Grey skies...

This morning we woke up to rain lashing on the windows. The sky had a grey lid on it, with trailing edges allowing in a faint gleam of pale light. The wind was buffeting around the house, yanking the remaining orangey-brown leaves off our apple tree and discarding them onto the sodden grass below. No biking to school today...

This is the weather that people meant when they said, "Moving back to England? But the weather is so awful..."

Today I wore my brand new (!!) long black belted coat, feeling a bit glam. But, as I walked along the pavement to where I was meeting a friend, the wind blew my hair straight upwards in a hilarious cloud around my head. You know, when you walk into the wind, it blows your hair back off your face, and you feel all strong and pioneer-like and as if it is making you beautiful. But when you walk with the wind behind you, it blows your hair forward so that a) you can't see where you're going, and b) you look like an idiot.  The wind always seems to be blowing from behind me... (And of course I do have the wrong sort of hair for it.)

It got dark at four-thirty today, and we drove home from school in the drizzle, under the street lights.

I remember many of my ex-pat friends in Uganda talking about missing the seasons. Well, I've got the seasons, all right.

I am not sure I love the seasons. My problem is, I just want to be comfortable. A friend noticed that in me when I was a student. He said I was like a cat who just wanted to find somewhere to be comfortable and sleep all day. I think there is some truth in that. I do like a challenge, but not too hard of a challenge. I don't like change. I hate having to do things that makes me nervous, - but not so much that I turn them down - I just usually find myself muttering at some point "I really wish I wasn't doing this." And, to the point here, I do not like being cold...

On the other hand, I do like getting out all my woolly jumpers and scarves and wrapping up warm. I love sitting by a cosy fire - who doesn't. I love the current trend for everything knitted. And I like the feeling of putting away t-shirts and flip-flops, letting those clothes have a rest for the winter, and wearing something different.

But I lived without the four-season cycle for so many years, I must have long lost that sense of the year passing through a beautiful and predictable cycle. When I went to Zambia in 1992, the year was utterly divided into two - October to April, it rained every day for about twenty minutes. May to September, it never rained. Not once, ever. Zimbabwe also had two seasons, hot and wet (summer), cold and dry (winter). But it did vary much more and could be wet for days at a time. Uganda I found so random - whilst there were gradual progressions from warmer to hotter, windy to still, rainy to dry, it was never really predictable. I concluded that when it rained "it is the wet season" and when it didn't rain "it is the dry season", or after two weeks of no rain, "now it is a drought."

I don't know how long it will take me to come to love the turning of the seasons here, but I imagine I will be pretty happy when spring comes! I do love spring, I think it might be my favourite.  

Two things...

Two things I am having fun with back here in England...

1. The Local Library!
I am SO relishing being a member of the Longlevens Library (part of Gloucestershire Libraries). I signed up our whole family a few weeks ago. On receiving our four cards I asked how many books I could borrow at a time, and the answer was twenty! "Which means,"she added, "you could technically leave here with eighty books today." A speculative gleam came into my eyes... Hmm, wish I'd brought a bigger bag...

I love that feeling of having a pile of books beside my bed which are all waiting to be read. Books that I might not have actually bought but am happy to have a go at. And the Library has audiobooks which we've borrowed for some of our long car journeys to our churches.

2. Coupons!
I am new to the whole world of coupons... and am rapidly becoming the Coupon Queen. I have signed up to something called "Groupon" which sends a daily email with coupons for everything from haircuts to toys to hotel stays. So far I've only paid up for a half-price haircut and highlights - but it was something I really needed... I am learning fast. When we wanted to go out for a meal for Thanksgiving (since we failed to manage to plan a special meal at home...) I looked up the restaurant we had in mind, online, and found "Ten Pounds Off" vouchers for that particular restaurant - score! Dan took the children to see the new Tintin movie with two free children's tickets - earned in Tesco reward points (Tesco being the supermarket I use where you gain reward points when you spend money.) I'm really enjoying finding all these "bargains" - but aware you can spend money to "save" money so it may not be such a good thing...

However, Alex is getting a bit frustrated with our scrimping ways. "Mum," he said, "Why does everything we do have to be with a voucher? It's cheating!" (He is also fed up with second-hand everything and so I make sure I tell him whenever I buy something brand new... which admittedly isn't very often!) Much as he'd like us to be able to buy everything he wants, he is really good about not having all the stuff that others have. I expected a lot more complaining. But I think he realises (perhaps subconsciously at this point) that he wouldn't exchange his Ugandan childhood for all the Wii's and X-boxes a different life might have given him.

