Africa Love

This is a post from Jessie's blog about one of our precious boys, Martin.

* * * * * * * * *

I know that being just a few days after Christmas the expectation would be to share with you all about our Christmas together. I hope that I will be able to bring myself to share about it soon because it was definitely a wonderful Christmas.

However… the day after Christmas one of my boys got really sick. Martin, our youngest in the home, gets sick quite easily so it wasn’t abnormal to need to take him to the clinic. He spent the next day and a half in bed most of the time, trying to get some rest. In the afternoon on the 27th he seemed to be feeling a bit better when I went in to check on him. I asked if I could bring him some tea or anything else and he asked me to bring him soda and cake. I smiled and chuckled a bit (because you see soda and cake are extremely special here and I could tell he was partially joking). I told him I couldn’t bring him those things, told him I loved him and left the room.

Late in the afternoon he was even up and out of bed. He told David that he had changed his mind, that he wanted to go to the soccer camp with the rest of the boys the next day even if he needed to bring the drip that had been attached to his arm. He wanted to cheer on the others and encourage them, hoping they would win the trophy at the end of the camp.

But in the evening he got worse. The boys called me into his room. Martin was shaking and extremely cold no matter what we tried to cover him in. His heart was beating wildly and he was unresponsive to everything around him. No matter how much we called his name or tried to talk to him he couldn’t even look at us. So David and I took him to the hospital. We didn’t have time to wait for a special hire taxi to get to the house, so I wrapped him in a thick blanket and David carried him on a boda to the nearest hospital.
The first hospital we went to was overcrowded and although they took him quickly because of the state he was in, didn’t seem to be doing much for him. By this time Martin was unable to control himself and would have hard spasms meaning I needed to hold him down on the medical table to keep him from falling off. I looked into his eyes and saw fear and confusion. And at one point there were even a few tears that formed in the corners of his eyes. I spent that hour whispering in his ear, telling him how much I loved him and how tough he was. We went to another hospital after some time to get him better care since he wasn’t improving a bit and they didn’t seem to be doing enough.

At the next hospital they admitted him and continued him on fluids. We found out that he was suffering from a more serious case of malaria called Cerebral Malaria that attacks the brain. Despite its seriousness the doctors said that he would recover. I stayed the night with him at the hospital informing the nurses each time his condition seemed to worsen. I spent hours just watching his chest rise and fall, making sure that his breathing continued because it was so unstable. One moment I could see his little heart racing uncontrollably and the next moment his breathing was so faint I had to get up close to see it. But he made it through the night without significant change. His temperature had risen to a stable degree and I began to feel a bit relaxed, feeling as if he had made it through the hardest.

I switched out in the morning, about 8:30, with Frank, in desperate need of some rest. I went home to help boys get ready for the camp. I brought Frank’s phone to him at the hospital about 30 minutes later and Martin had been put on oxygen since his breathing remained so erratic. I went about the city looking for a catheter for him and then back to the house. About 10:00 I got the call from Frank. Martin hadn’t made it. The doctors tried everything they could, but he had died.

I felt as if I had been punched in the gut, and that feeling hasn’t gone away. Martin was a boy who really enjoyed life. He absolutely loved singing and all types of music. He and Pious would sing together for people, for anyone willing to listen. Martin was extremely bold and would get up in front of crowd without shame or fear and sing his songs for people. From the day he moved into the house he asked me if I could get him a keyboard because he wanted to learn it so badly. Abby and I decided to get the boys a keyboard for the house as something to encourage them to spend time learning music and I purchased it a bit before Christmas. I was so excited to come home the day after Christmas and present it to Martin. Because although it was a gift for all of the boys, it was especially for him. He had been too sick that day to want to play and so never did get to play the keyboard.

As we sat around and talked about Martin together as a family something the boys said over and over again was how eager he always was to help them. If someone got a punishment to mop the floor or some other chore and Martin came in to find them working he would quickly grab something to help. Frank’s son has been at the house for the holiday which has made Martin a big brother for the first time (Martin is about 8 and Tevin is 6). Martin had been the best brother one could be. He took care of Tevin in every way and shared everything he was given with Tevin. They had been inseparable since the day Tevin arrived. I could see the joy he had at being able to take care of someone else, of being able to sacrifice what he had to love someone smaller than him.

The sorrow I have felt at having lost one of my boys has been uncontrollable. To think about not getting to watch him grow up, not getting to see the man he would be has been a heaviness that I never hoped to feel. I know that God knew that I was unable to handle watching him die. The first moments after his death I wished that I had been there but the more I thought about it I knew that was something I couldn’t handle at this point in my life. We always talk about how God won’t give us more than we can handle and this is the first time I have seen it from the position of something he relieved from me. I spent the evening watching the rise and fall of his chest, his heart racing wildly… he knew I wouldn’t be able to handle the moment that stopped. My grief is a grief for me, and for my boys, for having lost a son and a brother. It is not at all for Martin. I can manage a smile when I think about Martin singing in heaven, spending his time worshipping a God who loves him and who has prepared a place for him. Martin will never have a moment of pain or sorrow again.

I spent most of the time in the hospital reminding him of the Father he has through a song that has carried me through tough times (changing all of the I’s to you in it) and my prayer is that he really knew how true it was…
I have a maker
he formed my heart,
before even time began
My life was in his hands

He knows my name
He knows my every thought,
He sees each tear that falls
and hears me when I call

I have a father,
he calls me his own
He’ll never leave me,
no matter where I go

When he was feeling sick and had decided he wouldn’t be able to go to the camp Martin told the rest of the boys that they were to go and to win the trophy for him at the end of the week. So the boys decided today that they would do just that. After his burial I said goodbye to my boys as they went off to play, to play for their brother.

We try to catch Shafik’s eye in the hustle of our programs and then silently motion him to follow us up to the house in Kivulu. We secretly slip out and wander our way through the slum to our house a little way up where we settle into an uncle’s room and all sit down together.

“Shafik, do you know why we wanted to talk with you?”

“Um… No…”

Shafik laughs uncomfortably and shifts his weight.

“It’s really, really, really good Shafik, are you sure you can’t guess?”

Shafik’s face lights up with his beautiful smile as he shakes his head no but waits eagerly for the answer. We all know what he is thinking.

“Shafik, on Monday we were wondering if you could come home with us, if you could live in this house and be a part of our family. Jessie and I were wondering if we could please take you out to breakfast and then to Owino to get you clothing, shoes, a toothbrush, everything that you need for your new life in our family. Would that be okay with you? Would you like to come home with us? ”

Shafik’s big beautiful smile spreads itself over the whole room as he soaks everything in and repeatedly tell us yes. We go on to tell him that he will spending Christmas with us, and going to a soccer camp in January for a week with the rest of his new family, that when school starts in a couple of months, he will be starting too.

We go on to tell Shafik everything we love about him and how we have seen him change and Shafik just soaks it all in with his big beautiful grin.

