Joyce, a little girl I met last time whose beautiful smile is unforgettable.

Strolling through the gate camera in hand, I was delighted to finally be back at the orphanage I have long hoped to revisit. Pausing for a moment to take a picture in the middle of the courtyard, a little boy suddenly came running with arms outstretched and wrapped himself around my legs. Reaching down I picked him up and took him into my arms. Here a little boy who has no idea who I am yet feels the confidence that if I am there, allowed into his space, I must be safe and welcome. This is what happens when children who have lost everything are welcomed into a community of hope.

El-Shaddai Hope Center for Orphans is all of these things. It is a place of refuge, as indicated by the Hebrew name for God that is used “El Shaddai”. It is a place where hope is built in children who without this home come from hopeless situations. It is a center dedicated to orphans. The place is all about them and Stephen and Beatrice Njau, along with their children and a few staff members, are giving their lives for these children.

One of the little ones leaning against her crib at the El-Shaddai Hope Centre for Orphans.

The home has grown considerably since my last visit. What was once their one facility is now a boys dormitory and they have two others, one for girls and another for infants. The three homes are all within walking distance and the children usually come together in the evenings at the main center that also serves as the girls’ dormitory. Visiting each one of these, I had the opportunity to see 1st graders and the “nursery school” children in class. They sang beautifully, complete with hand motions and even some English songs. Some of the children in the nursery school class requested to touch my hair so I knelt down in the middle of the room and got mobbed by outstretched hands reaching for my soft muzungu hair.

Stopping next at the home for babies, we saw some standing in their cribs and others sitting quietly and staring at their new visitors. One seemed frightened while others were eager to interact. When one of the caretakers lifted little John out of his crib and he began to walk toward me, my heart melted. I wrote more about John and his story in a previous post. He is HIV positive, has lost both his parents. Since coming to the home, his health has stabilized and his tiny body has begun to grow. John is a walking picture of how badly orphaned children need loving care.

The little ones being washed up

When the children had finished school, they gathered at the main home. Some engaged in their evening chores, others sat in line waiting to be washed, and many swarmed around the camera to see their pictures. I enjoyed spotting the familiar faces from my visit several years ago. Gathering the children into a large room, I set up my laptop and showed them a slideshow of pictures that I captured last time I was with them. They shouted with joy at each new picture and called out the names of the familiar faces of their friends.

A moment I will never forget came when I showed them a picture of Stephen, the man who started the orphanage and who the children affectionately know as “Baba”. They screamed with delight, calling out his name, and asking him to come from the trip that he had recently taken and not yet returned. It moved me to see how much he and his wife meant to these children as they saw the pictures and expressed their appreciation with loud cheers. Imagine what it must be like to be loved and relied upon by 160 children! I have so much respect for Stephen and Beatrice for what they do out love for these children.

The children shout for joy as they see pictures of each other but especially when they see "Baba" and "Mama."

As we were walking away I commented about how much the children seemed to enjoy seeing the pictures from my last visit. David, my host, responded that showing them pictures was the best thing I had done because although the children did not know me, once they saw the picures, they realized that I had remembered them and come back. “By doing this you have become an uncle to them,” he explained. What a wonderful thought. An uncle to so many beautiful children. May the Lord give grace to handle this position with care.

John, a little boy who I met at the El-Shaddai Hope Centre for Orphans in Kenya.

Meet little John. He is two years old but when you first look at his tiny little body you would think him younger than a year. Yet when he stands on his own power and wobbles toward you, your heart melts and you realize that he is older than he looks. There is a reason why John is so little. When his parents died of AIDS leaving their HIV positive baby behind, the rest of John’s family rejected him. Not knowing what else to do, his grandfather brought him to El-Shaddai Hope Center for Orphans. Although John’s medical record is quite important, the family has not provided the promised information. Though malnourished and tiny, the orphanage took him in and through loving care has nursed him back to health.

When I walked into the room for babies, several of them were standing up in their shared cribs. One cried with fear, others smiled, but when one of the caretakers took John out of his crib and set him down he grinned shyly at me. Taking him into my arms, I shared a few precious moments with him. John is quite personable and certainly very lovable. As I prayed for this little child and his young life, I couldn’t help but appreciate the dedication that Stephen and Beatrice Njau, along with their family, have to these children. I will be writing more about them soon but for now it only takes reflecting on little John’s story to appreciate just how vital loving orphanages are in Africa.

