One Year Ago

Last February, I went to Uganda with Compassion International and a team of amazing bloggers to get an up-close look at Compassion's work.  If you'd like to read the whole story, you can click here.  But I wanted to re-run this particular post from one year ago.  As long as I live, it is hard to imagine I'll ever see anything like what I saw on February 14, 2008:   

This morning we visited an HIV/AIDS hospital. 

That is not a sentence that I, in my sheltered little life, ever expected to write.  Then again, most of my expectations about everything have been blown out of the water these last few days.

We visited Mildmay HIV and AIDS hospital, one of only two hospitals in the entire world devoted entirely to treating HIV and AIDS (the other one is in the UK).  Compassion partners with them to obtain treatment for Compassion children.  We were greeted by the staff with overwhelming hospitality (upon first meeting you, Ugandans always say “You’re welcome”—this is one of the most endearing things I will remember about them), and they gave us a thorough presentation about the history and funding of their facility.

I’m counting on some of my fellow team members to blog these statistics—they’re interesting and important, but I generally try to steer clear of anything resembling math.  Anyway, the statistics aren’t what I’ll remember about today. 

For privacy reasons, Mildmay doesn’t allow photographs to be taken on-site, so I once again am going to try to find the words to tell you about this place.  It was nothing short of remarkable.

All throughout this city, the poverty is rampant and in your face on every inch of the roads.  When I have a faster internet connection, I’ll be able to show you what I mean.  But amazingly, we entered the gates of Mildmay to a different world.  It’s built into the side of a hill overlooking the rolling hills of Kampala.  The grounds are lush and meticulous, and the buildings are spotlessly clean.  The facility is actually dozens of smaller red-brick buildings connected by winding covered pathways.  Like most Ugandan buildings, they are all open air, but fans blow a gentle breeze through the windows and corridors.  The rooms are freshly painted, the grass is inches thick.  A deliciously sweet smell—presumably from the lush landscaping—hangs in the air.

It’s a place of gentleness and dignity, and you can almost forget, for a second, how sick the patients are.

We wound through the waiting area—it was a sea of people.  Some of the faces looked hopeful, some of them look frightened, many looked terribly empty.  The staff hosted us for a proper British tea (this is a former British colony, and there is still a strong British influence in the culture), and then they took us to the “Noah’s Ark”, a center for HIV-positive children who haven’t yet developed full-blown AIDS.  The children laughed and played, while a cartoon hummed happily behind us.  I knelt down to speak with a little nine-year-old boy named Bosco.  An interpreter helped me tell him that I have a nine-year-old son back in America, and Bosco laughed, giving me a big hug.  I gave him a sticker. 

We headed to a clinic for the HIV-positive children who are beginning to develop some signs of infection.  A breeze blew through, and the room smelled clean.  A little boy lay groggily on a cot, while his mother sat next to him.  I walked over to him and stroked his arm; it was burning up with fever.  The mother looked tired.

We continued to wind through the facility, visiting the dentist office and library and other departments, finally coming to the top of the hill to Jajja’s Home.  This is the pediatric facility for children that have developed full-blown AIDS.  Sophie and I shot each other a look, trying to brace ourselves.

Several of the children were outside under a tent for a special presentation by a well-known local gospel singer.  The singer was HIV-positive himself, and our interpreter told us how he was singing about how God had carried him through his illness.  The kids danced and sang and jumped and waved their arms—evidently this was quite a special event. 

We walked into the sick ward.  We weren’t able to approach any of these children—we carry germs that are a risk to them.  But we were able to wave and smile—I saw one little boy, about 6 or 7, struggle to raise his arm in a return wave.  Before we left, I passed a mother sitting at the side of her baby’s bed.  He was probably no more than two years old, and he was motionless, an IV strapped to his arm.  The look on the mother’s face will stay with me forever.  It looks just like you’d expect the face of a mother to look when she’s watching her child waste away in front of her.  I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder.  “God bless you,” I whispered to her, and she smiled back at me.  In those brief seconds, I think I prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed in my whole life.

Our tour ended in the cheerfully decorated classrooms.  Every inch of the walls were covered with bright posters and chalkboards and bookshelves.  In a quiet room off to the side were rows of neatly-made mattresses, where the littler ones could nap in the afternoon.

Because I have absolutely no way to wrap a post like this one, I’m going to leave you with the one photo I couldn’t help but snap.  This is the prayer painted on the walls over the children’s little sleeping mattresses.  This one photo says more than this entire post could:

To learn more about Compassion's work, and to sponsor a child, visit Compassion.com. 