* * *

When we first opened up the house, Shafik had been in it. He had lasted two days before running away in an angry huff shouting us that we were holding him in prison because we wouldn’t allow him to go back to Kisenyi to drugs. At that time he thought he needed his freedom and his drugs and his other ways to disassociate more than anything else. He had built up walls around his heart that it felt like we would never be able to climb.

I remember watching him go with a falling heart. I could never make him stay, I could never be the one to stitch up the holes in his heart no matter how hard I tried.

A few days after that I came to the programs to find him sitting in our storage container, dried blood covering his neck and shirt. He had been walking along a road collecting scrap metal to sell and a woman had gotten out of a car and given him a proper beating for being a street child. She had given him bad cuts on his head which was why he had bled so badly.

Shafik continued to be abused and mistreated on the street, he continued to suffer, but along the way he got to know a Heavenly Father that loved him so much. He began to receive and reciprocate the love that Jessie, I and the other uncles we worked with showered on him.

Shafik, the boy who did not respond to anyone, who did what he wanted and was angry at everything became one of the sweetest and best-behaved children in our programs. Instead of disobeying everything we said, he began not only listening, but helping everyone else listen as well. He became a Christian, stopped doing drugs, he started bathing, he started cleaning his clothes, he started finding worth in himself. Shafik pours everyone around him with gifts, I could fill a notebook with all that he has given to Jessie and I: food, juice, candy, earrings, bracelets, rings, watches, clocks, flashlights, toys that light up, pens, pencils, stickers, anything you could purchase on the streets of Kampala he has purchased to give to us.


When we were almost finished talking with Shafik about coming into the home and how proud of him he told us, “I have been praying for so long to God that I could come live in this house and now it has happened.”

I told him he was so right. Jessie and I love him to pieces but that was not the reason he was coming the house, it was because God wanted him there, God had put him on our hearts for a long time to get a second chance in the home and we couldn’t be happier.

I am so proud of Shafik and so honored to be a part of his story of hope and new beginnings.

* * *

Today we are taking Bashir home with us as well. He is a sweet and feisty little guy that we all love so much. I can’t wait!!!

Acts 2: 25-28

“I saw the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body also will live in hope, because you will not abandon me to the grave, 
nor will you let your Holy One see decay. You have made known to me the paths of life; 
you will fill me with joy in your presence.”

I am addicted to working with street children. Completely addicted.

I’ve found what breaks and fills my heart at the same time.

…“Shafik ran away from Ssenge this morning, I am with him in Kisenyi now, can you come?” I am so frantic that I can hardly see straight and nearly get hit by several cars as I dash across the street on my way to Kisenyi in hopes of retrieving my precious little boy. An hour later we are crammed into a crowded public taxi, Shafik is falling asleep on my lap as we head back to Ssenge, back home. The next time someone tries to influence him to leave with him he refuses to go, he says that he will never again run away from home… I stare down the street as Joseph walks back to Kisenyi in the dark, his bag of scrap slung over his shoulder. He didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t respond when I told him I loved him, but I know that he heard it…Today Joseph comes running up to me as soon as I get to the programs with eyes that are not glazed over and he presents me with the beautiful silver ring that he purchased for me and a smile that lights up my whole day, today he is letting me in… “You are our mother” Henry tells me in his sweet and squeaky little voice looking up at me with his bright eyes, it isn’t a question it is a statement. “Of course” I tell him, “I am your mother and Ssenge is our home…”

I have found some of the, “least of these” who are great in the eyes of God.

…The police man grabs “Clever J,” Davis by the scruff of his neck and tears off his shirt as Clever struggles to get away. Another police officer comes and begins kicking him with his steel-toed boots as the boy begins crying hysterically and crumples into a ball trying to protect his head that we had cut in a “stylish” way the day before. When Clever finally breaks free at a sprint and hides in one of the many alley ways of the slum he calls home the police officer turns to me and says, “the school does not want street children in sight of their school, you will scare the students away, you need to move your programs elsewhere” he throws the ruined shirt down and then walks away.

I have gotten to be light in dark places.

…We are squeezing our way through downtown Kampala where people are bustling around everywhere. People turn as we pass by, me and a gang of around ten wild street children and make sure to make degrading comments to the boys as we go. One man comes up to me and tells me that I should stay away from the kids because they are just going to steal from me, with that I respond, “Oh no, these are my sons” and put my arm around the boy next to me who begins grinning from ear to ear… We finally found him, we finally found Patrick in a dark alley sitting on a pile of trash huffing drugs. “Patrick!” I shout “Patrick we have been looking everywhere for you! Are you ready to go home? Lets go!” Patrick looks up at us and jumping up throws his drugs behind him. “This is my past” he tells us confidently as he turns around and walks hand in hand with me away from his life of a street child… Hassan is showing us the way through the beautiful winding village trains to his house. He ran away several months ago and after telling us he wanted to go home, we took him. I am busy contemplating the consequences of stealing the adorable speckled goat that I feel in love with on our walk when without realizing it we reach Hassan’s house. His mother spots us immediately and comes running from behind a hut with her arms in the air shouting, “My son is alive! He has come home! Everyone come here and see, my son has come home!” and wraps him in a large hug…

I have seen miracles and tragedies

… The small six year old puts his face back to his bottle of drugs and inhales deeply, he looks up at me and then gazes forward as his foggy mind begins to fly away from the reality of his harsh little world… “Excuse me” we ask a group of street kids, “We are trying to find out the name of a street child that died around here less than a week ago, do you know him?” The boys blink up at us and reply similarly to most of the other kids that we ask, “Yeah, we knew him, but we don’t know his name, sorry”… The little boy looks up at me with fear spread across his face, “Oh, I can never go home. My dad would try and kill me if I ever went back there, I can never go home”… The hot African sun is shimmering down on us as we sit on the dust and watch our boys play football, “Kivulu Home v. Ssenge Home” each boy is wearing his new jersey and I am amazed by just how many boys we have, I look at them and I just can’t see it, I am having a hard time seeing them as the street children they used to be as the healthy, confident, and incredibly talented boys run wildly up and down the little field, “Thank you God” I whisper to myself… It’s ten at night and I am receiving a phone call from Lutaaya, curious why he is calling I answer the phone, “Abby!” she shouts at me from the other end, “They found Wasswa! We finally found him! I am bringing him over to your house right now! We are going to stop by so that he can see where you live and we can meet him tomorrow and get to know him more, see you soon!” “Wait!” I shout back at Lutaaya, trying to catch my breathe, “Lutaaya! We got the money! We got the rest of the money we need to open Ssenge about two hours ago, my mom just sent it! Wasswa doesn’t need to go back to the streets tonight or ever! You guys will stay at a guesthouse tonight and tomorrow lets open the house and bring him home!”… My eyes begin to tear up as Davis, (formerly known as Clever J) and Sharrif come flying up to us at a sprint from playing with their friends. We came to visit them in boarding school and the site of them so clean and healthy and happy is just too much joy for me to handle in one single moment. I am softly crying by the time they reach us…

I am so blessed to have a God who created me to work with street children and to have actually found the place where my heart calls home. It is not easy, but it is a life filled of joy, surprises, miracles, and fulfillment. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

5 cents, can you buy with 5 cents?