John is a personable little guy.

I met President Barak Obama’s grandmother in a village in Kenya. She is a gracious 86 year-old woman who says that she loves receiving the visitors that her grandson’s fame brings her way. My Kenyan friends met her several years ago and wanted to take me to meet her. Realizing how unique this opportunity was I readily agreed. While pulling up to the front gate of her home, I did not know what to expect. On the one hand it seemed that she should have a better situation than most for this area of Kenya but on the other maybe it was fitting that her humble home and life fit so naturally into her local context.

A large group of Norwegians awaited her arrival as we sat down. I split my attention between trying to think of insightful questions to ask and observing the ordinary African life around Grandma Obama’s home. Children pumped water and played toward the backside of the house. Tombstones stood as the typical landmarks of African family property. Two turkeys including one show-off male joined us for awhile before being chased away. The only signs of a presidential mark on the place were the visitors gathered and several Obama stickers in the windows of her home.

Grandma Obama seems to genuinely enjoy visiting with her guests.

A picture of President Obama as a young man visiting his Grandmother in Kenya.

Asking her what advice she would give to President Obama if he were to ask, she stated that she asks him to bring development and to work for peace. “Has he done anything here for development,” I asked. “No, not yet,” they replied. Visiting Grandma Obama made me reflect on foreign aid and responsibility in Africa. Should President Obama help to develop his hometown area of Kenya or is this simply not his responsibility? My Kenyan friends held differing opinions on the matter, one thinking yes and the other that his job is to take care of the American people, not Kenya. While still processing what our role is in the West to help support Africa development, I don’t purport to have the answer. I do know this much though, Grandma Obama is a lovely old woman and I am glad that I had a chance to meet and share conversation with the woman who symbolizes the United States’ multicultural connection with Africa.

I enjoyed visiting with the gracious grandmother of President Obama.

Live in a Kenyan village near Lake Victoria.

They say that home is where the heart is but my heart is in many places. I guess this means that my home is where I reside among the hospitable. I have now been adopted by two Kenyan families. Meet my lovely Luo family as you accompany me into life in the Kenyan village of Manuanda.

Sad to leave Uganda amidst violent riots, I took heart by anticipating what the final leg of my trip would bring. During my last trip to East Africa I spent the largest portion of my time in Kenya so I have friends and organizations there that I’ve long hoped to revisit. It was a wonderful feeling to get off the bus in Kisumu and to know that the rest of the trip I would be with Kenyan friends. Moses Adero Ndisi along with his brother and cousin picked me up from the station and we set out for their hometown village. I met Moses at the World Social Forum in Nairobi, in February of 2007. Discovering that we had a lot in common, we became fast friends. During my final stint in Nairobi, Moses took me around town showing me the city’s best cultural spots. Lacking time to visit his hometown village on my first trip, we planned to do so “next time” and our chance had finally arrived.

My buddy Moses who I stayed with while in Kenya.

Moses' mother in her home.

Moses’ grandfather built a church on the family property and it has served as the community’s place of worship ever since. He also used to travel around the region preaching and serving people in a way that has earned his name a respected and appreciated legacy. In what has become typical fashion for me while traveling, the pastor of the church asked me to preach a few minutes before the service began. After sharing with them about the faith in Christ to meet needs that caused four men to dig through a roof to bring a lame man to Jesus for healing, the pastor shared with me that the people were touched. It was a delightful experience to share that time of worship with them.

Tilapia from Lake Victoria with ugali and greens.

African hospitality has a way of making you feel like family. I enjoyed sharing this two days of life in a Kenyan village with Moses and my Luo family.

My wonderful Luo family.

Liz, my little African queen.

I met my African queen and her name is Elizabeth. Seriously, I don’t think I have seen a cuter little girl since my little sister entered the world. I met Elizabeth at my last dinner in Uganda with Dickens, a good friend that I made on this trip, and his family at their home. Dickens recently planted a church in one of the neediest areas of Kampala. They began meeting as a small group under a tree and it has grown to the point where the people requested that he start a church.

Dickens and his beautiful young family.

Liz enjoyed posing for the camera and Jashen loved to take pictures.

Smoke rises from Kampala during the riots of September, 2009.