Family

I am thinking back to a time BA (Before Africa) when I was one of a group of about fifteen twenty-somethings staying in a youth hostel in the Lake District, on an Orientation week preparing us to go out to live and work in different parts of Africa. It was such a fun group of people, and we were all excited about what lay ahead. I remember my stomach was full, constantly, of those good kind of butterflies, the pre-Christmas kind. (My good friend Linda Carpenter was also in that group.) We were under the kind and avuncular instruction of various AEF elders like Robin and Val Wells, a lovely lady called Juliet, and a less aunt-like, more scary headmistress-like, Dorothy.  In amongst the Bible Studies, learn-how-to-cook-with-pumpkin sessions, eat-your-first-mealie-meal sessions (left me with a leaden gut for days...), and cultural insights and discussions, the issue of leaving family behind came up, and somebody reassured us with Jesus' words in Mark 10:29: "I tell you the truth, no-one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much, in this present age (homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields - and with them, persecution), and in the age to come, eternal life."

I must admit, as I threw myself into my new, fascinating life in Zambia, well-looked after by new Zambian friends who were used to having young western short-termers around, helped out and often fed by older long-term missionaries, hanging out with other newbies in the evenings, I didn't really miss my family all that much. At Christmas I did, and once in a while I would have a pang, but not really. I loved their visits and it was very hard saying goodbye when they left again. But I do think especially in the case of short-termers, it is much harder on the family left behind, missing a family member who has always been around, than on the one out on the mission field having a fantastic new exciting experience.

When I went to work in Zimbabwe, I was newly engaged to Dan and probably thought more about missing him than my family!

It was when our children came along, and then when my three brothers started having their children, that I began to wish more that I could be nearer my family. I felt sorry that my babies were so far away from their adoring grandparents, and sorry that I was depriving them both of each other. As more and more time went by, I began to wish that I could see my family more. The list of gatherings I was missing grew longer: various baptisms and dedications, parties, and Christmas get-togethers, and the desire to be able to participate in all these grew stronger. I was fortunate that my parents and at different times my brothers did come out to visit, they all came at different stages along the way. But by the last two or three years of living in Uganda, wanting to be nearer my family became a major reason for feeling ready to leave.

One friend in Uganda warned me, "Being nearer family may not turn out to be all its cracked up to be!"

 But I am writing this post partly to say how much I am enjoying my family right now! I live roughly a two hour drive from my parents and from all my three brothers. So it isn't as though we hang out at weekends all the time, or feel any pressure to do so. But already this autumn I have been able to go to my new niece Lucia's baptism, Aunt Elisabeth's 75th birthday bash, to visit Mark and co in their new home in Guildford twice, visit Nigel and family and stay overnight, to spend a week at my parents' in August and a few weekends since then while doing our Devon church visits, to meet them at a shopping mall half-way between Gloucester and their home for a Christmas shopping day.... Also they came and stayed for a weekend to look after Abby and Alex while Dan and I went on a retreat in October. I have loved it all.

All my family have also offered us financial help during these months, for which we are so grateful.

I have less contact with my brothers by skype now, but it feels normal and good to see them once in a while, and for it not to be the once-in-two years visit or whatever it used to be. It feels good, and right. I love how Abby and Alex love their relations even though they have lived far away from them all their lives. Is that just inborn into us?  

I do bear witness, though, that God gave me family while I lived in Africa. The close community at UCU especially was like family, I had sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers there, and my children had them too. And just a few in Kampala as well. Since you are mainly who are reading this blog (because I haven't told many other people about it!) let me say here that your friendships were supportive and sustaining, and I frequently miss being able to wander up the mud path to one of your houses or other for a coffee, brownie, chat, vent, prayer, moan-and-groan fest, movie-night, game-night (!), Tae Bo session (OK not so much after Louise left...), movie-borrowing, egg-borrowing... Thank you for being my family as well, and the fulfilment of God's promise in Mark 10:29. And, keep being that for each other!  

Harriet Nalugo

I saw on facebook today the terribly sad news that Harriet Nalugo died yesterday. She was assistant class teacher in earlier years for both Abigail and Alex at Ambrosoli, and was a friend to them ever since. She exchanged emails with them a few times.

Harriet was fun, vivacious, bright, and smart. She was one of those teachers the children always wanted to invite to their birthday parties, and she always came, arriving on the back of a boda boda, legs sticking out, smart high heels dangling jauntily down. She had left Ambrosoli a few years ago to work in another school, but would visit her former school fairly often, so we still saw her from time to time. I was really pleased that she happened to be at Ambrosoli one day not long before we left, so that I was able to say goodbye.