In Uganda, 5 cents can rob a child of their innocence. 5 cents can teach them everything they shouldn't know. In Kampala for 100 shillings (apx 5 cents) you can enter a movie hall which all slums here in Uganda are just packed with and watch movies, depending on the movie hall you can choose between violent and vulgar, "action packed" movies or porn. Movie halls don't discriminate the age of customers coming in either. In fact many movie halls, not only allow street children to enter them but they also allow them to sleep and stay in them and hire them for small jobs. Most street children, our children, are frequent visitors, it just breaks my heart. There are too many times when I will be looking for a child during our programs and the other kids will respond that he isn't around because he is in a movie hall, they all go to movies.

Alex, who I wrote about earlier, is not doing well and I worry about him so much. He is so unruly. He is always covered from head to his shoeless feet in grime, being stubborn and bouncing wildly around with all of his personality and spirit.

When you look at Alex and you know that he is a child that no one loves, no one cares for, a child that will never be missed. I worry so much for Alex. Alex also goes to movie halls and watches a lot of porn, he is a little boy with no mother growing up in Kisenyi, I worry for him and the effects of everything he watches, he has no idea what he is doing to himself. I worry for all the bad people who watch him as he moves around Kampala and know perfectly well that he is all alone in the world. We just found out that one of the boys in our new home was picked up off of the streets and brought to a temple to be child sacrificed. A neighbor came in and helped him escape, Alex is a perfect target. Alex is so small and young but he takes every opportunity that he can to speak up for himself and be as tough as possible, it usually gets him into trouble. Alex is so unsettled and spends most of his nights in Kisenyi, one of the most violent and corrupt slums in all of Uganda where I worry for him so much as he goes to sleep by himself in the plastic sack that he found around town during the day, outside and alone. I worry for Alex that all the drugs each day will effect him forever.

Jessie and I have both seen Alex grow in big ways but we are also watching him slip away. Alex has so much personality, he is completely unforgettable. He is a kid who just pulls you in with all of his charisma and personality. He loves coming up with clever plans and playing games. As tough as he is he is also such a little kid too. Alex knows that we love him, whenever he comes around he makes sure to give us both big hugs and his cheeky little smile, but that is not enough.

I feel like I see him falling but have no way to catch him, there is only One person that can do that. It breaks my heart to watch Alex, an extraordinary young man with all the potential in the world just spiraling out of control. It's just the hard part of working with these kids, falling in love with kids who sometimes break your heart. Of believing in children that no one else does. I am praying for Alex that he pulls through, that he gets the break in life that he deserves. I'm praying for them all.

Please pray for Alex.

Here are some pictures from some of the street kids in our programs! They're so cute!

Bashir, he is so cute and fiesty, I love him a lot.

Here's a photo of Mustafa, I dont kn ow what it is about this kid but he just takes my breath away I love him so much! He is wonderful!

Cute Kato

Hanging out at our programs

Really sweet katumba after he gave me a present of a huge boquet of bogenvia flowers

Hanging out

The boys in our new house in Kivulu are doing wonderfully, in the last week 5 of the 15 kids have chosen to go back home to try living with their parents again. Not all of the kids in our home can go home at all, but it is cool to see God have his hand in everything and to allow the boys to heal in our home to a point where they feel ready and willing to go back home with their families. Because we didn't know we were starting a home when we brought the kids in (we just thought it would be a place for the kids to sleep) we hadn't screened the kids who had a possibility of going home) but God used the home to kind of trick us into taking kids we wouldn't otherwise taken so that they could heal there and be able to go home. That leaves 5 empty spaces in our home, 5 more spaces to take precious street children home into our family! It is such a big decision, choosing children to take into our family, please pray for us for guidance!

Ssenge continues to get better and better as the boys are growing up into godly young men. Each boy is so amazing and so different!

George has turned into quite the businessman, he has begun buying loaves of bread with his allowance, selling the pieces at school individual and then using the profits to invest in chickens at the house, when boys are really sick he will usually fry them up some scrambled eggs and greens to make them feel better. Sam continues to be the sweetheart of Ssenge, he has such a sweet spirit and is so caring. He never fights with the other boys and is always concerned about the well-being of the other boys. Anytime that I go out at night to lock up or get water I can usually expect Sam to come trotting out behind me to be my bodyguard asking, "Are you fearing? Can I escort you?" because he knows I am a little nervous around the graves at night (our home is right next to a grave yard, when getting water from the water tank you could kick a pebble and hit a tombstone). Wasswa continues to be as passionate and adorable as ever. I love watching him play football, he gets big, determined eyes and goes into every lose ball with a full-body tackle. It always makes me laugh.

I love living in Ssenge and getting to know these amazing boys, my amazing boys, they truly light up my life.

*** Joseph ***

We talked with Joseph yesterday about vocational training. Just like when we told him we were putting him into boarding school, when we found him walking around downtown and took him out to eat tonight, like every time I see him he had big sad eyes most of the time and a heaviness to his whole demeanor. Our puppy kept attacking his ankles (Joseph is not a dog person), and when it began snuggling under his arm his eyes laughed as he gave a slight, tilted smile and shrugging his shoulders. Aside from that however he was as solemn as ever.

We told him that we couldn't put him in boarding school because he was too old, he would be starting first grade with little children (he is around 15 years old) and he would be frustrated being so much older than all of the other little kids, because he was starting so late he would never be able to graduate and that too would be frustrating. We told him that we wanted to put him in a vocational school though and a house where he would be taken care of for the couple of years he would be schooling and then getting his feet under him. To do that though he is going to have to stop doing drugs, start being responsible, clean and listen. It is going to be hard for me but we told him that we believe he can do it.

I have been trying to write an update for my journal for sometime, but every time I sat down I couldn’t get myself to write about anything, until I realized that there was really just one thing on my heart that I wanted to write about… Joseph.

Joseph for me is a boy that I just can’t help but love, and for anyone that has followed what I have been doing for any length of time then you know exactly who I am talking about

Joseph was one of the first street boys that I have ever fallen in love with, he is the start of my ministry with street children in Kisenyi what feels like a lifetime ago. I think of him and all my memories of him just flow through.

