I haven’t had the chance to blog over the last several days because of bad connections or because my wife was using the computer. She did finally give me an opportunity to pen my thoughts. I’ve posted the last several days of blog posts from our trip. The actual dates are in the headlines. Before I share my thoughts from the last several days, I’ve posted a few quotes from Joseph, who is HopeChest’s in-country staff leader. These are just funny things that he has said during our trip so far:

“We are taking the longer road, which is longer than the shorter road.” (Reference to how we are getting to Adecar)

“I thought that I had eaten breakfast, but then I remembered that I was hungry, so I must not have eaten breakfast. I went back and got something to eat.” (Reference to why Joseph was late taking the team to Nabukalu)

“I do not know how far it is, but it is not very far.” (Reference to proximity to Adecar)

“I am a friend of the peanut butter.” (Reference to peanut butter bar given to Joseph for a snack)

We are on our way to Adecar (pronounced Adachar by the locals). This community has the most needs of any we’ve visited so far. We are excited to see George, our sponsored child, as well as the whole community, which we now count as our extended family.

At the other care points that we’ve visited so far there have been about 100 kids. In Adecar, we have close to 400. Many of the needs are clear in the eyes of the kids, which are yellow from malnutrition. It doesn’t seem to dampen their spirits or their smiles though.

I play soccer for a while. The kids laugh at me as they kick the ball through my legs. Each child wants to challenge me to a one-on-one or a sprint. A teenager turns to me and asks that I take him to America. “Where?” I ask. “Anywhere is fine,” he replies. My heart hurts a little.

I sweat through my shirt and decide to rest and paint nails for a while. All of the kids (male and female) want their fingernails painted. One child has 6 fingers and seems shy about holding out her hand. Megan pulls up her hand, smiles and paints all six nails like nothing’s wrong. The child smiles back.

We find George. He’s trying to hide from us. Scared of the mazungos (white people), I guess. Some teens — thinking that they are helping — spank George to get him to speak to us. We run to stop them. I hold out a lollipop, and George stops crying. Candy — the international language. I tell him that I’m his sponsor and ask if it’s ok to hold him. The woman holding his hand translates. He nods his heads and walks into my arms. He weighs about the same as my own son. He rests his head on my shoulder and sucks on his lollipop. We stay that way for a while.

Lunch is served. I marvel at how hard the women work to cook for hundreds of children. I’m exhausted watching them. George hops down from my arms and runs to the front of the line. Sadly, we run out of meat for the kids. It’s the one day of the week that they get meat. With the money we’ve raised for the trip, we’re able to buy 1600 kilos of posho, which will last for a little while.

Worried about the rain, Joseph hurries Melanie and I off to visit Bosco, our sponsored child in Ngarium (they are expecting us the next day, but the roads are impassable in the rain). We arrive to see the community planning a banquet to honor us for helping to save Bosco’s infected leg. (Last year, we helped Bosco get surgery to keep him from dieing from an infected leg wound.) Unfortunately, we won‘t be able to participate in the banquet, since we are a day early, but we are able to sit with Bosco and his family along with other community members. Melanie gives Bosco a Kentucky shirt and his mother a dress and then shows Bosco photos of our family back in the U.S. as Joseph translates the captions.

And now I’m back in bed wishing I could have done more for Bosco today, but knowing that we will see each other again. Tomorrow is our last day in Adecar … the last community we will visit for our trip to Africa. I’m sad. Well, it’s time for me to go to sleep. Some animal (sounds like a lion or a pack of wild dogs) is howling outside the back gate, and bats are having some kind of mating ritual in the open attic above our hotel room. Do mosquito nets keep out bats?!

6:00 am rolls around — not soon enough. I think I slept in a coffin last night. There goes my vampire fantasy. Six of us are headed to Kayango early to start painting the new latrines. I’m looking forward to a change of pace. I struggle to get ready in my dark room — the hotel generators haven’t been turned on yet. I stumble into the dining hall. VanDamme’s Cyborg is playing on a small TV in the corner. I guess it’s B movies for breakfast.

Fast forward — we’re painting the latrines bright orange — my favorite color. Happy.

The children welcome us again with songs and dance, and we share beads and balls with them — we’ve figured out the system now so we are able to give out things evenly. The kids are mesmerized by my video camera as I take video of them and then play it back. It just feels good to sit with them as they each practice their English on me and then laugh at me when I attempt their language.

