Can It Really Be Over?

The answer to my question is Physically? Yes. Emotionally? Never

My homecoming was a pure joy; greeted by mom and my camera-happy dad, a delicious meal on Grand Avenue, and a late night spent catching up with my best friends.


It was like I never left; everything was the same, everything was good. But to me, that’s the hardest part. It’s as though the past 3 months of unbelievable joy, sorrow, discomfort, inspiration, and relationships didn’t happen. As though you could just rip the months of September, October, and November out of the 2009 calendar of my life.
But I desperately don’t want to do that. I want the perspective I’ve gained in Uganda to stick with me daily for the rest of my life. I don’t want to revert back to anyone other than the person I became in Uganda; the person these 91 women helped to mold, shape, prod and pull into becoming a fellow Suubi women (and that is the highest honor a woman can become).
Unfortunately most of these ladies don’t have email addresses, phone calls cost a small fortune, and they aren’t familiar with the the postal system. So for the rest of my life when I want to connect with Mama Patrick, Mama Fima, Jaja Margaret, Aballo Janet I will have to say a little prayer for them, and trust that the Lord is keeping them safe in his hands.
I want to thank everyone who has been following me through this blog along this incredible journey into the heart of Africa. Thank you for your prayers, your emails, your love and support. I don’t want to become that foreign traveler who passes judgment on all things American, all thing consumeristic or all things superficial. I want to always stay a Suubi woman at heart for the rest of my life; which means living with faith, love compassion, joy and Suubi (hope in Acholi).

A Difficult Blog to Post

I have a picture on my camera of a joyous mother swaddling her 1 hour old newborn baby. It’s the kind of heartfelt picture a proud papa would frame and set in his office. But now when I flip through my camera’s playback feature, I am ashamed of that picture; embarrassed that I have proof of one of life’s greatest celebrations turned into one of life’s heaviest sorrows.
Lillian and Simon’s son David passes away after only 19 hours of life on this earth. For some reason as a matter of circumstances of God’s timing I was very involved in Lillian’s pregnancy and birth. While Lillian was on the delivery table moments before she pushed baby David to life, she called me and told me (In between contractions) to get up to the village clinic. I walked into the delivery room minutes after he was born and was the one to break the news to Pastor Simon that his sixth child was another son. The part I am sick about is that I captured this climactic moment on film as tangible, real evidence.
The next morning Rachel and I arrived at the local health clinic to bring Lillian and her precious cargo home to meet his big brothers and sisters. But while we sat there, Lillian noticed David was throwing up and had a high temperature. The nurses at the clinic told her the baby was cold and needed to be wrapped in more blankets, although they never actually bothered to take his vitals in the 17 hours he was resting at the clinic. The nurses nonchalantly told us to take the baby to the Children’s hospital in Jinja. We sped down to town not knowing if this was serious or a small baby cold. The hospital was packed with hundreds of anxious mothers’ tending to their sick children, waiting for the attention of 2, count it, 2 doctors. I went into the very public examination room with Lillian, and because the village clinic didn’t write any proof of birth or a referral with symptoms on her medical chart, the young doctor accused Lillian of delivering at home. His harsh tactics really infuriated me standing next to a mother who was beside herself with worry. The doctor ordered Lillian to wake the baby us; but at the time either the baby was sound asleep, unconscious, or already deceased, because he wouldn’t open his eyes. Lillian looked at me with panic asking “How am I supposed to wake this baby up?” When Lillian, a mother of six asked childless me for advice, I knew the situation looked grim.
Finally Simon arrived and replaced me as Lillian’s support system. Rachel and I sat on the curb and prayed that the breath of the Lord could enter into this child. But Betty, Lillian’s friend came out with the news that David passed away. We all started bawling as we watched Simon walk out of the hospital with so much dignity carrying his deceased son David to the car. Lillian weakly stumbled out and collapsed into Rachel’s arms and lamented at her loss all the while admitting that the Lord gives and takes away.
We brought her luggage back to her home and watched helplessly at this mourning mother took 2 steps into her home and crumpled onto the ground crying out for her baby’s life.
Lillian’s husband Simon is a rare bread of Ugandan men because he received his Master’s in divinity from an American University, so he is much more progressive and supportive than most husbands here. Simon was the first to bring up the high infant mortality rate here in Uganda. And that lead’s me to why I am writing about this tragedy in such a public forum. At first I intended to keep their personal loss a private matter, but after a few conversations back at home, I realize many of you may respond by citing that Uganda’s Infant Mortality rate is at 65 per 1,000 births, so a death at birth is to be expected. Before I came here, even just before yesterday I too viewed Infant Mortality as another piece of data that tracks how developed a country is compared to America. But now I see that sure, it’s a statistical way of contrasting the 190-something countries in the world, but there are people behind the statistics. Ugandans may be more familiar with the death of a newborn, but as Lillian’s lamenting proved to me, they are no more immune to the tragic loss of their very own child. A child Lillian carried in her for close to 10 months. A child she praised God for. A child that caused her bones to grow weak and pain to flood her body for the whole last trimester of carrying him. A statistic, yes. A child? Still yes. When I said goodbye to Lillian she clung to me weeping and saying, “You saw my baby, you saw my baby while he was alive.” As if she needed the reassurance that her David would not just be one of the thousands of babies that go unremembered when the pass away at birth. That maybe because I was one of the handfuls of people who saw this baby alive, her pain and strife could be validated as real and personal.