I think of him on his back screaming after he got kicked in football. I think of the times I have bumped into him collecting scrap on the street. Of taking him out to eat and walking around with him downtown. I think of him playing pranks on people and his laugh that just flows through everything, he is really hilarious. I think of him as I watch him climb trees, and churches and containers and walls and then makes me panic as he pretends to fall- he loves to climb, and he loves to watch my love for him jump out as I freak out about the thought of him falling. I think of Joseph and the times I have seen him punched in the face and kicked in the back for no reason. I think of Joseph and all the times I have seen him bruised and swollen after being beaten the night before. I think of Joseph and how he expresses everything he feels through his eyes. I think of Joseph and I remember the day he led softly by the hand his friend from across Kampala to our programs who had just been doused with boiling milk over his entire body and was in so much pain that he could hardly talk (we took that boy to the hospital and although his wounds still look terrible he is doing a lot better). I think of him and the times that he runs up to me with a piece of jewelry that he has been saving for me, knowing that whether it is a car part or gold, as long as it is from him, I will never take it off. I think of Joseph and I feel the security in his voice every time that he greets me, knowing that I am going to give him my full attention, light up and give him a big smile and greeting back. I think of Joseph and I feel the confidence he has in the fact that I love him. I think of Joseph and know that he has been on the street a very long time… around 8 years, and that he has given up hope of ever getting off. I think of squatting by his side in the middle of a sleepless night in Kisenyi as he just cried and cried from sorrow. I think of Joseph and I remember all the times we have walked hand in hand around town, around slums, just around. I think of Joseph and I remember the times when he used to help with medicine and I would give him all of the older boys who really didn’t need treatment and chuckle to myself as he scrubbed thoroughly and painfully enough that they didn’t come back unless they had a wound that actually needed treatment. I think of all the times I have given medicine to him and having to wash all of the grime and dirt of his fingers first before I can even begin treating each tiny cut. I think of Joseph and I picture his beautiful smile on his handsome face. I think of Joseph and I remember the first time I ever gave him a card and a candy bar, he was so excited that day, he was so surprised. I think of Joseph and I remember him crying and then disappearing when I was saying goodbye before going back to the US.

I think of Joseph and I feel such an intense love for him that I can hardly breathe.

I am positive that God has given me a small piece of His love for Joseph. A love that doesn’t fade or falter, a love that won’t let me give up on Joseph because God hasn’t given up on him and wants him off of the streets. There is something inside of Joseph that God wants to and will draw out. God has chosen Joseph to come off of the streets to do big things, of that I am quite sure.

There is a chance that we may start a discipleship program and put our older street kids into vocational school, we are still praying about it but if we did i would love to put in JOseph. It will be a leap of faith for us so we are really praying about it. However, Joseph will have to want it very badly in order to turn his life around and the things he has been doing for so long. HE will have to believe in himself.

PLease pray for wisdom for us leaders and for Joseph.

God has been so good to us here in Uganda and it is exciting to see how he is moving us forward

I am still loving living in Ssenge, after all of the chaos, heartbreak, miracles, and just excitement of working with street kids in kampala i always love just going home at the end of the day and being with my sweet kids in Ssenge. They are so amazing, they truly do light up my life

We have some more big decisions to make soon so please keep us in your prayers

<3

Sitting in the small clinic I watch Mwange as he struts over towards the scale to have his weight measured. He is swaggering so much it surprises me until I look down and notice that he is actually not swaggering but tiptoeing, the heels of both of his feet were just bandaged at our programs- he doesn't own any shoes and he must have stepped on a broken bottle or wires or something to cut the bottom of both his feet.

The doctor takes his measurements, asks him questions, and inspects him. She then tells me that the worms in Mwange's stomach were shouting at her when she listened to it with her stethoscope. When she tells him he grins and shrugs, that wasn't news to him. He is far too tough to tell us that he fears taking tablets and when the doctor tells him that he needs to come early tomorrow morning to take his deworming tablets before eating breakfast he tells us that he doesn't think he will come. Promising him a free breakfast doesn't work but on the way back from the clinic as we are walking hand in hand I pull the, "For me?..." card and it works as he promises me that he will go.

Mwange is always a mystery to me and I am sure that is exactly how he wants it. He is so sweet and endearing, without realizing it he can make a sea of other kids disappear in front of me as he is being his adorable little self. Moments later he will be gone and I won't see him or that side of him again for a while as he disappears into the crowd.

Earlier in the day when he had been telling me about feeling sick and that he had been having stomach problems he lifted his shirt to show my the lumps moving around on his little belly. Above his stomach though a series of deep and nasty scars are raked over his ribs. Forgetting in the moment that I had already asked before (and had not received an answer, just a sad little smile) I asked him where he had gotten such a bad wound, it seemed so completely unnatural and just looking at it you can just tell that it would have bled all over the place. He turned his head in shame and said quietly, "my mother" before dropping his shirt back down and asking if I could finish making his necklace for him (since he said his stomach was hurting him too much to do so himself but he wanted to have it done) so that we could go to the clinic.

Hearing that made me so angry. It should not be his shame that he has a mother that attacks him instead of loves him. It is not his shame at all. I gave him what small comfort that I could before I finished his necklace so that we could go.

I see God work in amazing and beautiful ways here but sometimes it is just so hard to see how these kids suffer and I know they dont suffer alone. Anything that they feel I know God feels even more so as he carries them in His big hands. Jessie was looking over our expenses the other day and told me that we had taken 38 kids off of the street since we got here this last June (and 2 more soon since someone just asked to put two more boys into boarding school! so exciting=-) . That is a lot of kids, and they are doing so well, but it is just so hard sometimes to be with the hundreds of kids that don't get off of the street, I know we can only do so much but still, sometimes it is just hard.

Sharrif peeking out from his classroom during school (you can click to enlarge)

There are no words to express how proud I am of little Sharrif. The little boy who loved to fight and do drugs and passionately explode at the drop of a hat, that little boy is long gone. I used to write about him a lot when he was on the streets, he stole my heart and I was so worried that he was going to be a street child that was never able to get out, but he did.

Sharrif loves his boarding school and is doing SO well! I love it every time we get to see him and spend special time with him. He was always exceptional, endearing, charming, and intelligent, but now he has channeled all of his other energies into moving forward with his life, Sharrif is ready to rock the world! Even the pastor of his school said that he is amazed at how Sharrif has changed, how he now has the respect of his entire class because of who he is and leads them all in prayer before the teacher comes in. God truly worked a miracle in his life and I cannot wait to see what He is going to do next

Thank you all for prayer for little Sharrif

We had surprised all of the boys in our street programs by giving them each a new outfit and taking them to "the beach" (aka Lake Victoria) to go swimming instead of running our usual programs.

There was a boy, Dissan who had been on our heart for sometime and Jessie and I knew that God wanted us to bring Dissan home with us that day. That would be his last day as a street child.

We had the other uncles at the house pull him aside with us and ask him if he wanted to come home with us that day to our home instead of going back to the street. He couldn't stop smiling all day.

Im sorry I havent written more lately, a lot has been going on but I havent had any electricity in Ssenge for around a month now and it is very hard to find other times to type these up when I cant do it at home but I will again soon

love you all

"The next time the police catch me, don't come looking for me, I am able to take care of myself!" Alex shouts over the commotion of the boys around him.