Unbelievable to see that she has died. It has brought our Ugandan life suddenly close to me again. I wish I could be there to mourn with others who knew her.

Does God really take the brightest and the best? Today it surely seems like it.

From Cathedral to Kabutwitwi Local Church...

Reading through my last post, about Gloucester Cathedral, I remembered a piece I wrote a couple of years ago at UCU in Jason Mehl's Creative Writing class, - although it was a memory, not fiction - on being in a service in another cathedral and suddenly being transported back in my mind to the tiny mud-brick church I worshipped in when I lived in Zambia. I thought I might include it here, as this is after all about processing my present and past, comparing the life I live in England with the myriad African images with which my brain is stuffed!

So here it is...

"My hands rest each side of me, fingertips feeling the smooth mahogany pew. I am in the chancel of Exeter Cathedral, with two of my family and just a few well-dressed others. We are sitting smartly, upright, politely spaced apart, waiting for the service to begin. The air is cool and bright, light pouring in from the clear tall windows and reflecting off the pale golden-grey stonework which soars up above. Looking down through gaps in the ornate screen, through the length of the cathedral you can see tourists wandering, and on out through the distant arched west door, a framed glimpse of the green grass scattered with people in miniature sitting in the sunshine, tiny pigeons pecking about, a dog running. The pew is smooth and hard, and the pew ends are beautifully carved, and the wood gives off a scent of sweet polish, but behind it is the peppery hint of aged hymn books. Soft organ music is playing, mellow breathy chords flowing and melding. You can hear the tourists whisper to each other, their murmurs are amplified somehow and rise through the music until a verger approaches them gesturing towards the chancel.

Then you hear rustling of robes, the brushing of soft footsteps on ancient stones, and the choir enters the nave. Quiet still faces above gathered white cloth. The organ crescendos and the boys begin to sing, pure notes which cut the air. A broad ray of sunlight just then flows in through the windows, dust motes flickering, golden. It is all beautiful, controlled, choreographed, beautiful, and holy.

I am newly back from Zambia, from worshipping in a small dimsy mud church, squashed on a low bench with hundreds of others squeezed in there, our knees pressed against the backs of the people in front of us, smelling each others sweat from the hot dusty walk, but all wearing our best cotton worn-out clothes. You looked out through roughly square holes for windows and could see bright green bush, vibrant blue sky, red mud houses with tawny thatched roofs. We sang low African hymns accompanied by home-made dried-grass shakers, a choir of thin brown ladies with bright scarves over their hair, swaying their hips and elbows in time to the music, to and fro. Beside me a grandmother, wrinkled skin stretched over high cheekbones, carried in a printed cloth on her back her sick daughter’s tiny baby. She used to sling the baby round to her front to suckle it only for comfort – no milk. It was dim in the church, the walls were mud with a low tin roof above, so hot, and in the front was a lumpy blackboard chalked with the numbers of people who had congregated  last week, how many had been late, what little money had been collected. The music was rhythmic, repetitive, beautiful. I felt so uplifted there.

I feel uplifted and holy in both settings. I am trying to understand why two such opposite sensory experiences can both overwhelm me with God. In the cathedral God is glorified in the perfection of  the architecture, the brilliance of the choral music, the talent of the  daily-rehearsed choir boys selected for the purity of their voices. The cathedral is kept polished, clean, light pours in, visitors show respect and reverence.

In Kabutwitwi local church, yes the dirt floor is swept, and so is the dusty ground outside. People come dressed in their best, even carrying their shoes on their heads to church and putting them on at the door, so as not to muddy them on the way. Although the building is simple and rough, the sheer brightness and colour of nature all about and of the printed clothes, and on the faces of all those who come and squeeze in there together, make the brown mud walls and floor and rough wooden benches irrelevant, out of sight.

I feel privileged to be a worshipper at Kabutwitwi, to share afterwards in the sour maize drink from an orange plastic beaker even though I can’t bear its taste. Equally but differently I feel privileged in the cathedral to share in the hundreds of years of history of perfection of worship.

Which does God prefer? I believe the externals which play upon my senses and stir my spirituality don’t mean much to Him, if anything at all. I am there, and so are the others, and that is what He is pleased about."

Remembrance Day

11th November is Remembrance Day in England, just like the American Veterans Day. For years this day has passed me by, living in Africa. But before, when I was a child, I remember it always being an important day. On the morning of 11th, there are ceremonies at war memorials all around the country, and usually, at 11.00 am, a two minute silence - in shops, schools, businesses, anywhere. Everybody buys a small paper poppy in the days before, and wears it in their lapels: the poppy became a symbol for the thousands who died in the battlefields of Europe - because after the war, nothing but poppies grew in those fields.  (The poppies are sold by the Royal British Legion, an organisation which provides care for war widows and any retired or disabled soldiers who need their help.)