Everyone has heard the stories of problems in Africa. Sometimes I think it is all we think of when we hear about this continent. One of the questions that makes me internally roll my eyes is, “Africa, isn’t it dangerous over there?” What we fail to consider is that Africa is a continent, not a country. It is very large, more than three times the size of the USA, and very diverse. There are politically unstable areas and peaceful areas, as there are in most parts of the world. There are certain themes, however, that emerge when one analyzes troubled areas and situations around this vast continent. The riots that just broke out in Kampala highlight one of the primary issues that continues to cause problems in Africa.

It’s no secret by now that I love Africa so it shocked my idyllic travels when trouble broke out in Kampala. Although Uganda has suffered ongoing violence in the Northern part of the country, the Central and Southern areas have experienced relative peace for quite awhile. Tribalism, the stimulus behind so much of the trouble that continues to haunt Africa, has struck again. In the mid ’90s the Ugandan government restored the traditional “kingdoms” and gave the hereditary chiefs a degree of sociocultural leadership that was not meant to extend into the political sphere. Perhaps it is easier on paper than in reality to tell someone that although in the past they would have exercised complete control, they are now limited by the authority of the central government. Much controversy has surrounded one particular King’s insistence that he be granted a federal administration that would restore his political power. The government has refused this idea of returning to what would seem to be an older form of tribal governance.

The trouble escalated when the King, or “Kabaka” as he is known, of Buganda, the largest traditional kingdom in present-day Uganda, declared his intent to visit the Kayunga district. This area claims to have seceded from his kingdom amidst complex political maneuverings. Fearing a backlash to the Kabaka’s visit to this controversial area, President Mussevini forbade him to go. Not only did he proceed with his plan, the Kabaka requested that the government provide him security. Since it is apparently against the law to arrest the Kabaka, the government arrested another prominent Baganda leader. Two days before the Kabaka’s planned visit, violence broke out in the streets of Kampala. In an apparent effort to protest the government’s interference with the Kabaka’s plans and to protect him on his upcoming trip, Baganda youth began starting brush fires on the roads, burning cars, and looting.

Watching the action in the streets from the wall of our compound.

The place where a friend saw a woman get shot while carrying some bananas to sell at the market.

It was a sad way to leave the country that I had grown to love so much over the past few weeks. I hope that things stabilize quickly and that the Kabaka and the government make peace soon, preventing any further unrest.

Riding down a troubled street with his hands in the air, this man indicates that he is unarmed.

Sitting in a bus on the ride from Kigali, Rwanda to Kampala, Uganda.

After this experience I think I’m one step closer to being a true African. I took an eleven hour bus trip from Kigali to Kampala, all while riding on the floor. To be more specific, I was sitting on the engine cover, slowly cooking along the way. I’ve never had trouble finding a seat on a bus here in East Africa but today when I showed up for the last buses to Kampala they were all full. Then a confident man strolled up asking if I was heading to Kampala and then motioning for me to follow him. Along the way he said something about Kampala Coach being the best bus and having air conditioning. For a few seconds I almost believed this sales pitch aimed at naive muzungus. I think what he meant by air conditioning was that the windows opened.

Arriving at the ticket window I learned that the bus was full but that I should stick around just in case they conductor would be willing to give me a seat meant for one of the bus staff. When the bus came, however, they insisted that there were no seats and absolutely no way that I could come along. Not really sure what to do, I stood around for awhile contemplating my options while the bus prepared to leave. I figured I would need to find transport to the Uganda border and then spend another night in Kabale before getting the bus back to Kampala the next day.

Sharing close quarters with the bus driver, for 11 hours.

As we approached Kampala, the men seated around me came to life, leaning forward and straining to see something outside the bus. Repositioning myself to see from their perspective, I noticed that there were small but consistent brush fires along the road. At first I thought it was maybe just the best place that people could think of to burn up some brush. Then I spotted a burnt out car turned sideways in the road and the reality began to sink in. My beloved Kampala, a seeming base of East African stability, had broken out in a violent riot that day. Taking a little extra precaution than normal, I hired a taxi for the ride back to my hostel rather than a much cheaper but less secure boda boda. As to what actually happened in Kampala, I’ll have to write soon…

A survivor of the Rwandan genocide singing his story of survival and healing.

