By the first century the Jews were no longer an independent nation with their own king. Instead this small ethnic group was ruled by the global empire originating in Rome. As a proud people these Jews were ashamed of the presence of Empire in their land. They longed for God to send an anointed one that could put Jerusalem at the center of the Kingdom once more. Many became disillusioned that God could/would do such a thing. Only the most pious could entertain the idea. Their prayers remained fervent. The desire clear: O Lord, Come. maranatha.

And so he came.

But the anointed one came to this earth as vulnerable as the rest of us have come: naked and at the mercy of the one who produced. The royal family were peasants without palaces. The anointed one grew to be a wanderer: homeless, landless–continuing to live at the mercy of others.  God had answered the prayer to come. But by our standards, failed to make adequate provision in coming.

Many of us who are believers love this story of vulnerable arrival.  It’s poetic. A beautiful picture of love–expressing the vulnerability and the powerful passion that comes in the expression of Love. Our heart cocles are warmed by the intention. That is, until we are called into the same vulnerable expression.

The injustice, dishonesty, and self-interest seen in others is despicable. We dig in our heels, stubbornly witholding such vulnerability. Afterall, it did kill the anointed one! On occasion we reflect internally, cynically questioning God’s willingness to truly extend to us as we couldn’t do it. Our own cynicism is so dissonant to the story that we admired that we surpress our real thoughts, shamed by the incongruities.

Our forefathers in the faith must have recognized these tensions. They must have seen our fear–our doubt. And chose to remind us with an annual celebration of the anointer’s vulnerable entry into our midst. For at least a brief moment we are reminded again of God’s goodness.

But the goodness is not fully realized.

We have only fleeting glimpses of the kingdom inspired by the anointed, like flashes in a pan of oily darkness. So, just as the Hebrew people under Roman rule we find ourselves again crying maranatha. O Lord, come.

But those words have taken on new meaning.

For us, it is now part of our daily prayer.  Even if unspoken, our lifestyles must reflect the prayer.

As our vulnerability is expressed, we are abused. Others take advantage of our posture. Each time we thank God that we can participate in His story. And each time we cry out again. Maranatha. Maranatha.

To be frank–even confessional–I allowed the advantageous to overwhelm the narrative. The tricky thing about vulnerability is that it is subtle, failing to call excessive attention to itself.  And so I forget.  And I listen again to the voices of Empire.

But in a few all-too-rare moments, I see it again. I fall in love with the Story and the author once again. So I end the year praying again: “O Lord, Come” while also recognizing “Our Lord has come”.

Maranatha. Maranatha.

For the past year, I’ve been teaching ten sisters in a one-room school house. Our classroom is the enclosed verandah located at the entrance to their home. My favorite part of the day is the morning meeting where we review the calendar, have Bible and Social Studies lessons, and I read-aloud to them from library books. The Davis sisters pile onto the living room couches beginning their day together. We are joined by their older sister Prossy, who studies with her mother, and younger sisters Grace and Patricia who aren’t yet old enough for school.

Social Studies and reading review are great opportunities for cross-level learning. Paired reading between an older sister and a younger are confidence builders for both ages. The most challenging part of teaching students ages 7-12 is keeping one group of students engaged while another group is working on a different subject at a different grade level just across the classroom.

Each student had previously been enrolled in Ugandan schools. This was the first time they encountered American learning styles and schooling from home. The younger girls overcame barriers with my American English, and the older with a change in instruction and curriculum. It is amazing how resilient kids are. I thought it would take them months to adjust to so many new things all at once, but they jumped in and adapted quickly to the new school set-up. Our year together has given me an appreciation and insight into Ugandan culture that only quality time with children can give. Last August they met me for the first time and have undergone a journey that has involved being stretched and shifted in many ways. I am incredibly proud of my students and the progress they have made. Although our year of learning together is soon coming to an end, to them I will always be, Teacher Candice, and no matter how much they grow they will always be my students.

Just as I was about to go for lunch the call came. I canceled my lunch plans and hopped in the Land Rover. At the entrance of the hospital, I found another co-worker riding a bike and he flagged me down. Ronald asked if I could take him to a nearby town and pick up his wife as she had gone into labor. I agreed and made a quick call to another friend to pick up Ida. Ronald was on a borrowed bicycle and insisted on taking it back to the owner before getting in the vehicle. I followed him back to the Source Café and he quickly jumped in the car. As we were about to leave another co-worker, Steven, heard the news and also jumped in the Landy.

