Searching for “So That”

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If we are honest with ourselves, our true motives for our actions are sometimes difficult to fully understand and appreciate.  For those (like me) who are quite adept at rationalization, this task becomes even more difficult.  If it is this difficult to identify our own motives, then surely ascertaining and articulating the motives of other people behind their actions must be particularly perilous, especially when the actions others are engaging in are equally explainable by either laudable or lamentable motives.

As I pondered in my prior post, the actions of Westerners in Africa (and other developing nations), even when driven by indisputably admirable motives, can (i) detrimentally impact both the short-term wellbeing of those the actions were designed to help, and (ii) impede the long-term development of a country.  So when, for example, Westerners send money to African orphanages, there is no legitimate dispute about the sincere desire to help.  No one questions the motives of those involved; only the impact is questioned.

With respect to international adoption, however, I am increasingly hearing critics question (to put it charitably) the motives of Western (both American and European) families who come to Uganda and seek to be granted legal guardianship of orphan children.  (Under Ugandan law, these children cannot be adopted in Uganda until the children have been foster parented in Uganda for three years first.  Accordingly, after being granted a legal guardianship by the Ugandan courts, these families are permitted to obtain a visa from the US Embassy, which enables them to emigrate to the United States, and then (and only then) adopt the child in their home state).  Legitimate questions have been (and are being) raised about the true orphan status of some (critics say many/most) of the children who are made available for legal guardianship by orphanages and families.  Much more can and should be done on the front end to ascertain the true orphan status of these children before the families come to Uganda and become attached to the children.

But some (many?) critics of international adoption are not content to offer fair caution and criticism about the process.  Instead the motives of the Western families are being seriously questioned in an effort to discredit the entire enterprise.  At public meetings (as opposed to private conversations), opponents of international adoption are asserting that American families are coming to get “their black baby” because it is “fashionable” to have an interracial family.  As I previously confessed, I have a hard enough time accurately identifying my own motives, let alone of those who I don’t know and have never met.

It is certainly true that international adoptions, including those that result in interracial families, are on the rise.  I have been reliably informed that in Uganda, the number of Americans being granted legal guardianship over Ugandan children has increased fourfold in the past four years, with this year projected to be north of four hundred.  I have also been reliably informed that there are 2.6 million orphans in Uganda, though many, many less than that are in institutional care (orphanages).  The consensus here in Uganda seems to be that recent popular books written by influential evangelical leaders in the United States are contributing to the increase in Americans seeking to adopt internationally.  Books like “Radical” by David Platt are often cited as fueling the “evangelical fervor” for international adoption.  While I don’t know if there are statistics kept on the religious affiliations (or intensities) of those who seek to internationally adopt, my anecdotal observations support the notion that evangelical Christians are disproportionately represented in families seeking to gain legal guardianship of Ugandan orphans.

Furthermore, I do not deny that there is at least some evidence that the willingness of American families to pay American adoption agencies, who partner with (or, in some cases, seemingly establish and operate) Ugandan orphanages, creates incentives for Ugandan children to be matched with American families before sufficient orphan-status investigations and attempts to resettle the children can be completed.  While the amount of money American families are being charged can easily be absorbed by many of these families, this amount of money often dwarfs the typical wages Ugandans otherwise earn.  Consequently, the opportunity certainly exists for unscrupulous individuals to make a substantial amount of money (relative to other Ugandans) by being involved in the adoption pipeline.

I am heartened that Ugandan authorities are increasingly focusing on the potential (and real) abuses inherent in this system.  It is not at all clear, however, whether those who want it cleaned up will prevail over those who, for philosophical reasons, simply want it shut down.

None of this, however, supports the notion that the motives of American families are questionable.  If, in fact, the writings of Platt and others are prompting American evangelicals to decide that they have room in their families and their budgets for one (or three) more children who are languishing in deplorable conditions in developing countries, then this strongly suggests that their motives are pure.  I will admit that there is a deep and cynical part of my soul that allows for the possibility that not everyone who seeks to internationally adopt is driven by a sincere desire to open their families to the less fortunate.  Unless demonstrated otherwise, however, I will not question the motives of these families, but will instead offer a tool that can be used by all of us to assist in ascertaining our own motives.  This tool is simply asking the “so that” question until the answer to the next “so that” question is the same as the prior one.

Let me illustrate how this “so that” tool works by using an example that is getting lots of play in the New York Times and in the legal community right now.  The cost of legal education, when compared to the prospects of legal employment on the other side of law school, is causing many potential law students to rethink whether they should go to law school.  It seems to me that there is a relatively easy way for law students to make this decision – simply answer the question of why they want to be a lawyer.  One strand could go like this: So that I can get a job at a big firm.  Why?  So that I can make a large salary.  Why?  So that I can a can buy a big house and drive a nice car.  Why?  So that I can be seen as successful.  Why?  So that people will respect me.  Why?  So that I can feel good about myself and make my parents proud.  Why?  So that I can feel good about myself and make my parents proud.  OK, so this is the end of this “so that” strand.  One can then discount the risk of this “so that” strand playing out and compare that outcome to the cost of legal education and then make a decision.

