Shades over head, of blue and red...is this the end? Will you come back again?

Some days I close my eyes and I'm back...

It's my 18th birthday. And I'm sitting on Bosco's porch in Babu. She's nursing baby Kenneth and Becca and Rach are sitting just above me a few steps, carrying on a conversation with her and Jennifer. I'm at the bottom, sitting on a wobbly wooden stool next to a water hole while little boys fill yellow jericans with dirty water to do their chores. I'm being quiet as usual, and Bosco lectures me for it. I just smile. I'm surrounded by a dozen little Ugandan children and babies. It's like I'm something to marvel at. They are rubbing their arms and hands against mine...they think maybe the color of my skin will rub off onto theirs, and they too will be white. I am covered in some kind of lotion, they say. There are many whispers of "Auntie..." and "Mzungu...". It's cloudy out, but it's humid and hot. I'm wearing a bright striped shirt and brown shorts...for my party later on, and I have my big purple earrings in and sparkly white eyeshadow on my eyes and pink lip gloss. Apparently it was a mistake to do so before I went to the villages. The kids are amazed. It makes me laugh. They pat my hair and try to flatten the waves, but to no avail. They touch my nose ring, and my jewelry and ask me to give it to them, and say how pretty it is. They make fun of me in their languages, laughing with one another at me. But it doesn't bother me. Rachel tells them to shoo, but they stay...rooted to their dirt seats on the ground. They touch my pink lips, and ask how they are this color. They touch my painted toe nails...and my finger tips. I show them the palms of my hands, and then take theirs in mine and tell them, "They are the same, see?" and I trace the lines on theirs and mine. They laugh. They show off in front of me and then argue with one another. And then I open my eyes. I'm no longer there...but how I want to be. It's still so real to me. So vivid. Some nights I can't wait to go to sleep, because my dreams take me there...until I wake up.

"So tell me, what is our ending? Will it beautiful?"

My time here has now come to an end...I'm so sad and am really going to miss it, but it's time to head home and I'm ready. I'm so thankful for this experience, the people I've met, things I've seen, places I've been, food I've eaten, and memories I've made. It's all something I'll never forget. I'm not so sure why I was so blessed to have come here, but I am grateful and wouldn't trade it for anything. Hopefully I'll make it back, but who knows? There are so many other places to see and people to meet...but the friends I've made here have a special place in my heart and if I ever had the chance to come back, I'd snatch it up in a heart beat. However, we'll see where God leads next. But as for beautiful, miserable, wonderful, crazy Uganda, I'll love you forever.

"The place that I'm from and the place that I've been..."

I hate that these people are viewed so often as a statistic. Just another number. Just another population...just another category or classification. Or there's always the classic, "There are starving children in Africa!". That'll make you eat your veggies.

When Lillian gave birth to her fifth child, a son, and lost him twelve hours later at a crappy hospital in Jinja, she and her son were not just another statistic. They were real people, living and breathing, and feeling. I sat in her home as she collapsed to the ground, crying and weeping and calling out to God. And that's when I realized that people care about whether or not this "population" have a good job to care for their family or food on their table (or floor), but that's about the extent of it. And what's the real reasoning behind it all? Is it really from the heart, or more so from their conscience...about feeling good that they helped someone fill their belly with posho for the day? I know not everyone views these people in this way, but it hurts to sit there in someone's home and watch them rock back and forth with tears streaming down their face, while their friend holds their dead baby in their lap, wrapped in a white blanket, with eyes closed, as if it were still alive, just sleeping. Baby David would have been 2 months old this month.

When Betty got pregnant with Kymbi at the age of 22, and the father left her to fend for herself and her unborn son, she and Kymbi were not just another statistic. Betty was alone and afraid and had no way of caring for herself or her baby...but she kept him, she didn't abort when she so easily could have. Because she is a human being. She feels and she breathes. And now she has a beautiful boy, who lives and who breathes, even if sometimes a pain in her butt, and she has a job, because at the age of 23 with a newborn baby on her back, she walked to the porch of a stranger's home named Kim and knocked on the door, and just as she had prayed, this woman could help her. And she did.

These African people...the one's who are so often classified as living in poverty, of not having enough food...their children you view as clothingless babies walking around barefoot with flies on their faces, are not just pictures on the TV or in the book you're reading...they are breathing at this very moment, but even though they might not have every material possesion we own, they are happy, and they are somewhat content...and they are starving, or full, or sad, or angry, or hurting or laughing at this very moment. They're just like you and me. They're curious, obnoxious, quiet, loud, jerks or compassionate. They have the same mental capacity as you and me, they just speak a different language...live in a different culture, They're not ignorant because they speak broken English. And they're not unintelligent because they can't go to college...they're wise, and capable of getting through life. And even if they don't have a 9-5 job and 2.4 children and a dog and a mini van, they have Jesus. And that's always been enough for them. So why is it never enough for us? Because we've been raised in a society that teaches from a young age that you have to be wealthy to be happy and that God only blesses through monetary gain. You have to live like the rest of our "population" to get fullfillment out of life. And it's not true.

I'm not saying their life isn't hard. It is hard. But as far as I can tell, this is real life. This is the real world. And these are real people. Not a number in a textbook.