Time to go. It’s been too short. The kids run after our bus as we leave. Sadness.

We make the long haul to Soroti (Soroti House). Driving in Uganda is a little crazy — definitely stretches my faith in new ways. I think I might be able to shake hands with drivers in passing vehicles. A few hours into the trip, we have to turn back. The other car has broken down on the side of the road. After we all jump out of the bus to stare at the engine like we know what we’re doing, we decide to tow the car to a safer location and deal with it later. Car problems seem to be a running theme on this mission trip.

We crash at Soroti House. Amazing food! Seconds for me.

We are off to Nabukalu for church. We exit the bus to singing children — my heart continues to expand with joy. Martin Huggins shares a sermon on the power of joy during difficult times and Sarah Dale leads the kids in singing.

We spend most of the day playing with the kids — handing out handmade dresses and stringing together beaded necklaces. The kids are so eager to get their gifts that they overrun us, and we have to escape to the bus — phew. We definitely need to come up with a better game plan.

I break out some balls and 40 kids challenge me to a soccer game. I keep up with them fairly well until a sink hole wrenches my knee. I hobble of the field — humbled but no broken bones — thank you, Lord.

We say goodbye to the kids and head to the hotel in Bugiri. During my freezing shower, I am repeatedly shocked by the shower knobs. That can’t be good. I turn off the light and the electric shock sends me across the room — I’m getting out of this torture chamber. Melanie and I squeeze into our tiny bed and turn in shifts to tuck in the mosquito nets. I watch a gecko scurry across the ceiling — maybe he’ll catch that spider who has been eyeing my pillow. Time for sleep. Pitch black. The kind of black that makes you forget the light. I squeeze my pillow a little harder and listen as mosquitoes dive bomb the net. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzz. I hope that the force field holds.

I couldn’t sleep last night. After waking up for the 5th time, I decided to get up and begin the day. I guess everyone else had the same idea, because most of our team was already eating breakfast. I think the monkeys were banging on my windows all night — I hear that’s common here.

Today, we go to Kampala and then on to Rapha. I’m currently headed to the bank with Joseph and Becky to exchange our currency, while the rest of the team heads on. The streets are completely crazy — like an endless flea market; the stinky sweet smell of human body odor fills the air. The streets run with red mud — it’s everywhere, and the rain makes it look like a sea of clay. Life seems to happen on the streets here. Outside my window, I see a woman bathing her children; animal carcasses hanging from door frames; an elderly man urinating on the street while tending his cattle, which have wandered in front of our van; and a woman giving her friend a haircut while her naked children dance around her — all within a few feet of each other. All of the homes are made of mud, sticks and bits of tin — all waiting for a stiff wind to knock them to the ground. Western culture runs rampant in the advertisements that are papered across buildings, inviting you to “Do the Dew” and “Enjoy Farmer’s Choice.”

While driving we pass a policeman directing traffic with an AK-47. Traffic swarms like a hive of bees — I feel as though I need a swatter; our driver seems to think so too, as he pushes people, cars, bikes and scooters out of the way with his bumper and horn.

On our way to Rapha, we quickly realize that the street isn’t much of a street at all, but more of a muddy foot path. To make matters worse, it has just rained and our bus slides back and forth like a wakeboard as our driver navigates through the dense woods and up to the hills of Rapha. We get stuck. As we exit the van to tackle the job of pushing the bus, we are inundated by thousands of mosquitoes; next to me a termite mound towers 10 feet. Glad I didn’t sit there.

Once we get to Rapha, all of the pushing and digging and swatting of mosquitoes is worth it to see the joy on the faces of the kids. They greet us with several songs and then the ladies from our team teach them some songs as well, complete with hand motions straight from Sunday School. Sarah and Melanie get a dance lesson from the kids, while the rest of us attempt to dig out the bus, which has gotten stuck again.

Before the day is done, we dig the bus out of the mud 9 times, but I feel a strange peace as I’m covered head to toe in red clay. No matter of mud can cover the joy I’ve experienced with the kids at Rapha.

We rush home and are greeted by Katie Davis and Tyler from Amazima Ministries. We share food with them while overlooking the Nile River. Melanie orders fish and Katie reaches over to pluck the eyeball out — a delicacy that her kids enjoy — all 14 of them. We talk at length about adoption and Uganda and then head to bed.

The best sleep I’ve had in 2 years.