Dances With Widows

     Sooo...the team had its first fight today. The time was 3am, the place was the mens dorm, and the best part; no one involved in the fight was awake to win it. But luckily I was there to witness my first sleeptalking argument from the safety of my top bunk. Full credit to my bottom bunk buddy, Ryan, for starting it off by screaming “STOP!!!” (ill let him tell you the details of the dream he was having, apparently I was spraying him with pesticide), following was Josh's witty retort, and I quote here; “Soolinjabberblah!”. Sure enough Brian quickly ended the dispute by snoring like a hibernating bear who's nostrils are made of french horns. That was the debut to our 4^th day in the African heartland,and although the rest of the day may have followed in the same scattered pattern of confusion and laughter, I'm not sure you could ask for a more fufilling day.

     Lets start with some daily irony, shall we? There are only two “White Houses” I'm aware of. One being Phil's house (Casa Blanca) here in Africa, and the other being the Presidential White House located in America. Right now there are Americans living in the one in Africa, and there is an African living in the one in America. Every thing's in its right place.

     Pre-breakfast was filled with a walkabout through the red streets of Iganga; streets full of commuters on bicycles, businesses unfolding for the day, and school kids happily hand in hand with a few of us Texans. Parting with one kid meant joining with another as we enjoyed being out numbered. An occasional stench from rotting trash or a tattered mud hut might be the only things there to remind you that your walking down anything less than a fertile community; full of people who understand joy and how to pass it on via smile. Ryan and Jamie take this chance to visit a African Chipate street stand and migrate back to the house for breakfast with two bags full of what we made out to be as fried tortillas.
   
      After we all survived the subtle heart attacks attached with eating something like that, we focused on the task at hand; labeling 200 custom hand crafted neon name tags with the VBS children's beautifully unpronounceable names. Brilliant! To be honest, in the midst of all the focusing, I found myself lost outside with Kayla, soaking a Slinky in bubble solution trying to reinvent the entertainment wheel. After figuring that no matter how many times I submerged that Slinky in bubble juice, it was not going to send soapy spheres flying in every which direction when I churned its springs. So we soon celebrated our defeat by heading out the main gate for two and a half hours of improvisation with the neighborhood kids. My time was spent watching the thrill seeking kids eat bubbles out of thin air while a dozen of the more curious-from-a-distance children were making themselves comfortable surrounding Kayla's lap. Either way, I was happy to be on their side of the fence.

      Now back at Phil's house, we have some issues to tackle, one being the yardbirds. After several consecutive 5 O'clock wake up calls provided to us by the roosters in the front yard, the vote was in, and rooster/chicken was on the menu for tonight's dinner. So the hunt was on for fowl. Most of the team felt obligated to participate, so out we went with a common goal so dignified, the walkout the door was almost in slow motion. Brian, our fearless leader, does what any self-respecting chicken hunter would do, and grabs a 2x4 board...priceless. For the next 10 min we played a classic game of Scare-the-chickens-from-one-unreachable-spot-to-another; but by the 11th minute Phil's main man, Ibra, was cleaning them. Job well done A-team.... B-team? OK B-team.
    
     VBS! Today was the day we cut the ribbon on a four day commitment of fun and fellowship that scales language barriers, cultural differences, and sunburn. Passing out the name tags became a lotto, but everyone eventually came out a winner. After re-organizing under a tree, you better believe we sang like we were the ones who put the "dang" in dangerous. So what if we had to belt an alternative version of "peace like a river" 4 or 5 times to get down the hand motions. After we broke down the choir, we went right into nameless games and did not stop until the van called us back home.

     On the way home, we made a stop to the Widows home, where 15 or so lioness women knitting, weaving, and pioneering making ends meet and looking after one another. Most of these ladies are the mothers of the children Phil looks after. They graciously invited us in to greet them, look around, buy anything we would like to take home to you all, and then we promptly relocated outside for what I can best describe as a welcoming ceremony. There we are on one side sitting in every chair and on any bench they could find while they take the mats and floor seats, leaving a ten foot gap in between the them and us. The awkward space was soon trumped by an elderly widow who had a dance move or two left in her. Could have been something in the air, or maybe fact no one should ever dance alone, but I stood up to dance with her and discovered that moving like Shakira is only a decision away.

     In the end, we got to pray over those Women, and in doing so, couldn't help leaving feeling like amen wasn't enough this time, and the next chance we get to love their children for them, may we do it in a moment of surrender, with all the more selflessness, and in such a way, words become evaporative, and we are left with only the faith that we attempted to love as hard as Christ calls us to. Always with his Strength, if only so its not our own.

 -Colton