Kenneth, the Stubborn Baby

(Welcome Kenneth!)

(Bosco and Kate, the morning after the battle)

My mom has started calling me her “Ugandan Mid-wife.” On Thursday morning I called her after a sleepless night in the village maternity clinic; I was waiting for a Suubi woman named Bosco to deliver her baby. Somehow I have pinned myself a champion of the pregnant Suubi ladies. What with the birthing kits I passed out earlier, and the maternity video project I am currently working on, I have witnesses my fair share of contractions, morning sickness, and now live births!
Around midnight Bosco called to tell us she was “paining” and needed a ride to the nearby health clinic. We picked her and two friends up and of course brought along her birthing kit so she’d have the necessary supplies to stay safe. Her friends/neighborhood nursemaids and I tried to nap on empty cots while Bosco paced in pain. Finally around noon the next afternoon Bosco’s moaning, groaning, and whimpering escalated into screams, grunts, and loud prayers. About 45 minutes later, a healthy baby boy was caught by the all-too absent nurse, and with flailing limbs was plopped onto Bosco’s chest to meet his new mommy.
Bosco graciously let me film her delivery. And although I think I made an enemy while pointing my camera at her during her 15 hours of labor, I am sure we are best of friend now, because she named her baby boy after my grandfather, Kenneth. We picked Bosco up at the clinic the next morning, and both she and Kenneth were rested, healthy, and ready to go home.
After speaking with an OBGYN in Kampala, I learned that many Ugandan women have a difficult time in labor because their hips are too narrow. He explained that when these women are growing up they are malnourished and never grow into their full womanly bodies. I am not a medical expert, but the last two women who have delivered babies have had the curves of a 15 year old gymnast. And in both cases, Jacinta and Bosco struggled very much to push their baby boys out of their petite frames.
Light Gives Heat encourages their volunteers to get to know and bond with the women of Suubi; I think Wednesday night’s delivery is about as close as you can get to any one woman. I am honored and grateful to have been a part of this experience. Welcome to this crazy world baby Kenneth!
(The Happy New Mommy)

Thank You Jajas!