That is not a sentence that I, in my sheltered little life, ever expected to write.  Then again, most of my expectations about everything have been blown out of the water these last few days.

We visited Mildmay HIV and AIDS hospital, one of only two hospitals in the entire world devoted entirely to treating HIV and AIDS (the other one is in the UK).  Compassion partners with them to obtain treatment for Compassion children.  We were greeted by the staff with overwhelming hospitality (upon first meeting you, Ugandans always say “You’re welcome”—this is one of the most endearing things I will remember about them), and they gave us a thorough presentation about the history and funding of their facility.

I’m counting on some of my fellow team members to blog these statistics—they’re interesting and important, but I generally try to steer clear of anything resembling math.  Anyway, the statistics aren’t what I’ll remember about today. 

For privacy reasons, Mildmay doesn’t allow photographs to be taken on-site, so I once again am going to try to find the words to tell you about this place.  It was nothing short of remarkable.

All throughout this city, the poverty is rampant and in your face on every inch of the roads.  When I have a faster internet connection, I’ll be able to show you what I mean.  But amazingly, we entered the gates of Mildmay to a different world.  It’s built into the side of a hill overlooking the rolling hills of Kampala.  The grounds are lush and meticulous, and the buildings are spotlessly clean.  The facility is actually dozens of smaller red-brick buildings connected by winding covered pathways.  Like most Ugandan buildings, they are all open air, but fans blow a gentle breeze through the windows and corridors.  The rooms are freshly painted, the grass is inches thick.  A deliciously sweet smell—presumably from the lush landscaping—hangs in the air.

It’s a place of gentleness and dignity, and you can almost forget, for a second, how sick the patients are.

We wound through the waiting area—it was a sea of people.  Some of the faces looked hopeful, some of them look frightened, many looked terribly empty.  The staff hosted us for a proper British tea (this is a former British colony, and there is still a strong British influence in the culture), and then they took us to the “Noah’s Ark”, a center for HIV-positive children who haven’t yet developed full-blown AIDS.  The children laughed and played, while a cartoon hummed happily behind us.  I knelt down to speak with a little nine-year-old boy named Bosco.  An interpreter helped me tell him that I have a nine-year-old son back in America, and Bosco laughed, giving me a big hug.  I gave him a sticker. 

We headed to a clinic for the HIV-positive children who are beginning to develop some signs of infection.  A breeze blew through, and the room smelled clean.  A little boy lay groggily on a cot, while his mother sat next to him.  I walked over to him and stroked his arm; it was burning up with fever.  The mother looked tired.

We continued to wind through the facility, visiting the dentist office and library and other departments, finally coming to the top of the hill to Jajja’s Home.  This is the pediatric facility for children that have developed full-blown AIDS.  Sophie and I shot each other a look, trying to brace ourselves.

Several of the children were outside under a tent for a special presentation by a well-known local gospel singer.  The singer was HIV-positive himself, and our interpreter told us how he was singing about how God had carried him through his illness.  The kids danced and sang and jumped and waved their arms—evidently this was quite a special event. 

We walked into the sick ward.  We weren’t able to approach any of these children—we carry germs that are a risk to them.  But we were able to wave and smile—I saw one little boy, about 6 or 7, struggle to raise his arm in a return wave.  Before we left, I passed a mother sitting at the side of her baby’s bed.  He was probably no more than two years old, and he was motionless, an IV strapped to his arm.  The look on the mother’s face will stay with me forever.  It looks just like you’d expect the face of a mother to look when she’s watching her child waste away in front of her.  I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder.  “God bless you,” I whispered to her, and she smiled back at me.  In those brief seconds, I think I prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed in my whole life.

Our tour ended in the cheerfully decorated classrooms.  Every inch of the walls were covered with bright posters and chalkboards and bookshelves.  In a quiet room off to the side were rows of neatly-made mattresses, where the littler ones could nap in the afternoon.

Because I have absolutely no way to wrap a post like this one, I’m going to leave you with the one photo I couldn’t help but snap.  This is the prayer painted on the walls over the children’s little sleeping mattresses.  This one photo says more than this entire post could:

To learn more about Compassion's work, and to sponsor a child, visit Compassion.com. 

Comments

[Upstatemomof3]

This is a beautiful post. The visit must hace veen amazing and life-changing,

[mimi2seven]

Thank you for reposting this. It's a reality we needed to be reminded of.