We made quick time to Bugembe, but upon reaching the house I realized my brakes were failing. I popped the hood while Steven and Ronald went to get his wife Tappe from inside the house. No brake fluid. With the car loaded, we bounced down the rutted dirt road—Tappe moaning with each pitch and jar.

In order to actually brake, I needed to pump 10-15 times to prime the system. Downshifting worked for most situation, but today an abnormal amount of children seemed to be playing in the streets. It is after all a national holiday: Hero’s Day.

As we roared down Kyabazinga Way, I told Ronald that I was going to stop ever so briefly at a fuel center and throw a bottle of brake fluid in the fill compartment. He looked at me like I was crazy; not that I blame him. Who stops for brake fluid when a woman is in labor?! I had to use my parking brake to stop at the station. I jumped out, yelling for brake fluid. The attendant pulled coolant out of a caged shelf. I lost patience, pushed him aside and grabbed the proper container. Steven had been busy opening the hood and unscrewing the cap. I dumped the full bottle, threw 5000/= at the attendant, and muttered an apology as we sped off.

Approaching the hospital, Tappe told us the baby had crowned. Actually it was more like, “He’s about to fall”. My response was, “Absolutely not!” Tappe’s next words were “He fell!” Ronald and I simultaneously looked on the floor for a baby. We didn’t see one. Then we noticed a baby on the seat as Tappe hovered above. Ronald quickly scooped the little boy up. The baby let out a gurgled cry.

We were now pulling up to the labor ward at the hospital. Steven and I jumped out and ran toward the ward, yelling for a nurse. We finally found one, but she had already delivered more children on this day than Steven and I had ever delivered. She sauntered out toward the car and I secretly wished I had the strength to carry this giant woman as I would have scooped her up and ran her to the Landy.

It’s not all that common for random white people to jump out of vehicles, screaming about babies being born in their vehicles, so every person—visitors and patients—within earshot made their way up to the vehicle. By the time the nurse was on the sidewalk toward the vehicle, thirty faces were smashed against the windows peering in on Tappe’s vulnerable and awkward position.

Upon reaching the car the nurse slowly snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began tying off the umbilical cord. She then turned and asked for a razor. We all foolishly patted our pockets, as if we’d find a razor. Looking around, Steven and I ran in two different directions looking for a razor. Steven found one first, but he had to first negotiate a price. After a quick reality check and some choice words, Steven ran away with the blade and placed it in the hands of the nurse.

I first noticed another coworker, Irene, during the razor search. I wasn’t sure why she was there, but I didn’t have time to figure it out. Steven carried the baby into the ward while Ronald and I carried Tappe to the examination room. We finally started breathing after getting her on the table. It was the first moment in the entire ordeal that we felt the burden lifted.

Now the stories began. We each had our own way of retelling the story. And each enjoyed listening to the other tell it. But after only a few minutes we heard another baby begin crying. A few feet away, Irene’s sister had given birth to a boy!

When the nurse came out, she took Ronald’s baby to be weighed. Steven and I debated about the appropriate name. My first jab was baby Landy. Steven responded “One Ten”. Then Steven turned to Ronald, this baby is Bwana Defender. I have no idea what name they are actually intending on naming the child, but he will forever be Defender to me.

UPDATE: The back brake line had snapped in two because a bracket had broken loose. To be expected; the vehicle is 15 years old. Izaac Bwana weighed in at 2.8 kgs. A few camera snaps of my broken brake line and Izaac.

Just about the time I think I have a handle on my surroundings, another thing just pops out.

I’ve seen a lot of water wells. They come in several different types (although the India Mark II is by far the most common) and all operate in slightly different ways. A couple of years ago, I would just ask questions like who installed it? Who fixes it? How much are spares? What’s the most common part to break? How many jerrycans are filled in a day? Now I ask questions about the relationships that exist around that well. Questions about jealousy, suspicion, sacrifice, responsibility. It’s fun because these quests inevitably help me understand Uganda and myself much better.