But another strand could go like this: So that I can become a lawyer.  Why?  So that I can represent individuals who are overwhelmed by a process they cannot navigate or understand.  Why?  So that their suffering can be relieved.  Why?  So that they can be freed to reach their potential.  Why?  So they know that they are valuable and worthy of other people’s love.  Why?  So they can get a glimpse of God’s presence in their lives and in this world.  Why? So they can get a glimpse of God’s presence in their lives and in this world.  OK, so this is the end of this other “so that” strand, which can then be assessed against the cost of legal education.  If students can make more money going to business school, but cannot fulfill what they discern to be God’s purpose for their lives, then law school will be the choice rather than business school.

Granted, nothing in life is ever as easy as a simply illustration, but this “so that” tool can be applied to all aspects of life.  Why am I exercising today?  Why am I taking my children to church?  Why am I living in Uganda for six months?

Likewise, why am I traveling to Uganda in an effort to bring a child into my family?  If it is so that I can provide a home for an orphan who has never had one, so that I can give love to a child of God who has never experienced it, so that this child can catch a glimpse of what the relationship between God and his children is like, then God bless you.  If, however, if it is so that I can be like those down the street who adopted a child from Ethiopia, so that others will see me as progressive or fashionable, so that I will be respected and admired by men and women in the community, then please rethink your decision before you come here

That’s about all I have to say about (so) that.

Are We Really Helping?

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Over the course of my time here in Africa, I have had numerous discussions with others about whether the money and services being provided by Americans (and other Westerners) are actually helping – or hurting – countries like Uganda.  In other words, does the constant flow of financial and developmental assistance to third-world countries operate as a helping hand to lift them out of poverty, or does this assistance actually have the opposite effect of creating a culture of dependence and national sense of an inability to function independently.

President Paul Kagame of Rwanda, generally thought of as a forward-thinking innovator who has helped Rwanda emerge from its darkest genocide days in the early 1990s into one of the brighter lights of Africa, is a frequent encourager of Africa reducing its dependence on Western aid and the services provided by Western NGOs (non-governmental organizations).  To be clear, he is not at all ungrateful for the support Rwanda and other African countries have received (and continue to receive).  His point is simply that African sovereignty depends upon sustainability and self-reliance, and that Africa needs to always be on the pathway toward independence.

There is, of course, no question that much of what the West has done for Africa has been very good.  For example, it is undisputed that the AIDS epidemic in Africa has been contained by assistance from the West.  Had the billions and billions spent been withheld, the devastation would have been infinitely more severe.  But other programs and expenditures leave the question more open to debate.

I will confess to wondering myself whether some of the work I have been involved in is actually helping as much as I would like to believe.  For instance, when a group of American lawyers descend upon a children’s prison and prepare their cases for resolution so the children can gain access to justice, this feels like a really good thing, and it is.  But if this act then causes the Ugandan government not to provide such services in the future because they believe Americans will keep coming back, then it can actually serve as a long-term detriment.  Accordingly, we are being as careful as possible to integrate Ugandan lawyers into these projects and we are attempting to change structures, rather than fix immediate problems.  Time will tell if these restructuring plans hold.

The challenges that can be encountered when Americans with the purest of motives are not careful when trying to help were starkly illustrated in the past couple of days.  Earlier this week, the Ugandan government closed down an “institution” that was apparently masquerading as an “orphanage.”  Those running this “orphanage” have been arrested and charged with a whole host of fraud and child neglect crimes.  The authorities are alleging this “orphanage” was funded by a civic organization in the United States, which thought it was sponsoring needy children – providing them food, shelter, and education.  Apparently, however, the children were actually not orphans, not really getting any schooling, and living in squalor (the pictures and video were quite disturbing).  In contrast, the individuals who were running this “institution” were apparently living like kings on the $35 per child per month they were receiving.  (Reportedly, most of these children were taken back to their families within hours of the raid, who professed shock and disbelief that their children had not been at a boarding school).  The allegations are that the American civic organization was duped by the Ugandan “orphanage” leaders into believing that it was supporting children in need.  Apparently photographs and descriptions were sent that were completely fabricated.  Supposedly, a member or two from the American civic organization came to Uganda within the past six months, but never actually visited the location in question.  Once again, these are the facts as alleged, which may or may not be ultimately proven.  The government (and others who have lived here in Uganda for quite some time) have no doubts that this is not an isolated incidence of unsuspecting Westerners unwittingly supporting “orphanages” that do much more harm than good.

In contrast to this, earlier this week I met with two pastors from an American church who had just flown into Uganda the day before, and who were flying back home the next day.  They were here to meet with the leaders of the sponsorship program in which many of the church’s members participated.  They met with the leaders of the program, the teachers in the school, and the kids themselves in order to ensure that the money being sent was (i) being used by its recipients to accomplish its intended purpose, and (ii) not doing more harm than good.  Fortunately, they found precisely what they hoped to find, perhaps in no small part because those to whom the money was being sent knew they would be held accountable.  Not only was their money being used in the ways represented to the donors, but this support was also revitalizing the surrounding community by providing jobs for those who were serving and teaching the children.