He is a cute yet feisty little dirt ball as usual. Streaked with sweat, grease, and the petroleum jelly that he has smeared on his face and head; he is rocking around on his plastic chair with a serious face looking way too grown up for his 5 or 6 years.

A couple moments later he is kicked in the side by someone and he begins crying, showing for a few brief moments the little boy in him but he quickly recovers and "grows up" again.

Alex did not mean what he said, he said what he wishes he could believe. He wants to believe that the next time the police come in the middle of the night, beat him with metal batons and crowd him into the back of the truck that when no one comes to look for him in prison, it is because he told them not to come, because he really can take care of himself. Because he doesn't NEED anyone.



The day before had been a terrible day. My greatest fears had again come crashing back to me. "The police grabbed Alex and Kato last night" many of the street kids told us. My Kato and my Alex. It was the same day that we had bought a charming little outfit for Alex and had planned to take him out to chips, chicken, soda and ice cream. I felt heartbroken and frantic. All we knew was that the police had grabbed them while they had been working collecting scrap metal and that they were gone. We decided the most probably place for them to be was in a holding call in a nearby police post. So we went from police station to police station in Kampala showing pictures of Alex and Kato and asking them if they could please check with the kids they had picked up to see if they had them.

It is not an injustice it is a tragedy how street children are treated in Uganda. It was terrible going to those prisons and being reminded again just how terribly street children are treated. They pick up street children (and I already knew that this happens), label them criminals just because they live on the street and place them in holding cells with other large and full-grown men who are true criminals. I kept picturing sweet Alex and Kato and having difficulty breathing as we waited for wardens to come back after checking the cells for them.

We didn't find Kato or Alex that day (although we did find other boys from our programs who we did try and help) but through a long and complicated serious of events, they were able to escape where they had gotten to and get back to the church that night. The next day in our programs I nearly cried as I hugged Alex and told him how much he had been missed, he didn't say anything.

Later that day when talking to the boys about how valuable and loved they were and that we would do everything to get them out of prison if they ever got picked up was when Alex piped up and said that he didn't want us to go looking for him. He was still too traumatized from his last 48 hours to open up the door to his heart to allow us in.

Two days later though I was sitting in the container getting beads ready for the boys to make necklaces when Alex crawled into my lap and snuggled up to me. I froze. Never before had I ever seen him so soft, with so few barriers. It caught me by surprise but it was so beautiful, it truly made my week. Later that day he stopped, looked me in the eyes and told me, "Babirye I love you so much" he also told it to my mom as well.

It is beautiful to watch Jesus change the lives of the kids here. To allow us to teach them what it looks like to be loved and cared for so that they can even more freely feel it from a God who loves them infinitely more than we ever can.

Some of the street kids in our programs =-)

LOSS

Several of the street kids in our programs (like 8-10 everyday) always walk me back from the programs in Kivulu to the taxi park. It is my extremely wild little entourage of body guards that jump on the back of slow moving cars as they drive past, give me puppy dog eyes anytime we walk past a food vendor, and yell and swarm around me protectively if any man so much as tries to talk to me (I call them my little body gaurds and they puff up proudly every time). It is really, really precious.

Yesterday, I was walking with 2 boys on my left arm and shoulder and a boy named Kato (he's fairly new to our programs, we have several Kato's) clutching to my right hand. He was looking adorable in his blue cordorouy pants we had given him and red shirt and new haircut. Kato is sweet and respectful but he's feisty too and sassy. I love him so much.

Kato was holding my hand so firmly that through the cars, and mud, and pedestrians, and the other kids who were all trying to be the lucky kid to hold my hand, we didn’t get separated the entire time. As we neared the end of a canal and came upon a main street we needed to cross he froze in his tracks with his eyes wide open and stepping backwards clutched my hand even harder as he shouted to the other boys that the city counsel was out (the people that beat them and take them to prison) and to go back.

I would fight for Kato. I would fight against the world for him and all the other street kids who have positively stolen my heart, often I feel like I am. If the police came to take him away I would do whatever I could to keep him safe. As he froze in terror, I took my hand out of his and wrapped it around his shoulder to let him know that he was secure, that I wasn't going to let him go. His little heart was beating so fast.

I work with young kids who are loved by no one, cared for by no one, and known by no one. It creates a very strong attachment when you are the only person giving that child love and attention, clothing to wear, shoes to put on their feet, haircuts, a toothbrush, soap to bathe with, food, and treats. It is hard for me too because whenever a kid shows up missing, I know what happened or at least a small piece of it. I have seen my street children beaten by police officers, I have seen kids been chased and put into trucks and taken away, I have seen people that police officers have shot and killed, I have seen thieves beaten mercilessly by mobs, just yesterday I walked right past a thief who had been running past police officers and shot in the leg. And my kids are just that, kids- young kids. I will never know what happened to so many of my sweet kids that disaperared from our programs, but I can guess.

Many more kids were beaten and picked up by city counsel last night and the numbers were reduced again in our programs. Although we never found out who the boy was who [we are pretty sure] was in our programs and died two weeks ago, we did find out that there was another street boy named David who was friends with many of the boys in our programs died last week after getting hit by a car in a busy area of town.

I am so scared of losing Kato, so, so scared. I'm scared of him getting sick, of getting kidnapped, of getting picked up by the police, of stealing something or getting triggered and running away. I'm so afraid that I will never see him again, that yesterday was the last time that I will ever see him. I feel that for so many of the boys in our programs. I think I always have an underlying sense of panic about losing boys in our programs. Actually just writing this last post has been really good for me as I have been holding that feeling of fear for him and all the other boys for so long. I feel like it's a constant process of grieving for boys you have lost and opening your heart for new boys.

There is no closure, we never know when will be the last time we will see our kids.

* * * *

IBRA AND IVAN

We lost Ibra and Ivan. They are not coming back. Jessie and I seem to fall in love with little thieves. As we have traveled all over Kampala looking for Ivan he has turned out to be a bit of a celebrity, known for stealing everything- money, shoes, cell phones. He also doesn't settle down. We went all over Kampala and found many different places where he had been staying. In the end we found out that he had been picked up by the police and taken to Kompalingisa a type of prison/rehabilitation center for street children (it's terrible). When I brought a picture of Ibra to our programs all the other street kids began calling him a thief and saying that (just after he had run away from our programs when he thought we were forcing him to go home) he had stolen a bicycle and run away. No one has seen him since.


* * * *

JUMPING OFF A CLIFF

I have now set out on the scariest and yet most exciting and wonderful adventure of my life.

I firmly believe that God doesn't work miracles- He doesn't do anything huge in our life unless we truly put our faith in Him. We have to do that by pushing everything else out of the way so that the only possible way for everything to work out is because of God. You have to jump off of the cliff before God is able to catch you. God doesn't want another Tower of Babel, if he uses us in big ways while your living life comfortably and predictably, we are going to think it was all us, not only will He not get the glory but we will turn it on ourselves. If we want God to work, we need to come to a place where we need Him.