Can you imagine losing every member of your extended family in a matter of weeks? To be the only survivor among the people you loved the most? This is exactly what the young man in this picture experienced and I sat there listening to him sing about it. Through the help of a translator I learned that the lyrics went something like this;

When I remember my past
My heart is filled with praise
Because God did the impossible for me
I remember the people who died all around me
But after they tried to kill me several times I survived
And that is impossible

This young man was only 4 years old during the Rwandan genocide of 1994. The scars remain on his neck and shoulders, reminders of the way that the perpetrators mutilated their victims gradually before killing them. Somehow he survived this brutality and through the comfort that he has found through Solace Ministries in Kigali, Rwanda, he has forgiven his offenders and is finding healing. Can you imagine surviving such tragedy physically, much less mentally and emotionally? How would you go on in the face of such total loss? The people of Rwanda are showing us the way.

The perpetrators of the genocide cut this young lady's arm off but she managed to survive along with her brother who lost his legs.

A widow explained how for many years she felt a “sickness” in her heart that could not be healed. She was losing flexibility in her body and the medication that she had tried was not helping. When she was encouraged to thank God for what he had done she couldn’t think of anything for which to be grateful. During the genocide her neighbor killed her babies and this was the reason for her grief. Yet gradually through the counseling and support of Solace, she has found healing for her heart and body.

One widow, also the lone surviving member of her extended family, explained that when people first come to Solace Ministries it is to cry for their lost families together. Through mourning together, they begin to feel like family because they share the same problem and can pray together and comfort each other. Slowly live moves on and they gain hope from God and start to believe that they have a future. Many of them used to pray that God would kill them but through hearing each others’ stories, they began to build hope again. Their lives are changing and when you meet many of them, you would never know that they are widowed and orphaned, the survivors of such tremendous grief.

People come to Solace Ministries to find family again. After the meeting where I heard these stories, three widows came up to greet me. They shared how grateful they were that I had come because since they do not have family, the visitors that come to see them become like their family. It is hard for me to imagine the pain that they have experienced but even harder to fathom how they found such healing. The work of Solace Ministries is truly extraordinary and deserving of our support. I would encourage everyone to look into what they do and to consider how you might assist their worthy cause. These survivors have life changing stories that we need to hear and needs that we share.

Click here to visit the Solace Ministries website.

The people that came to Solace understandably did so in the midst of great pain. They discovered that gathering together those who were hurting enabled them to share their stories with each other and to find comfort in this new community. As survivors wept with each other they found that they were not alone. This prompted Solace to form local communities across Rwanda to serve as family for those who had lost their loved ones. These communities care for one another, help to raise the orphaned children, and make sure that each member has enough food and means. Led by women widowed during the genocide who have found inner healing, the communities truly become a source of comfort and healing.

My room at the Solace Ministries Guesthouse was quite comfortable and had a wonderful view.

In addition to forming these communities, Solace also provides counseling and trauma healing, helps to educate orphans either through sponsorship or educational programs at their base in Kigali, encourages forgiveness through Jesus Christ, teaches vocational skills to help survivors make progress, and provides anti-retroviral medication and community home-based care for the many women who contracted AIDS while being raped during the genocide. According to information at the Kigali Memorial Center, more than 500,000 women were raped during the genocide or in the refugee camps that followed, and often times it was by men who were known to be HIV positive. Solace is providing a vital service to these women in a part of the world where proper medication and health care has been sparse. One of the ways they fund this project is by running a guesthouse at their center in Kigali. I was grateful for a chance to spend the night there knowing that the money went toward such an important cause.

I could go on and on about all the Solace Ministries does, but like John told me, the real story is what is happening in peoples’ lives. I will focus on several of the stories that I encountered in my next post. It is inspiring to see how this organization has provided solace for so many hurting survivors. Click here to read more about Solace Ministries.

Denise manages the Solace Ministries Guesthouse, raising funds for this vital organization.

My moto-taxi driver in Kigali.

Two things that we can hope and pray for in Rwanda are first, that the development that has benefitted the lives of those who are better off in Kigali will reach the poor around the country and improve their situations as well. Secondly, that Rwanda will overcome the tribal conflicts that have plagued its past so that all of the progress of the last 15 years will not be lost again to the problems of the past. Kigali may well be East Africa’s finest city and from the signs of things this place is going to keep on getting better.