So this year it was quite a throw-back for me to have a chance to participate in a grand Remembrance Day service with Abigail's school, in Gloucester Cathedral. There were traditional hymns, prayers of thankfulness for those who have given their lives in war to protect our country and freedom, prayers for those in combat zones now, prayers for peace in the world. Flags of various army, airforce and navy regiments were carried up and laid on the altar. A lone trumpeter played the Last Post from the very back of the cathedral, so that the solemn notes floated to us as if from a great distance.

I mainly just enjoyed soaking in the feeling of being in a service in the ancient stone Cathedral, the main body of which was built in Norman times, one thousand years ago. Over the intervening years portions have been added, stained glass windows, huge carved tombs, statues and inscriptions. But it is all truly old. Huge round pillars hold the massive building up, solid and circular, wider in girth than any tree. But the impression is of being in a huge spacious forest, stone branches fanning out and spreading to meet each other over our heads. The size and majesty, the feeling of strength, even indestructibility, in the stone, and the space and light, all speak of God, and give a sense of peace. If I need reassuring that "all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well," I will step inside Gloucester Cathedral for a few moments in my day, and be reminded.

 

A Tale of Two Fires

As you may know, Saturday was Guy Fawkes Night, or Bonfire Night, or, Fireworks Night. The night when we British celebrate how back in 1605 a man called Guy Fawkes attempted to blow up with dynamite the Houses of Parliament, and failed, and was killed and his friends hung drawn and quartered. Lovely. They wanted to kill King James I (of the King James Bible) and replace him with a Catholic king. Every Nov 5th, or the nearest Saturday to it, most towns and villages have a huge bonfire, accompanied by a fireworks display (to commemorate the dynamite). In the olden days, and still sometimes today, someone will make a stuffed effigy of Guy Fawkes (which is then called "the guy"), and walk it around the village asking for money - "a penny for the guy!" - and then the figure is put on top of the bonfire to burn. Hmm, lovely.

We used to have handheld wire sparklers which you lit and then whipped around in circles, scattering sparks and enscribing green spirals on the backs of your eyelids when you shut your eyes. You could also write your name in the air with them, and they smelled of rich metallic burning. Sometimes people carved pumpkins into Jack-o-Lanterns and carried them around with a light inside. Bonfire night was a night for mulled wine or hot cider, and hot dogs. It nearly always involved a muddy field, wellington boots,  - and the best part as a young child, staying up way after dark, trying not to lose Dad's hand in the crowds and darkness.

This year we were staying with my parents in Devon, and they took us to a perfect Fireworks Night with all the trimmings, muddy field, mulled wine and all. Sadly "glowsticks" have replaced the "dangerous" sparklers... The outstanding thing about this display was that the organisers had built a great wooden model of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, and made the fire inside it - and a person dressed up as an Elizabethan Guy Fawkes ran down to it with a huge blazing torch and lit it up - and we all got to witness how it might have been if the plot had not been foiled all those years ago. I had to laugh at us British, all thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of our precious Houses of Parliament burning gloriously down, Big Ben blazing and finally keeling over. What a strange breed we are.      

The fireworks were brilliant, unlike the display I read about in Oban, where all 6,000 pounds worth of fireworks accidentally went off, all at once, in 50 seconds!! You can see it on youtube...

But, we were sobered to watch the television news when we got home later that evening, to see that there had been a huge crash on the motorway the night before, in a spot which Dan, Abby, Alex and I had driven right through on our way down to my parents, only five minutes prior to the accident. They called it the worst accident on the motorway in this generation. 37 vehicles were involved, many burning completely to nothing. Seven people died, and over 50 were injured. It was on the opposite carriageway to us, but even so, if we had driven past there just five minutes later we might have been involved, and we would have witnessed a huge fireball with six lorries jack-knifing across the road, and people running into the oncoming traffic to escape their burning vehicles.

We felt so thankful to God for protecting us, for allowing us to be ready to leave only twenty minutes later than our scheduled time, rather than thirty. For keeping us safe on these roads as He did in Uganda.