I have to admit that our new home, our new programs, our new ministry is so scary for me. The scariest thing I have ever done. The Ssenge Home was a challenge, fundraising for it and everything, but technically it wasn't my house, it was African Hearts. At the end of the day, it was their responsibility not mine. But Jessie and my new home and programs are different. Just out of my money from being a missionary I am running a home, hiring 10 full time staff and 4 part time staff, putting children in boarding school, and taking care of 60 street children. If my money doesn't come in, I don't know what I would do, what we would all do. But I know it is what God wants. I read the bible and God's love for his people, especially the lost and broken just bleeds through every page. I know that God loves street children, He loves them more than I can even imagine. If he loves them that much, I know that He will provide for them. I know that if I jump off of the cliff after my precious street children who I keep watching fall off, I know that He is going to lift us all back up.

We just hired a body guard last night with money that we don't really have to watch over the street kids that sleep in our church in Kivulu (it is outside on a dirt floor and the kids keep getting beaten up there and stolen from). We also hired caregivers and a teacher to take care of our kids as well. I know that God wants our kids to be fed, loved, taken to the hospital, given clothing. As scary as it is, I just know that He will provide, He has to!

I've officially jumped off of the cliff. It took my breath away for sure but it has been an exciting and wonderful ride. There is no place better than in the center of God's will. Despite the heartbreak that comes with working with street children, I am so happy and fulfilled, I have so much joy. Literally the only nightmares I have here are dreaming that I went back to America. After everything that I have seen and went through here, my deepest fear is leaving the place where my heart has found it's home. Working with street children and watching God become real in their life, there is no greater joy for me than that!

I wish that everyone can have what I do. That they can find the ministry that God created them for, that they can find the place where there heart is broken and filled everyday and get to watch as God uses them in amazing ways to help the broken and downtrodden. Every Christian is called to a life of radical ministry that is tough yes, but immensely satisfying. It makes me sad to think of how many people are missing out on a life of purpose. It makes me sadder still to think of the other people who suffer unnoticed because we as Christians haven't learned how to step it up and reach out.

Thank you so much to all of you who are reaching out to the hurting and especially to everyone who has made my dreams of working with street children possible. God is using you in big ways! Thank you also for ALL of your prayers and encouragement!

God bless you all

Because the paper necklaces had been the main way that we had been raising money for my ministry I decided to start my own business of hiring wonderful older street boys from our programs who were serious about their life and were dying for the chance of earning their own money to make the necklaces. It is so exciting to see these boys working hard and getting a chance to earn their own money, with that money they can work towards doing anything they want with their lives. I am praying that everything will continue to grow and expand with the necklaces but it is just so exciting!


Below is a post from Jessie's blog (jessietorresblog.com)that explains it better:

David is an 18 year old young man who loves the Lord in such a way that it emanates from him. He is gentle in spirit, humble, and desires righteousness. He has been coming to our programs for the last few months and the church has allowed him to sleep in one of the rooms at their secondary school because they can see that he is both responsible and pursuing godliness. We were down at the soccer pitch next to the church today and he came up to greet me, first saying that he only looked smart (equivalent to looking nice) because of me. He was dressed in a new pair of jeans, a nice church shirt, and brown shoes… he looked very smart.

You see, we have been able to teach a few of the older guys how to make paper bead necklaces as a trade so that they can begin to make a living for themselves. They work full time Monday through Friday making bead necklaces at our house in Kivulu, breaking an hour for lunch. These five guys have been dedicated and hard workers for the last few weeks and clearly excited to work. I quickly reminded David that it was his own hard work that got him his new clothes, not my doing.

But he wouldn’t take that for an answer. He proceeded to tell me that there was no way he could communicate how thankful he was to me, that usually he was able to just say thank you but that the hope that I instilled in him was something beyond what he had ever experienced. He told me to look up Psalm 41 when I went home because he thought that would communicate it best.

“Blessed is the one who considers the poor! In the day of trouble the Lord delivers him; the Lord protects him and keeps him alive; he is called blessed in the land, you do not give him up to the will of his enemies. The Lord sustains him on his sickbed; in his illness you restore him to full health.” (Psalm 41:1-3)

He continued to tell me how God used me to bring them all hope. He looked out at the boys playing soccer and told me how they had no hope and believed that there was no chance that anyone cared about them. He told me that it is so difficult to be happy or to have hope in a God that loves them when the world seems to tell him the opposite. Because of the way that Abby and I take care of them and love them, he said the boys have a new sense of confidence that they are worth something, that they could be somebody, that God could have a plan for their lives.

David ran away about four years ago and hasn’t seen his family since. He left home because the circumstances were very difficult in their family; days would pass without eating, no chance of school or opportunity for work. He came to the city seeking opportunity, was lost for years in the darkness the city brought, and then found Jesus when he wasn’t even looking. In the last 7 months I can tell that God has begun a mighty work in him. He is working towards saving his money to go back to school, to complete secondary school at an adult school, and to visit his family back home.

No matter how much I communicate to David the impact he has on my life, the inspiration I am filled with as I see him as a man after God’s heart he doesn’t seem to believe me that he has given me more than what I could ever give him. In David, I see God’s work and God’s will for the lives of His people. In David, I see someone dedicated to a God that has allowed him to experience suffering and pain beyond what I could imagine – and truly know that God is good.

Jessie, Collins, and I run across a busy street, leap over the small canal on the other side and breach the top of a small dirt hill.

We find a small group of street kids puffing marijuana and huffing chenge. They stop smoking as soon as they see us near and a boy yells out my name. There is perhaps 10 street boys hanging out in their “home” a dirt spot with a small smoldering fire in the center-the kitchen. To the left side there is a big rock with the sand dug out below it where some of them sleep under at night and other rocks that they are currently sitting on. Cars whiz by on the busy street next to us. There is a young boy of perhaps 9 with shaggy hair who is swaggering around in a puffy black jacket, his drugs stuffed in a back pocket. He’s as cute as a button and I keep trying to catch his eye and get him to smile. He reminds me of Ibra so much that it hurts. A high 12 or 13 year old in a dirty white shirt passes a bottle with a clear liquid, chenge, to his older friend standing next to me. One of the older boys shows us his hands, they are a mass of blisters. Blisters upon blisters cover his hand all over his palm and along each finger. He just escaped prison where they had made him dig every day, all day. Those are the type of prisons they put street children in, it seems like all of the kids from our programs have escaped at one time or another. All the boys are excited to “bonga” pound fists and say hi to us and talk. They are respectful, curious, sweet, and aloof. I feel at home standing there talking with them and wonder how in rest of the world could have forgotten about them when they are sitting right there in sight of everyone.