[Kari]

List of things to do today:

Wake up - Check
Cry - Check

Sigh, but it was a good cry. It was the tears of having your heart touched in a deep way. Thank you for this post. It's humbling and such a reminder of what life could be like, but also of the hope that comes in such unexpected places.

[sandy toe]

Great post!
-sandy toe

[Tabitha (From Single to Married)]

what a moving post. It's so heartwrenching to think of those poor children. I'm glad that you were able to go and help where you could. We all need to remember to serve like that, especially those in need.

[Michelle]

What an amazing post. I have a lump in my throat and tears flowing down. But I am pretty sure they are "happy tears" knowing that there are amazing people, like yourself, who share these journeys and testimonies...and truly make a difference in this crazy thing we call life.

Visiting Africa with a group such as Compassion International or HeartForAfrica is on my "bucket list"....and after reading your story....it is getting bumped even higher in priority to make it happen sooner.

thank you for sharing.

peace~
*~Michelle~*

[We are THAT family]

I found your blog two weeks before you made this trip.

I followed your journey with baited breath, sponsored dear Bereket, and watched God change you.

He changed me too.

Thank you for going, for keeping Compassion in front of us, for allowing God to work through you.

For being you.

[It Feels Like Chaos]

Thank you for sharing, thank you for going, thank you for opening our eyes to the suffering and also the work of God going on in our world!

[Jan]

I had to take a moment to comment on your post. I rarely ever write a comment as I am so busy myself but I do try to read your blog regularly.

I was so moved by this and wanted to thank you. I will do further investigation and try to help more in my own way.

I thank you for opening up my world a little more for me today. You are a very dear person.

[Lazy Mom Leslie]

I can't believe that was already a year ago. Thanks to that trip I sponsored two Compassion children. One of the best things I have ever done!

[Jean Stockdale]

THanks for the reminder of what God is doing outside our country. May we all be faithful to act upon HIs promptings. BLessings.

[Angie]

I am a mess, an absolute mess. Thank you for re-posting this... it brings such good perspective.

[CarolinaMama]

It is fresh today as it was a quick year ago. I recall reading eagerly as you and the Team brought to life and to our homes the Children, the HIV crisis, etc.

Thanks for sharing again so we can continue to remember. Your braveness to go still carries on.

Prayers for the Children.

[Roberta Anne]

What a good cry I had. Thank you for sharing this. I know a person who does not think that the US should send money to other countries but I tried to explain we are our brother's keepers. The next time he spouts off I will let him read this.
Roberta Anne

[Clint Miller]

Shannon,
Like you, I went to East Africa (Kenya) last year and it changed my life. As I rode through the streets of Nairobi, Mombassa and Malindi and walked from village to village it struck me that since the end of British colonial rule (1963 for Kenya) the US, Britain and others have sent more than $5 billion in aid to this beautiful country. Yet at the end of the day, it is still one of the most poverty-stricken lands in the world. A land filled with a beautiful, loving people that stole my heart. I realized that the only hope thes precious people have is the same hope we all have and that is hope in our Savior and Lord, Jesus Christ. I am looking forward to my next trip and your post reminded me, that we go because He came!

[Mel]

Beautiful post!!

[Nell @ Casual Friday Everyday]

I pray one day I can make it on a trip like that. I know it'll be terribly painful for this sensitive soul of mine but it'll be good for it too. I really want to help do God's work in whatever way he decides he can use me.

Nell

[sandy]

A beautiful post on love. Thank you for sharing, Shannon.
Happy Valentine's Day!

[Amy @ Cheeky Cocoa Beans]

Beautiful! Thank you for reposting this! I'm going to link to this post from my blog.

[Sarah (GenMom)]

Thank you for sharing. Looking over the Blissdom posts, I see time and time again people referring to you as their mentor and I see it in your desire to serve the Lord, to help others through wisdom and patience.

I really enjoyed getting to know you better on this trip - over Mexican burritos nonetheless. Even with my little children's book where you helped me focus the topic quickly into one sentence, you are an inspiration and an amazing woman with a real heart for service and blessing others.

Thank you for being you! Have a wonderful Sunday!

[Eight Women Dream]

I am interested in how this has experience changed you and what perspective you can give on it now. How you view the world now, how you view America.

[Kara-Noel]

I just love compassion! We will get the opportunity to sponsor another child with our tax refund!