The contrast between these two scenarios could not be more apparent.  In both cases, there were American families who sincerely wanted to help impoverished children in need of food, shelter, and an education.  In one case, there was a lack of follow up and accountability.  Not only was the money being diverted from its intended purpose, but the fact that money was being sent affirmatively harmed those it targeted – children.  Children were (apparently) taken from their homes and used as tools to enrich unscrupulous people.  In the other case, representatives of those sending money took affirmative steps to ensure that the money was being properly used – to hold the recipients accountable.

I am by no means the first person to issue a word of caution about ensuring that money given for laudable reasons is not actually causing harm – the book “When Helping Hurts” comes to mind.  And I am certainly not an authority on this subject.  But living in Africa exposes one to the harsh realities of this more readily than living in the United States.

In fact, just last evening, I was talking with a friend I have gotten to know fairly well since arriving in Africa.  We were chatting about the differences between street children in Jinja versus street children in Kampala.  We both have a sincere faith and a desire to follow the teachings of Jesus, which includes caring for those in desperate need.  (Though she is younger than I, her life demonstrates a firm understanding of this better than mine does).  I was telling her about my internal struggle every time a child, pregnant mother, or mother holding a small child comes up to our car window to beg at an intersection.  The traffic here is so congested, motorists are constantly harassed by those who seem to be in dire need of food and money.  Aren’t these children and mothers “the least of these” Jesus instructs us to help?  Don’t I have the means to help?  Aren’t I being selfish or self-righteous (even judgmental) if I refuse to help?  On the other hand, doesn’t Jesus also instruct us to be wise and shrewd?

What would Jesus do?

I firmly believe he would instruct us to help.  Perhaps he would want us to provide immediate relief to those in need and leave the judging to him.  I don’t know for sure, but I think, however, he would want us to help in ways that actually help, rather than prolong or exacerbate the pain.  I think he would have us consider both the immediate and long-term consequences of our actions.  And I think he would encourage us to take steps to ensure what we gave was being used to help those it was designed to help.

So what is my point?  Simply this – it seems to me we are called upon to act on the instinct to help, but also to take steps to ensure what we are doing is actually helping.  We should partner with organizations (like World Vision and others) where there are no doubts about how our money is being used.  In the alternative, we should recognize and accept the responsibility to verify how our funds are being used when our giving creates risks of abuse and harm to those we seek to help.

I Refuse

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Sometimes a song expresses what you are feeling better than you could.  Check out these song lyrics from “I Refuse” by Josh Wilson and you will get an idea of what I am feeling.

Sometimes I

I just want to close my eyes

And act like everyone’s alright

When I know they’re not

This world needs God

But it’s easier to stand and watch

I could say a prayer and just move on

Like nothing’s wrong

But I refuse

‘Cause I don’t want to live like I don’t care

I don’t want to say another empty prayer

Oh, I refuse

To sit around and wait for someone else

To do what God has called me to do myself

Oh, I could choose

Not to move but I refuse

I can hear the least of these

Crying out so desperately

And I know we are the hands and feet

Of You, oh God

So, if You say move

It’s time for me to follow through

And do what I was made to do

Show them who You are

‘Cause I don’t want to live like I don’t care

I don’t want to say another empty prayer

Oh, I refuse

To sit around and wait for someone else

To do what God has called me to do myself

Oh, I could choose

Not to move but I refuse

To stand and watch the weary and lost

Cry out for help

I refuse to turn my back

And try and act like all is well

I refuse to stay unchanged

To wait another day, to die to myself

I refuse to make one more excuse

‘Cause I don’t want to live like I don’t care

I don’t want to say another empty prayer

Oh, I refuse

To sit around and wait for someone else

To do what God has called me to do myself

Oh, I could choose

 Not to move but I refuse

I refuse

I refuse

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and we have taken at least a thousand photos in Uganda, but we can’t share them all.  So here is a video of a small collection of our photos, with the song “I Refuse” by Josh Wilson.

I hope this gives you a sense of what we are experiencing.

http://animoto.com/play/ykvxqTkA6rBcALTWLWFJjQ

Give it up!