We are in a slum called Katwe and looking for one of our street boys, Ivan and trying to discover the name of the street child that had just died. Jessie and I actually call him, “her Ivan”. We nickname some of the kids, names that only she and I know. We love all of the kids so much, but there are certain kids that one of us just stop breathing whenever we look at. There’s “my Julius”, “sweet Joseph”, “Jessie’s Ivan”, “our Andrew”, “my Joseph”, “Jessie’s Yusuf” and so many more. And the beautiful thing is that both Jessie and I love ”her Ivan” and “my Joseph” to pieces, but just one of us has a friendship with that particular child that no one else can compare to. And because we both love that child so much, it makes the other happy to see that boy be able to attach.

Earlier that day during our street child programs I had been handing out beads to make necklaces when Joseph comes up to tell me, “the police grabbed Ibra last night.” I look up startled and ask him which Ibra, the Ibra that had run away from our home in Ssenge, or the small Ibra that I was looking for (who still hasn’t showed up). He just tells me again that they took Ibra and when another uncle asks him, he says he doesn’t know which Ibra stayed in Ssenge and that they took 100 kids from Kisenyi last night. It was another crazy night in Kisenyi full of shouting, beating, and running from police officers that beat and round up kids in the middle of the night.

I then hear from Collins that there was a boy in our programs living in Kisenyi who had shifted to Katwe recently who had just died. No one knows the name of the boy that died but Collins tells me he’s pretty sure that I knew him.

Ivan disappeared from our programs around two months ago right before we opened the home. He was supposed to be in it too. We had had the kids who were going to be staying in the home help us get it ready and Jessie had accidently left her purse with money in it in a room when she went out to go buy supplies. Ivan stole a lot of money and ran away. Now all of the boys in our programs steal. If I ever put down a pair of scissor, a 100 shilling coin (five cents), a crayon, anything- there is no way that it will be there a minute later. All of our street children steal. They steal because they must in order to survive. (And it is amazing to see them pretty much always instantly drop the habit when they come into a loving home). But stealing money or something significant from Jessie or I was different for the rest of the boys and they decided it was their duty to continue finding and beating Ivan as punishment for what he had done. It is no big surprise that Ivan shifted from Kisenyi to Katwe a little while ago.

We walked around for hours all over Kampala finding street children and asking if they knew Ivan, or if they knew which boy in Katwe had just died. There are so many street children in Kampala, it is so sombering going around for one child and stumbling upon SO MANY other children who have never been looked for, who no one cares about. All day and no one knew anything. We are worried that the boy who died may have been Ivan because of how all the information matched up but we don't know for sure. We are going again on Thursday to look for him.

This is an update to my previous post about Ibra...

Ibra had spent the entire day at our programs yesterday laughing, playing with us and being his normal, adorable little self. When we told him we were about to leave (he was going with us so that we could resettle him) he immediately slipped away and disapeared. We haven't seen him since.

Ibra was the one who had asked us if we could take him home. He told us that he had been staying with his grandmother and had walked 50 kilometers into town to try and look for his mother because he wanted to stay with her instead, he had ended up being picked up by police and lots of other things along the way to becoming a street child.

I am so worried that we wont find Ibra again. Ibra knows we love him and he wants to go home to a mom that loves him. But I am afraid that he thinks we are now going to push him to go home "because we love him" and the reality of what that looks like if actually were to go home (which I think he is way too scared to actually do, all of us think it is not a good situation). We would never take him home if he didnt want to go but I dont think he knows that. I am so worried that we are not going to see him again. I so wanted him to be the boy that we took into our home. Of the three boys Jessie, Frank, and I are each wanting a different boy (although we each love all 3 of them), Ibra is the one who my heart feels pulled to take home. We are going to pray about it until God pulls all three of our hearts in the same direction. If he doesnt come back though that will never happen. I am praying so hard that God will bring little Ibra back tomorrow to our programs. I know that at the end of the day that it is He who created Ibra, loves him infinately, and knows what is best for his life. Its only God that can bring him back and give us the wisdom to make the best decision for his life.

Please pray for Ibra

When the riots were going on downtown a couple of weeks ago, Jessie saw a group of young street children running away from police officers that were after them (police officers were after all “thugs” and this pretty much always includes street children). They were on the other side of a canal but were about to run away from her and the police, she needed to get to them so that the police would leave them alone and so that she could bring them into the house so they could be safe. She didn’t have time to go around to the bridge and so she had to jump the canal to get to them in time. She ended up falling into a canal ferrying sewage, not clean water, and hit her head and hip in the process. However, she was able to get up, rescue them and bring them up to the house. (And yes, Jessie is my hero.)

One of those street boys was a young man named Ibra and that was how he was introduced to us and our programs in Kivulu. Ibra has the most beautiful smile in the whole world. He is the type of boy who steals your heart without having any idea of what he is doing. He loves to laugh and play and learn. He is certainly the cutest little soccer player I have ever seen, especially when he is trying so hard to pass me the ball that he keeps giving it to the other team and taking it so seriously the whole time. He knows how to stick up for himself and fight for his place in the harsh little world that he is living in, and yet he still retains a constant softness and sweet spirit.

He brightens up my day every time that I see him.

We have one more spot still open in our house, just one. After that spot is filled, because we are going to need to first find sponsors for the many kids that we already care for, it is going to be a long time before we are able to put any more street children into boarding school or into our home. The rest are going to have to wait a very long time.

Ibra is one of three boys that we are praying hard about to see if he is the one boy that God wants in our home.

It is a bit complicated but it is possible that we may be able to resettle Ibra back with his family. We are going tomorrow to try and find his mother and see.

I am absolutely dreading tomorrow.

I hate resettling street children with their families. It is always interesting and helps me learn a lot about my street kids and where they are coming from, but just about always, it breaks my heart.

The last boy that I resettled was a boy named Haluna Galoba. He had said he had run away from home because he was being mistreated by a step-mother but that he had heard that she had moved away and so he wanted to go back home. It was not an ideal situation, but if a street child asks to go home and they say that it is safe and possible, we always try our best to make it happen.

Last week, Collins, an uncle we work with and I took him on the 2.5 hours bus ride to Jinja, walked all over the town there trying to help him remember the correct direction and then finally took public motorcycles (bodabodas) to a small little slum on the edge of the Nile. We got lunch in a little room with no ventilation and then went on a small canoe/row boat type thing across the Nile to where his village was. We walked a while across the island and as we were nearing his home I decided to ask him how he was feeling about coming back home.

His response,

“I am afraid, they are going to beat me with sticks…”

His home was exactly as I expected it to be, a small hut in a little village overlooking the water with his young siblings and family all over the place. It was a very poor village and of the many people that were around, only two men had shoes on with everyone in old and tattered clothing. His family was very excited to see a white person but didn’t care very much that their son had come home. From the start his grandmother not only asked me if we could take Haluna back with us but if we could take some of his younger step-siblings as well. She told me, “I heard that white people love babies, here take this baby, her name is Babirye too like you. I am too old to take care of her, take her…” Haluna’s step mother was so busy nursing, playing with, and giving attention to her own small baby that she didn’t even look at him the whole time. I didn’t like staying in that village for the short time that I was there, everyone was asking me for things or arguing over items that Haluna had brought that we had bought him.