But in July last year something new happened. As I was taking a photo of a Kardia pump (it was the first one I’d seen in the Busoga region), one of the guys pumping water asked if I wanted to see inside.  Inside?! Heck yeah! I wanna see inside!

Why hadn’t I thought about this before? Maybe I was concerned that I would break something and people would be without water. Maybe I was too busy admiring some old brass door knob.  Granted, I’d poked around at a couple that my teammate Spencer had installed, but those were new ones.  Without any story to tell.  Unable to tell me about the problems that would soon befall it.

This middle aged man in Mawundo had unknowingly unleashed a curiosity on poor, unsuspecting villages everywhere.  Because now any time I have a few extra minutes or see that the pump is taking a break, I’m breaking out my wrenches and pulling things apart.  Most folks know that Kibo digs water wells, so they assume I have training or some level of skills.  Note: Assuming is not a good idea.

Most wells scream their story.  An obvious shortcut taken by a handpump mechanic yields disaster.  A rubber bucket not replaced on time can quickly lead to the replacement of a much more expensive brass piston.  The lining of most pump cylinders will tell you quickly as to how diligent the village has been in maintenance.  But then there are other factors.  Non-human ones.  The well handle that was bent because a cow had an itch that needed scratching (granted, a proper fence around the well would have prevented this).  A high concentration of iron-oxidizing bacteria is clogging the cylinder.  Slightly acidic ground water eats away the pipes and rods.

These moments in the village remind me of a childhood in the the plumbing section of our family’s hardware store.  People would flow to the back counter with some of the craziest stories.  Some situations are new to the customer, but to the seasoned customer service representative, I instantly pinpointed the problem.  However, at other times, a customer may have years of history within a certain context, yet to me, it was completely new.  My main job was to listen to the story and try to figure out how to best troubleshoot the problem.  In many ways the rural African context seems similar.

A recurring problem was that something dropped down into the well.  It could be a stick, a rock, or several pieces of pipe.  But how do you get something out of a 200 foot hole that is only 6 inches wide?  We’ve spent hours laughing and being quite frustrated at the top of such a hole.  But my friend, Dave, offered a solution: a borehole camera.  A camera designed to go inside a water well.  The only catch: those puppies are expensive!  My solution: let’s build one!  My dad had an old CCTV system and I got online and ordered a couple of cameras.  Rigged with some LED lights and a waterproof housing, I am now the proud owner of a redneck version of Dave’s ubercool camera.

Friday was our first day to test the camera.  My friend Paul had called a couple of weeks ago, saying that the government engineer had dropped 140 feet of pipe down a 210ft well.  This was the perfect test for our new camera.  When we got the camera down the well and switched on the lights, we found some other issues: 1. Damage on the casing from the pipe falling and 2. a bunch of sticks and plastic water bottles that little kids had tossed down the well.  We haven’t finished the well, but progress has already been made.  It’s been a fun process thus far.  If you’d like to see our new KiBO Kam 7000, here’s a sneak peak.

More info on water wells, hygiene, and sanitation at http://kibogroup.org/projects/water-source

Enjoy your Passover, Good Friday, and Easter.

Those giant leaves on the left have benefited from double the water, compost and a light mulch. Those on the right have plugged along with decent water and no amendments. I picked the biggest leaves off both plants.

My friend, Joseph, and I enjoyed our time comparing and contrasting the plants. As we played, it was a wonderful reminder of our own relationship. One that is constantly amended with conversation, meals, and experiences. Most of those moments do seem rather small. Independently, any of those moments we could have gone without. But collectively, they’ve nourished something larger. As we picked leaves and vegetables, inspecting the health, size, and taste of each, we carried on this conversation as well. The acknowledgement that without these moments, we’d probably still be friends, but it would be a much weaker, less valuable friendship.

Maybe the analogy was hokey, but for whatever reason, it made sense in the garden. As we reflected, we talked about those life goals or relationships that we didn’t cultivate. The opportunities lost. A seed can only germinate once. And once it begins, it must struggle as best it can in what it is given. This seemed to be the deviation in the analogy as we talked about opportunities lost and those opportunities of second chance.

Whether the analogy seems forced to you or not, we enjoyed our time together. . . especially the tomatoes and basil.