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Hello again, readers. I know I haven’t posted in a while; not since I was eleven. Oh, ya. I had a birthday! I’ve been twelve for almost a month, actually. Anyway, today I want to share something really important with you. And that’s the idea of giving generously.  2 Corinthians 8:2 says: Out of the most severe trial, their overflowing joy and extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity. A few weeks ago, I met a girl named Joann at church. I met her when the pastor asked everyone to find a partner and ask them what they wanted you to pray about with them. After that, you got to pray with them. Now, as most of you know, I’m not shy when it comes to meeting new people. But praying with them? That one isn’t quite as easy. Especially when they’re not always praying in English. The first thing I did was turn to my dad. I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to pray with a Ugandan, but I was so wrong. Just then, as if he heard my thoughts, the pastor said, “Not just the person next to you. Find someone that you don’t know.” That was one of those “Really??” moments when I was like, “Okay, God. You want me to meet someone new. I’ll meet someone new. So I turned around and behind me was Joann. She looked to be about thirteen, but after talking with her a while, I found out she was 16 and going to turn 17 in the same week Jessica was. I thought that was pretty cool. We prayed together for a while, and then I went back to my seat. She motioned for me to come sit next to her, and I did. I found out that she came to church with her little sister almost every week. No mother or father was with her. I brought my bible with me, and she started looking at it. I showed her where it had my name engraved on it. She looked through it and I told her why some of the words were red. They were the teachings of Jesus. I asked her if she had a bible, and she shook her head no. My first thought was, “Give Joann the bible.” It seemed like the sort of thing Bob Goff would do. My second and third thoughts were, “No way. This is my bible. It’s been to so many different countries with me, and that was the bible I read when I was thinking about baptism.” And then, “It has my name on it. What would she do with a bible that said Jennifer Gash on the cover?” Was that selfish? Me not giving her my bible? God says that we should give with a grateful heart, and I didn’t. It’s not that my heart wasn’t grateful; I just didn’t give. Flash-forward to a few weeks later. We were doing health screenings at a place called Luzira. Not the prison, Luzira, the community. The first day, there was a group of girls giggling and constantly coming over to speak with the man that was helping me with registration.  One of the girls had on a navy blue windbreaker, even though it was hot outside. They called him Uncle Savoi. (Pronounced like Savior but without the r on the end. The next day, we came back to do more health screenings. The same girls were still crowding him. Later, I got a chance to talk to them. The girl in the windbreaker was named Grace. She was just so nice, one of the only girls brave enough to ask me questions like, “What classes do you take in school?” She was in P7 (seventh grade) and REALLY tall. For a Ugandan, at least.  Grace wanted to be a lawyer when she grew up. I played games with the girls and boys there, like their own version of hopscotch. I lost every game and they would just crack up. At the end of the day, I wanted to buy some gum from the “convenience store” on the corner. Grace was there, too. She asked me if I liked biscuits, and I said yes, thinking this was another one of her questions, but it turned out to be more than that. Grace bought a biscuit and took it out of the bag. She broke it and held out half to me. Thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes. That was all she had for that day. She used her pocket money to buy something to share with me. We shouldn’t be selfish with our giving, because it is all to God. Every last cookie crumb is for God.

Thanks, Jennifer

 

Tools

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Have you ever met someone who was such a tool it’s not even funny? I got to meet 2 huge tools on this trip to Uganda. But these guys were tools for God. They have completely blessed my life and changed me in ways I’m not sure they even know about. The first was Steve. Steve connected us with our twin family. I saw him for the first time in an airport in New York. He came up to our family and said “I didn’t expect to see you guys here!” I privately thought, “I never expected to see you ever, crazy stranger.” But then he quickly introduced himself, and I got to take a good look at the man that introduced us to our twin family, support group, and mission team. The second man was Dr. Andrew. If you’ve read my earlier post or know me well, you know that I had an irrational fear of needles to the point of my knees going weak by being in the same room as one. But what I don’t think any of you know is that I’ve wanted to be an ICU nurse since I was 12. Joshua ended up in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit after an ear surgery where his brain sac got nicked. I walked into the room to visit him, and was so impressed and in awe of the nurses working there. I thought, “This is what I want to do.” But I quickly put it out of my mind because of my crippling fear of the tools I would have to use to make that dream happen. 4 years later, I had my first day of clinic work. Jake and I started in the lab with Dr. Andrew. Since Jake knew how to check for malaria under a microscope and I didn’t, Dr. Andrew decided to teach me how to draw blood. That day, Dr. Andrew opened a door for me that I had thought I had sufficiently padlocked shut. That was about 3 months ago. Since then, I have found I have a passion for medical work, especially in the pharmacy where I get to learn about all the different medicines and their doses. I’m not sure yet if I’m going to go to medical school or go to nursing school to follow my 12 year old dream, but I do know that the medical mission field is where I belong. God has given me so much on this trip, and I want to give back to Him through service in something that I absolutely love.

A couple days ago, Jake and I had a bit of a flashback. We were back in the lab, with Dr. Andrew. Except a few things were different. For one thing, Jake and I had lost about 50 pounds  between us (and that’s not an exaggeration). Second, our amazing teacher got to watch us use the skills he had taught us 3 months ago. And we needed them. We were taking finger pricks to test for HIV. Not too bad right? It’s at least easier than a syringe. Except our patients were all 3 and under. Some Ugandan children were so still and silent during the entire procedure that I was actually a little bit concerned. Others acted more like American children. Meaning they acted like I was trying to remove their fingers with a cigar cutter. For the squirmy children, I would sit them down in my lap and use one arm to pin them still, and the other hand to hold the finger and pump the blood while Jake pricked them and tried to drip a few drops of blood onto the test strip. After getting peed on 3 times and having heard screams that would curdle powdered milk, we were finally finished. We had one positive. But Dr. Andrew re-reminded us that we can’t look at this as a terrible thing. We have to have the hearts of doctors. We have to look at it not as a little girl having a terrible disease, but as a little girl finally finding out what’s wrong with her. We have to see it as us giving her not bad news, but hope, since it was caught so early.