It’s been an exciting week for the women of Suubi. 56 women opened up a savings account through a microfinance institute in town. This way they’ll be able to save more easily for their children's school fees, for long term goals, or for a “rainy day fund.”
(4 Suubi Women waiting together to open up their accounts)

(We ran into 5 Suubi ladies on Main Street, they were just coming back from a group outing at the bank)

After 2 generous donations from my Jajas (Grandmothers) to “do whatever you see fit.” I started researching how to open up savings accounts. At first I was very disappointed in the banking system here; too high of fees, too low of interest rates, and too many penalties. It seemed the traditional banking route could potentially achieve the opposite of what we were trying to accomplish, by bankrupting these women in their attempts to save. The banks here in Uganda are only meant for the rich to save. But PRIDE Microfinance was the perfect institute for poor women to start saving and build up their accounts. There are no monthly fees, free deposits and withdrawals, and decent interest especially if the women are willing to leave their accounts untouched for a couple months at a time.
Last week when I told the women about how my Jajas were going to cover all the initial costs of opening an account and I would deposit a start-up fund to pad their bank accounts, they were very excited. I mistakenly told them to take the week, ask their husbands and think about whether they wanted that added financial responsibility. I didn’t realize I used the phrase “ask your husbands,” when I meant “discuss with your husbands.” And good old Translator Betty took the liberty to add to her translation, “Or don’t ask your husbands and open the account in secret.” The women got a good chuckle out of my mistake.
This week the women were told to gather their identification documents and photos and head down to the bank to sign up for their own personal accounts. It was such a satisfying experience when walking on Main Street to see a cluster of Suubi women all dressed up for their big day at the bank. Some of the women signed their own names; some of the women had purple thumbs marking their certification. I congratulated the women for taking the initiative to gain financial peace in their future.
Over and over the Suubi women have told me to thank my Jajas for their gift; so publicly on behalf of Suubi, “Afoyo Matek.”

(Rose making her first deposit)

The Many Odors of Jinja

One of my weakest senses is my sense of smell. Because of that I occasionally miss out on the fresh whiff of a floral arrangement, but usually my lack of smell is more of a blessing than a curse (if you know what I mean). But this week, I have been sick with the flu which has perked up my lagging fifth sense. My nose is hyper-sensitive to any sniff, and let me tell you, Uganda is not the place you want to revive your aroma-meter. Everything here has a stench. Half the time I’m walking down the street this week I have to plug up my nostrils so my gag-reflex doesn’t kick in. I won’t get too graphic, but I will point out some of the major offenders:


Burning Trash-I’ve heard rumors that Americans have left Uganda with serious lung problems due to this environmental hazard. The odor is as repugnant to my nostrils as the air is to my lungs.


Cesspools of Standing Water-Divots in mud roads gather sour puddles after a rain storm.



The Fish Aisle at the Market-Even when just shopping for sunglasses, the fish aisle always conveniently wafts its way over to me.


Chicken feasting on Piles of Trash-It’s better than burning trash, but piles of garbage out in the open doesn’t produce a fragrant smell.

Body Odor-Deodorant isn’t widely used here, simple as that.

I can’t wait for my stomach bug to leave. I wait for the day when my dull sense of smell returns back to normal.

Beautiful Betty

Light Gives Heat has some awesome new styles coming to a website near you in the upcoming weeks. So the six girls of the house went out on the town for a photo shoot to model the upcoming “flavors of the month.” They’ll be seen at LightGivesHeat.org over the next couple months. I think the necklace I modeled will be launched in February.


(Here’s the five ladies strutting our stuff down the Jinja downtown catwalk. From Left to Right: Rachel (Called Zebe), Emily, Me, Betty, Rebecca)


(Photographer and Make-Up Artist Rachel Stroud making us look beautiful)

Rachel whipped out her MAC Make-up kit and dolled us all up. This was Betty’s first time ever wearing a stitch of make-up. You can see how her natural beauty was just enhanced all the more. We had so much fun playing make-believe, but I had a very hard time taking myself too seriously. It was good to get out of the house with all the ladies of “Magwa House,” especially being able to hit the town with Betty, our housekeeper.