I can't help comparing this accident with the many that we witnessed, or saw the debris of, in Uganda. In this accident, only seven people died, compared to the forty-seven who died in a bus crash in Mabira Forest during our first week in Uganda. Here the road was closed from Friday until Sunday evening, while the police and forensic experts dismantled the wreckage and tried to find out the causes. There will be an investigation lasting several months, they say, and probably after that an "enquiry." There was no suggestion of "These things happen... such is life". On the contrary, something will have to change, somebody will almost certainly be blamed, and sacked, and there will almost certainly be a new law introduced. Here there were no photographs in the papers of dead bodies (unlike the coverage of a crash on the Owen Falls Dam also when we first arrived in Uganda, where the front page of the newspaper had a photograph of a distraught young mother, who happened to be a UCU student, watching her dead baby being dragged out of the river on a hook.)

In the west, death is unacceptable - unless the deceased is very elderly and has lived a good and fulfilled life. In the west we think we can control life and death. In the west we know everything has a material cause and explanation, and therefore we feel we can prevent a disaster from repeating itself. But I am not convinced our attitudes are correct. Who knows why we left home last Friday evening at 6.50 instead of 7.00? And why the family of four who died were not supernaturally hastened on their way as we might think we were? In our rational way of thinking, we tend to ignore that there is also a layer of mystery, of divine control, of divine reasoning which we will probably never understand.  We may be able to avert road deaths in more effective ways (which is a good thing), and to prevent what we regard as unnecessary deaths more and more as time goes on (which is also a good thing), but we should not forget that it is God who is sovereign over life and death. People will die and we will not understand why. It is not wholly in our hands, much as we think it is or should be. Whilst the African fatalism and therefore failure to bring change, for example in the area of road safety, does seem to be wrong, and even lax, yet the acceptance of God's sovereignty and of the inevitability of death shows a deeper understanding of life and death, and of our reliance on God than we with all our controlling ways tend to have.  

But I must admit I am glad to live now in a country where fatalities are not normally paraded on the cover of newspapers. I appreciate that respect towards the dead and their families which is important in this culture. (I was shocked that the body of Gadaffi was counted as an exception and I bought the only paper that day which did not show his blood-covered corpse.)

So Saturday was a day to remember God's protection of the Protestant monarchy and parliament four hundred years ago (although I doubt many of our fellow- revellers were considering God's part in it!), and of the Button family 24 hours ago, and to contemplate how little I understand really any of it, or how and why God acts,  - but perhaps I don't need to, perhaps I just need to Trust Him More...

Let the games begin...

Yesterday was a full and colourful day. I feel as though the integration of my different worlds is beginning. Do you remember those diagrams where three circles of different colours are superimposed so that the middle, curvy triangle section is a combination of all three colours. It has felt to me as if the circles in my life have been almost completely separate, with the overlapping triangle in the middle a tiny dot. But I can see now how the integrated middle section can and will grow bigger and bigger, as the separate sections, almost untouched by each other before, slowly but surely overlap more and more. I am still thinking through why this integration is so important. I know it is making me feel better. Maybe partly just not having to explain everything to everyone. But more than that it is going to help me in making the transition from my missionary life in Africa without having just to put it behind me, as something that happened before and is not happening now... I have been operating with two main circles of bright and vibrant yellow and red: Uganda life with its friends, English life with family and friends - and for the sake of the diagram illustration, the new life in Gloucester as a, so far, rather pale blue.

Yesterday the three circles began to creep over each other.

In the morning I was surprised in my kitchen by the bubbly Skype ringing tone: Peace Kwikiriza, skyping in from the Foundations Studies office!  I loved just looking at her beaming face. We asked about each other's children, about work, she commented on things in our house she could see, so then I tried to show her round our house by webcam... Then two other of the  tutors came along and crammed their faces into the frame as well - Kevin Kezabu and Faith, and then Dan arrived - and we were five faces just laughing into the camera, chatting. "Did you know I had a baby boy?" "When are you coming to see us?" "How are the Abigails?" It was like being beamed back into UCU for twenty minutes. Or having friends from Uganda drop right into our kitchen.

Soon after that a school friend of mine came for lunch. Jo and I used to sit together on the school bus when we were thirteen years old, ride our ponies together, go trying on crazy clothes in the shops, and our families went on all kinds of trips together. She is the first of my old friends (of the red circle) to come to our new house (in the blue circle), and also, to say, "Can I see some pictures of Uganda?" (red blue yellow!!!!) As you can imagine I could hardly contain myself.

In the evening we had our first new Gloucester friends in for a meal - and... drum roll... our first game of Settlers since leaving Uganda! As one friend has already pointed out, you can see in the picture below only one unfamiliar element... everything else down to the cake tin is as it always was. So fun.

 
Colin and Chris were missionary doctors in Bangladesh, Chris is an obstetrician and does fistula surgeries, and has been in touch with Jean Chamberlain in the past about her work. Colin now teaches part time at Redcliffe.

I think I can see it all beginning to come together.