
Then the scenery changed. It became green and serene after the chaos of Kampala.
We reached the papyrus marsh spotted with small, spontaneous fires which ignited in the bog.
A tea plantation covered rolling hills in chartreuse green.
Small stands of banana trees alternated with open spaces of acacia trees casting their silhouettes against tall grass fields.
Local villagers sold their produce at roadside stands.
Eventually, we reached the trading center of Kalamba with its typical mix of brightly painted buildings, rough-hewn wood-slat structures, and vendors rushing to our windows with roasted meat skewers or maize.
There we turned south to a ribbon of orange earth whose twists, turns and potholes would eventually take us the 12 miles to the village of Kyakitanga.
At least that’s what I thought would happen...
“Oh wow. That would be a new branch,” I had thought to myself. We were already out on a limb with the care of 17 kids and taking on more wasn’t on the radar.
But I did the math on my phone. “I've heard it’s about $60/year to attend a government school. For 33 kids that comes to $1980.” I had answered, reassuring myself that a garage sale wouldn’t come close to that target.
And yet, when we counted the garage sale money, it totaled $1989.50. Once we’d subtracted the cost of a dump run to clean up after the garage sale, we’d realized we had, in fact, raised $1980.
“That's enough! What are the chances of raising the exact amount? This is a God thing!” Heidi had said. I admitted it seemed like a message and tried to hide my disappointment that there wouldn't be support for the current expenses.
"The government school may not be great, but it will be better than not going to school at all," we had agreed.
I’d met some of these children Heidi wanted to help the previous year during our outreach tour to several village churches with the school's pastors. Everywhere we visited, we had faced poverty on a level I had never imagined, but Kyakitanga Village had been the worst. There the kids there were barefoot, and dirty; their clothes in tatters. They watched us with curious, brown eyes.
I’d met some of these children Heidi wanted to help the previous year during our outreach tour to several village churches with the school's pastors. Everywhere we visited, we had faced poverty on a level I had never imagined, but Kyakitanga Village had been the worst. There the kids there were barefoot, and dirty; their clothes in tatters. They watched us with curious, brown eyes.
They’d seemed accustomed to the flies that landed on their faces and the threatening black wasps that buzzed us as we tried to drum up some spiritual encouragement to share with the crowd gathered in the sweltering church. When we’d passed out candy to the children, the adults pushed past them with hands pressed at us calling, “Sweetie! Give me sweetie!” The people had seemed somehow untamed. Their despair tangible. Kyakitanga Village was the only place in Uganda I’d visited on my first trip that I never wanted to go again. 
But through Heidi’s garage sale, God had provided exactly what was needed for the orphans in Kyakitanga to go to school, so we were making the three-hour journey to go there once again.
We reached the papyrus marsh spotted with small, spontaneous fires which ignited in the bog.
A tea plantation covered rolling hills in chartreuse green.
Local villagers sold their produce at roadside stands.
Open trucks heaped with produce with workers perched atop would pass us and then lone speed bumps would slow us down for the trading centers that sprang up along the way.
Eventually, we reached the trading center of Kalamba with its typical mix of brightly painted buildings, rough-hewn wood-slat structures, and vendors rushing to our windows with roasted meat skewers or maize.
There we turned south to a ribbon of orange earth whose twists, turns and potholes would eventually take us the 12 miles to the village of Kyakitanga.
I had the $1980 converted to Ugandan shillings in my bag next to the water bottle that needed to last me for the day. First stop was the government school to pay fees and then we would meet the other 33 children to register them for school.
At least that’s what I thought would happen...