It’s hard though. You give someone a life sentence, and there’s nothing you can do. What has really helped me is the Serenity Prayer my grandmother taught me when I was a little girl and stressed about life. The first line is “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.” There are some things we cannot change. Those are the things we have to give to God, or at the very least, beg that He take from us. This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but it’s something we all have to do. If there’s anything I’ve learned from the death I’ve seen both here and at home in America, it’s that we will destroy ourselves wondering what we could have and should have done, when there is absolutely nothing we can do. God is big enough for these problems, but we are not. Please today try to give one thing to God and accept what you cannot change.

3 months ago

 

A few days ago

 

Caring For, Rather Than Caring About

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Caring about those in need is good.  Caring for those in need is better.  Why did it take me so long to understand and act on this?

Neither Joline nor I had ever been on a “mission trip” until we were in our forties.  My first such endeavor was coming to Uganda in January of 2010.  Recognizing that if I could do it, so could she, Joline (accompanied by Jessica) went to Honduras six months later.

Looking back on why we waited so long to get personally involved in missions work, Joline and have been able to identify plenty of excuses.  We both came from families of limited means – my parents were both public school teachers and there were four kids to feed and clothe, and things were even tighter for Joline’s family with seven kids at various times living under the roof of her blended family.  We were both involved in sports and we (well, at least Joline) took our studies very seriously.  Additionally, growing up, our worlds were quite small.  We could recognize third world countries on maps, but had little information about them and no one we knew was going there.  Our experiences were limited to periodic reports from the few missionaries our small church supported.  Both of us cared about the suffering and oppressed around the world.  We had contributed over the years to various mission-related organizations and groups and are sponsoring a child through World Vision.  This support is, of course, critical to the whole mission enterprise, and I don’t at all want to diminish its importance.  Indeed, providing financial resources can make a huge difference in the lives of the recipients, as my former student Holly proved by organizing a crew of people to bless Henry’s family as I posted about here.

But we had done virtually nothing to care for those in need in person.

When we were praying about whether we would respond to what we believed to be the recent call to Africa, we gradually came to the realization that perhaps this call was more about our children than it was about us.  We ultimately concluded that it was time for us to move beyond caring about and get to caring for.

This distinction had been brought home to me in a different context early in my teaching career.  Ken Elzinga, a renowned economics professor at the University of Virginia, had visited Pepperdine and delivered a series of lectures about what he thought it meant to be a Christian professor.  One of the points he made irrevocably changed me from that moment forward.  When students come to your office with challenging life problems, he implored the audience of professors, don’t just tell them you will pray for them.  Instead, take the opportunity (and the risk) and ask them if you can pray with them, right then and there, he encouraged.  In other words, be present with them in their pain and struggles, rather than caring about them from a distance.  Since then, I have endeavored to pray with my students whenever the opportunity arises.

Our time in Africa has been deeply impacting for Joline and me; it has been life changing for our children.  They are not hearing and praying about abandoned orphans and lonely widows.  They are holding them, singing to them, praying with them.

Joshua and Jennifer with a Widow

Jennifer at an Orphanage

Jessica in the Clinic

 

This experience is transformative.  Some of the changes are immediately noticeable, but I am confident that most of the impact is yet to be fully understood.  For example, this experience has already altered Jessica’s life and career trajectory.  She has now resolved to be a medical provider on an international level.  She is already researching medical schools and their programs for after she graduates from Pepperdine (more than five years from now).  She is in her element with the sick and hurting, and embraces opportunities to get into the middle of their suffering in an effort to provide relief.

One of the events God used to start working on my heart was a visit to Pepperdine by Baroness Caroline Cox, a member of the British House of Lords who is one of the leading humanitarians of this generation.  One of our students asked her whether it is better to visit the oppressed around the world or to instead send the money it would have cost to visit in person.  Her response made a significant impact me and prepared me to heed the call to Africa when it came at the end of a Bob Goff speech in 2009:

“Please go.  The fact that you visit . . . will be a great comfort for those people you do visit, because the kind of people we have been talking about, they often feel forgotten . . . and the fact that you care enough to go will be a blessing to them.  You don’t necessarily have to take anything specific in terms of professional skills.  The fact that you are there will mean a lot to them – you care enough to leave your comfort zone, you care enough to go.  And when you come back, you’ll be able to be an advocate for them . . .  Other opportunities will open up which will show you your way forward through whatever door God may want you to go through in your life . . . When you come back, you’re going to have a massive ripple effect.”

I have been privileged to see this modeled in several individuals who have become heros to me, three of whom have written books about how God whispered (or yelled) to them to become involved.  While I have only read one of these books, I highly recommend all three.  The first is “Kisses from Katie.”

Kisses from Katie

I have written about Katie Davis previously and have very much enjoyed the opportunity to get to know her here in Uganda.  She is a remarkable young woman and her book is about how and why she ended up moving to Uganda at the age of 19, and how and why a few years later she is the mother to 13 girls and the director of a huge ministry serving a large portion of a poor, rural area in Uganda.