Two of his neighbors pulled Collins aside and asked if they could talk. They said they were concerned for the boy and told him Haluna’s situation. It matched completely with other thins that he had told us and with how everyone was acting now that we had brought him home.

Haluna’s mother had died when he was a young baby and he has no memory of her. She was the only person that ever loved him. His father is polygamous, Haluna has two step-mothers that hate him because he is the son of another wife. The only children they love are their own. Both women beat him constantly and would often deny him food. He spent a couple of months sleeping in the bush because they wouldn’t let him sleep at home. The step-mother that had hated and mistreated him the most had not moved away as he had thought.

The village also thinks that his step mom put a curse on his father so that he would not love him either. The father is away on business often but when he is home he often gets drunk and beats him. When Haluna ran away the father never told anyone or talked about it. He never went to look for him or ask around to see if anyone knew anything. He didn’t care.

In his entire life, Haluna has never had someone love him. He has never known love. The entire trip he asked everyone he saw if they knew his dad, if they had seen him, if they knew how he was doing. He was dying to see his father, he was dying to hear that he was missed, that he was loved. He was dying for the approval from a dad that beat him, that let his other wives mistreat him. A dad that went into town often but who had never bothered to spend an afternoon looking for him when he was living on the streets. And yet that was all that Haluna wanted. I believe that the only reason that Haluna went home was because he was hoping deep down that his dad would have woken up to the son he had had all along and accepted him home for the first time with open arms. I know that Haluna was a Christian because we had talked about it several times and how much God cared for him but the idea of God as a loving, caring father-figure was just hard for him to understand.

It is true that we didn’t know completely what Haluna’s situation was before taking him home but we knew it wasn’t ideal, it never is.

I know that Haluna was living a terrible life on the street but at least there he had a chance of someone finding him. He had a chance of someone finding him who might love him although as Jessie reminded me, he would experience a lot more abuse and trauma on the streets before that would happen IF it ever did. On the streets at least he would have had a chance of going into a home or of someone putting him through school.

There is no CPS in Uganda. There is no government that cares what happens to him. As Collins and I sat down in the little minibus leaving the village it was so hard leaving him and knowing that Haluna was still going to still be beaten, denied food, and cut down in every way. We all know that there is no future for him in his village. He is not going to go to school or grow up and have a chance at getting a decent job. He will be just like all of the beaten down men that were wandering around the village.

I feel so terrible about being the person that brought him back. Collins and I were the ones who brought him “home” and left him in that terrible place.

And I am dreading that for Ibra. I am dreading it so much.

You really ought to meet Ibra. He is the most beautiful and sweet boy in the whole world. He deserves the world. It just hardly ever works out like it should. It hardly ever works out that we resettle a street child home with their families and their family is actually happy to see them. It is so hard to take a street child and to watch them as they hope to go home and have established in their little heart that they are loved, that they have a family that loves them, that they were “missable” and missed and to then watch them come home to strangers- to mother’s that don’t hug them or look at them, to dads that aren’t there, or to a grandmother that asks us to take them back.

But maybe tomorrow his mother will love him (she would have to be an idiot not to really). Maybe his mother will be happy to see him again. Maybe this time we will take a street child home to a family where he is loved.

All we can do is pray for God to change hearts and give us guidance, courage, and wisdom.

Yesterday was my birthday. Being a twin my entire life has been spent sharing a birthday and I have loved it. Now in Ssenge I share it with so many more. Last year Wasswa was the first street child that we took off of the street, when asking him when he wanted his birthday to be (none of the kids we take off of the street ever know how old they truly are or their birthday) he asked to share it with me. Wasswa and I celebrated his first "real" birthday together in the house a year ago. Yesterday we got to share it again. The video above is from the beginning of the party when everyone (the kids and our aunts and uncles) was singing and dancing. We also had a special meal, games, a pinata, and cake. It was so beautiful to me to look around and to see all that God had done in the last year. To watch kids finally get the chance to be kids again. Wasswa never had that before coming home to us in Ssenge. He never had people that loved or cared for him. Now though he is able to have a family and even a birthday with games, and visitors and cake.

In our new house Sadik also wanted to share his birthday with me (as did a few other kids as well but we limited it to one) and tonight we are going to celebrate his first birthday as well. It is beautiful to watch how God is moving here, simply stunning.

Whenever I am in the US it as if all of the color has gone out of my life. I feel a heaviness and sadness that just hangs on me.

But when I am in Uganda all of the color comes rushing back. My life is a wonderful and exciting adventure. I found the place where my heart calls home. I LOVE my life, everything about it, I have so much joy here. That doesn’t mean that it is easy though. Working with street children is so tough. I have to deal with my kids getting kidnapped, shot, put in prison, being beaten and raped at night, and going hungry on a daily basis. I work with kids that are so scared to be loved that the more they begin to internalize and feel loved by me the more they lash out back. But it is all so worth it.

In the US although I am not actively working with street children I am weighed down by them and their sorrow. It may not be “my” street child that is getting beat at night, but I know it is happening and there is nothing that I am doing to help it. The sadness of having my heart in a place where I am not is miserable. As Liz once aptly said to me, “I would love for you to live here with me [in America] but I know that your heart is in Uganda and everyday that you are not living out that calling on your life, a small piece of your heart will die. I don’t want that for you, I love you too much to try and keep you here…” Maybe in the US my life is a lot more comfortable and I don’t see the sad things that I do here, but it is so much harder for me. Here I have the joy of working with street children, of watching their lives change, of earning their trust. Whenever my heart is broken for street children by something that happens here, it is also filled by the knowledge that I am here doing something about it, that God is using me to change the lives of street children in Kampala.

I did it, I found the place where my heart calls home. God gave me a personality that fits just perfectly with working with street children in Africa. It was a calling He gave me before I was even born. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am exactly where He wants me. I am nestled safely in my Heavenly Father’s big hands and I am convinced that even with unpredictable slums, corrupt police officers, crazy roads and exciting public transportation, riots and everything else that there is no place in the world that I am safer.

I take every precaution that I can of course, everyday I realize my safety is completely tied to the effectiveness of my ministry and how I can help street kids. I also realize that I am not invincible and that I need time to process and take breaks. I have an amazing Christian community that I have never had in America my entire life. Jessie and I get coffee and lunch almost everyday at local places here just so we can talk, process, and plan- I couldn’t do what I do without her working right along side me.

And I am living it out now, I am living out my dreams! I live everyday of my life here loving on street kids and former street kids and I couldn’t enjoy it more. I am truly happier in Uganda than anywhere else in the entire world.