(Beautiful Betty)

Betty is going to be one of the people I miss the most. She is such an amazingly cheerful, silly friend. She has such a faith that the Lord has pulled her from her lowest low. She was pregnant with a child she didn’t even want, wandering the streets in the rain knocking on strangers doors asking for help after her family and the father of her child abandoned her. Today Betty can’t sing the Lord’s praises any louder, any time she tells her story she ends up preaching a sermon on faith and how good the Lord has been to her.
Unfortunately this week Betty has been the victim to a lot of deception and greed. Her half-sister, Nancy had moved in to help watch Kymbi while Betty goes to school. On Monday we learned that Nancy ran away from home, stole a lot of money from Betty and from LGH. Betty tracked Nancy down on the bus heading back to her village, but by the time Nancy got back to Kitgum, Nancy’s family took all the money and won’t send her back to Jinja. Betty has nothing in her but goodness, kindness and honesty. Sometimes if I give her money to buy me a mango (at Ugandan price not Muzungu price….way cheaper) she’ll fret over whether or not she owes me 5 cents or 10 cents. But Nancy has chosen to slander Betty’s name to her whole village from the North. Betty is a strong woman and says she is asking the Lord for faith in how to handle this situation so she does not act out of vengeance or hate. But it is difficult to watch how easily people can be taken advantage of, especially trusting, good people.
In the end, vengeance is the Lords. But I can already tell that as Nancy grows up in the village she’ll realize that she is reaping what she sewed. Her future looks very grim even thought a promising future was just years away. Nancy will probably now be stuck in her village fetching water for her dying mother. She will now only know her tribal language whereas she could have learned English and probably have gotten her education sponsored by someone involved with LGH. And because she has no education, her only option will include a young marriage to the first man that asks.
It’s hard to have felt like you knew someone and loved them like we all did with Nancy. We let her into our lives, invited her to come to “girls night,” tried to teach her English, played soccer with her, danced with her. So it hurts to know that the whole time she was plotting to steal money and deceive Betty so.
Keep Betty in your prayers. That she can keep her forgiving and compassionate heart, and not be hardened by this betrayal.

It's Bank Day for Miriam!

This is my friend Miriam. She is about the encounter a very big step in any Ugandan woman’s life. Soon she will open up a Savings Account so she can save for her daughter’s education.



At the age of 13 Miriam was married off to a man who promised she was his only wife. After the nuptials were exchanged, she found out she had been deceived, and now ranks third among his tri-wives. From that young age when Miriam’s education stopped short, her goals of improving her status through education were replaced with a new goal of educating her 3 daughters, so they wouldn’t end up without options like she did.
Miriam is a savvy saver. Her husband gives her a little over $2 a week for food. She gets almost $10 a week from Suubi. And she works in town planting flowers for $2 a week. Miriam and 9 other Suubi women have devised a system that holds each other accountable when saving money. They rotate weeks where each woman gives one woman $5. So week 1, Suubi woman A brings home $50. But for the remaining 9 weeks, Suubi woman A gives $5 to the pot. Week 2, Suubi woman B brings home $50. Week 3 Suubi woman C brings home $50, and so on. This way all 10 women are held accountable to set aside $5 each week, totally $50 after 10 weeks. And because the money is out of their homes and their pockets, Suubi woman B cannot spend her savings, when it is Suubi woman A’s week to bring home her bulk sum. This system forces the women to think long and hard about how they will spend the $50 they’ve waited on for 10 weeks, rather than frivolously spend 5 more dollars each week without so much as a second thought. When Miriam told me about this grass-roots banking system, I was astonished at how genius it is. Last Saturday it was Miriam’s turn to bring home $50 and now she plans to open up a savings account.
I joined Miriam for her meeting with the banker to make sure all her questions were answered and that she was signing up for the right kind of account. And let me tell you, Miriam usually dresses in style, but for her big banking day, she showed up dressed in a prom-like dress, a sequined shawl and glittery heels to match. I was so proud when walking down the street next to her that every head turned; not just because she is a knock-out, but because of she was wearing a new found confidence and assurance as an independent financially secure woman.