The second is “Love Does” by Bob Goff.

Love Does

This book was just released in the United States two weeks ago, but doesn’t come out on Kindle or Audiobooks until May 1.  I am positively jealous of my friends who have already read this book.  As I have written about previously, Bob is the person most directly responsible for the Gashes moving to Uganda.  The reviews are uniformly favorable for this inspiring book about love in action.

The third is “Go and Do” by Jay Milbrandt.

Go and Do

Jay’s book was also released in the United States earlier this month, but just came out on Kindle yesterday.  I have downloaded it and have already begun to dig into it.  As detailed in Chapter 14 of Jay’s book, Jay was integrally involved in convincing me to come to Uganda in January of 2010.  Chapter 14 also provides an overview of how and when Henry and I met and kindly alludes to the book Henry and I are writing about how our lives providentially collided.

In addition to these three members of my cloud of witnesses, I am also encouraged and inspired by the Gregston family (our Twin Family) as they continue to travel around Uganda providing medical care to those who otherwise have no access to it.  They have been “adopting” various children with serious medical needs along the way and arranging for life-saving treatments and operations that would otherwise be out of reach to them.  I encourage you to follow along with their blog here if you are not already doing so.

I have also been regularly inspired by my students at Pepperdine, many of who travel around the world to serve those in need.  Equally inspiring, however, are the students who regularly feed the day laborers at the Malibu Labor Exchange, who drive down to skid row in Los Angeles to assist the homeless in various endeavors at Pepperdine’s legal clinic at the Union Rescue Mission, and who visit incarcerated youths at a local detention center.

It is self-evident that there are innumerable opportunities, locally and internationally, to care for those in need.  I have come to the realization that simply caring about them isn’t enough anymore.

Jina lako?

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“Jina lako?”  “What is your name?”  I repeated this Swahili phrase 33 times today as I met the boys and girls in the Ihungu Remand Home in Masindi (about 3 – 4 hours from Kampala, depending on traffic).  Because these teen prisoners have come from different parts of Uganda and speak a variety of languages, Swahili is the language that most of them have in common.  My task was to write down their name with a marker on a piece of paper that they could hold up as a name tag of sorts, while I took their photo.  One by one, they were released from the custody (prison dorm) so I could meet them.  Most of them knelt down in front of me as a sign of respect for authority.  I would shake their hand and encourage them to stand up so they could help me write their name (both African and Christian name) on the paper.  It was a challenge to spell names like Atugondeza and Owachgiu.  I tried to get them to smile for their photo, but some wouldn’t (I guess I would find it hard to smile if I were locked up).  Then, one by one, they would walk over to the tree under which Jim was waiting to interview them.  Today his task was to get basic information about them (name, age, date of arrest, charges, date of arrival at Ihungu, etc.).  In late June, Jim and a team of Pepperdine law students and lawyers, and Ugandan lawyers will come back to prepare their cases to go before the judge.  Some of these teenagers have only been waiting there a week, but others have been waiting two years to see a judge.  Ugandan law says that juveniles must not wait more than six months after arrest to see a judge, so these kids have been waiting too long already.

Ihungu Remand Home Custody (dormitory)

It was surreal to see Henry translating for Jim as he interviewed the prisoners.  It was a little over two years ago that Henry was doing the same translating for Jim with different group of prisoners at Ihungu, but at that time Henry was also a prisoner.  Praise God that justice was served and Henry was found innocent of the charges that initially put him in Ihungu, where he waited almost two years.  For almost two years now, he has been a free young man and has been able to continue his secondary studies in preparation for medical school.  Henry will be a fantastic doctor.  He will show his patients the same compassion he showed the prisoners he helped.  Today he was so encouraging to them and prayed a beautiful prayer for them before we left Ihungu.

Henry translating for Jim during interview with prisoner

Out in Namutamba (a town a couple of hours from Kampala), school children were being asked the same question I asked, “What is your name” but in Luganda it is “Erinnya lyo ggwe ani?”  The Gregston family and Jessica are staying in Namutamba, doing health screenings for three days.  The doctors saw over 200 kids today, so Jessica was kept busy, working in the pharmacy.  She has found that medical mission work is what she loves.

Jessica working at previous clinic pharmacy

Back in Kampala, Joshua and Jennifer were spending the day with Lindsey and Eden Doyle at our apartment, playing and swimming.  Today was Eden’s last day in Uganda, before heading to the U.S. tonight for the first time to meet the rest of her new family.  Eden’s adoption has been a very long process, with many ups and downs.  You can read the Doyle family’s blog at:  www.doyleadoption.wordpress.com.  We have been blessed by this family and by getting to know Eden.  Jim and I returned home tonight from Masindi just in time to say goodbye.  Before Lindsey and Eden got into the car to take them to the airport, our family gathered around them and I prayed for them.  My heart overflowed with joyful tears as we praised God for Eden and for her new family.  Eden is such a blessing.  But when she was born, her uncle named her Pichan (which means cursed).  It is hard to believe that someone would give a baby that name, but later the nurses caring for her gave her the new name Eden Hannah (which means delight and grace) and God has given her a new family who loves her and knows that she is God’s blessing to them.  Incidentally, Eden was born in Masindi, the town where Jim and I spent our day.

Joshua & Jennifer with Lindsey & Eden

As I sit at my computer, after everyone else has gone to bed, I am trying to wrap my brain around today.  But I can’t.  God has done “immeasureably more than we could ask or imagine.”  He just blows me away.  He rescued Henry.  He rescued Eden.  He rescued our family.  He has given us new names.  Henry’s name has changed from “prisoner” to “future doctor.”  Eden’s name has changed from “cursed” to “delight.”  I do not know our new names yet, but I know we have been changed.

I Hoped I Would Never Come Back

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Joline, Henry, and I awoke early Monday morning and set off north to Masindi with my court-assigned driver, Michael.  Our destination – the Ihungu Remand Home just outside of Masindi.  Masindi is a mid-sized town three hours north of Kampala and one hour east of Henry’s home town of Hoima.  Masindi once bustled with activity when the railroads were running, but it has now returned to being a relatively sleepy town in the center of Uganda.

This town will, however, always hold a special place in my heart, as it was the first town in Uganda I spent any amount of time in.  It is also the town where I met Henry.  I was a wide-eyed professor on a do-gooder tourist trip, and Henry was the hope-depleted Prime Minister (designated “Katikiro”) of the Ihungu Remand Home – the head prisoner of the 21 inmates at this juvenile detention center where juveniles are kept who are awaiting trial.  As I have written about before, Henry and I believe that our friendship was God ordained and meant to be for a lifetime.  I can say without hesitation or equivocation that if I had not met Henry on my first trip to Uganda in January of 2010, I would not be living in Uganda today.

So why, two days after Henry completed his first term at the top A-level program in the country, would we be returning to this prison?  Shortly after we arrived at Ihungu, Henry somberly declared, “I hoped I would never come back to this place.”  So why did we come back?

About a month ago, I was in Masindi (in conjunction with the Doyle legal guardianship matter I wrote about yesterday).  While there, I tracked down the probation officer/warden of Ihungu, whom we affectionately call “Mr. William.”  Mr. William and I had gotten to be close in 2010 because we shared something in common – a deep affection for, and an abiding belief in, Henry.  Mr. William told me that the inmate population of Ihungu had swollen to 33.  When the Pepperdine team of lawyers descended upon Ihungu in 2010, the prison had been at capacity with 21 inmates.  Accordingly, over the past few weeks, I had cleared my schedule and made arrangements to visit Ihungu to take an inventory of the types of cases that were there and how long the children had been imprisoned while awaiting trial.  Last week, I spoke with the High Court Judge assigned district and received his blessing and encouragement to figure out how to get these cases moved through the system.

During an earlier conversation with Henry, he had volunteered to help in my juvenile justice work if ever an opportunity arose.  Henry speaks five languages fluently and can manage his way through two more.  He also knows exactly what it is like to languish in a prison, clinging only to his Bible and his belief in God’s deliverance to those who wait for it.  Accordingly, when I asked Henry last week if he would be interested in joining me at Ihungu to meet with the prisoners, he didn’t hesitate get involved.  He remembered vividly the day with Bob Goff and John Niemeyer came to Ihungu in the late fall of 2009 and announced to the prisoners they would return with a team of lawyers to help the children get access to justice.  He remembered just how much hope that visit brought and the impact it had on the prisoners’ morale.  He wanted to be part of it this time.

When we arrived in Masindi, we went straight to The Masindi Hotel where I had spent numerous late evenings and early mornings with other lawyers preparing the prisoners’ cases for trial.  I wanted to see whether the hotel was already booked during the time the next team of American and Ugandan lawyers would descend upon Masindi to dedicate five tiring days and sleepless nights preparing cases for trial.  Fortunately, the coast is clear for June 15-22, the likely dates of The Masindi Project II.  Since Joline had heard all about The Masindi Hotel and seen lots of pictures of the “war room” we created, we wandered around for a little while and took some pictures.  From there, we met up with Mr. William.  He and Henry exchanged warm hugs and were genuinely happy to see each other.  Mr. William jumped into our car and we all bumped and bounced out the horrible road to Ihungu.  Joline and I watched Henry closely as we arrived, hoping to catch a glimpse of the emotions he was experiencing.  It had been almost exactly two years since Henry was released and he had never been back.

“It is somehow different,” he said softly as the makeshift soccer field came into view.  The goalposts were gone that Henry had himself made from tree branches and nails he removed from the roof of the one-room warehouse he had called home for nearly two years.  In its place were a few cinder blocks.  Also missing from the field was the stone outhouse that had previously been in the field of play.  “It fell down about a year ago,” explained Mr. William in response to my inquiry.  As we turned the corner and the three stone buildings that made up Ihungu came into view, Henry gave a very Ugandan “Eh!” as he saw that other things had changed also, but much had stayed the same.  The maize (corn) plants had been cleared and a relatively fresh coat of paint had been applied to the building where the boys lived, but the rest of the structures were continuing to crumble and deteriorate.  Another thing I immediately noticed was that the distinctive, foreboding wooden door to the boys’ building that had figured so prominently in many of our initial pictures had been removed and replaced.  (More on that delightfully Bob Goff story in a later post).

Some of the male inmates were milling around outside in filthy, tattered, mismatched clothing as they cooked their morning porridge in the outdoor “kitchen.”  (The inmates at the Naguru Remand Home in Kampala wear clean uniforms).

Cooking in the "Kitchen"

Most of them stopped what they were doing and stared at us as we exited the vehicle.  Since we were with Mr. William, they must have known we were authorized to be there.  Joline and I slowly exited the vehicle and got her camera and my computer out.  I pointed out a few things to her from next to the car and then we looked around for Henry – he had been right next to us when we got out, but had disappeared.  We eventually found him with a group of prisoners, shaking their hands and introducing himself to them in their local languages.  After Joline I met several of the prisoners,, Mr. William retrieved the two girl prisoners and led us all into the boys’ building.

The boys’ building is about fifty feet long and twenty feet wide.  The floors and walls are concrete slabs and there are no windows, only small bar-filled rectangles on the walls near the twelve-foot high ceiling.  These rectangular holes have no screens, however, so the malaria-laden mosquitos have ready access to the prisoners.

Mr. William interpreted as I introduced myself, Joline, Michael, and Henry.

Talking to prisoners at Ihungu

The inmates seemed dutifully impressed that Henry had been Katikiro (Prime Minister) for almost two years and had left Ihungu two years earlier and was now back in school.  I explained that I had come with other lawyers two years ago and that I would be back with more lawyers in less than two months.  I described for them the information that we would be gathering on this visit and then what we would be doing when we returned.  They expressed their appreciation through a hand-clap pattern they all did in unison (they do this same thing at the Naguru Remand Home).

As we set up plastic chairs under the same tree that Henry and I had spent five days under more than two years ago, with him interpreting as I (and other lawyers) had interviewed Henry and his fellow inmates, Henry and I had a quiet moment.  “I hoped I would never come back to this place,” he said.  After a pause, though, he added, “I am glad I am here to help you.”

As we got started, Michael drove Mr. William back to town.  Starting with the two girls, we set up an assembly line, of sorts.  Joline wrote their names in large letters on a piece of paper and took a picture of them holding up their names, then escorted them to the chairs under the tree.  With Henry interpreting, I interviewed them and gathered some basic information – age, education level, crime charged, date and location of arrest, and date of arrival at Ihungu.  We also asked their favorite football (soccer) team – Manchester United handily beat Arsenal.

Midway through, Michael arrived back at Ihungu and he and Henry took turns interpreting.

Henry and Michael Interpreting

Michael has become more than a driver – he is a friend, and he relished the chance to participate in helping these children gain their freedom.  When all was said and done, we had a handful of murder cases, a handful of theft cases, and the rest were defilement (unlawful sex with a minor).  One had been at Ihungu for just over a week, a few had been there two years, and the rest were scattered in between.  To a person, they were exceedingly grateful to us for coming.  After we finished the interviews, which took a little less than three hours, we all gathered in the boys’ building again.  Before we said our goodbyes, Henry said a beautiful and moving prayer, asking God to protect and comfort the children while they waited for justice, and to forgive all of us when we fall short.  Another unison handclap from the grateful prisoners.

When we got outside, one of Henry’s fellow inmates from two years ago (Jabel) had arrived – Henry had told him we were coming.

Jim, Jabel, Mr. William, and Henry after lunch

They had an emotional reunion – they had been close and had been together for almost two years in Ihungu, with Jabel serving as Henry’s Chairman (#2 in command) during much of Henry’s reign as Katikiro.  From there, we all drove back to The Masindi Hotel for lunch.  I had called one of the prosecuting attorneys in Masindi last week, and he had agreed to meet me for lunch.  So Mr. William (we picked him up in town), the prosecutor, and I ate at one table, while Joline, Michael, Henry, and Jabel ate at the other.

Lunch could not have gone better.  Both Mr. William and the prosecutor fully embraced the idea of copying the pilot program we are running in Kampala and utilizing it in Masindi.  There are still some hoops to jump through to make it happen, but I am optimistic that the 33 inmates at Ihungu will soon be working their way through the justice system.  All in all, it was a great day.  One of the best parts of it was the fact that Joline and I got to work on a project in Africa together, which had not yet happened.

Coming Home . . . for the First Time

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We have been blessed to have Henry with us this weekend after we picked him up from school on Saturday at the end of his first term at the top secondary school in Uganda.  While we don’t have his grades yet, he worked very hard and gave his very best against the top students in the country.  He was near the top of his class on the only paper he has gotten back so far (in Physics).  On Saturday morning, our kids gave Henry a swimming lesson at our pool (he is learning to swim).  On Saturday afternoon, we took him to see the first movie he has ever seen at a theater.  It was supposed to be The Hunger Games, but the theater didn’t get it yet, so we saw Lorax instead.  To call it a poor substitute would be charitable.

Henry at his first movie

If The Hunger Games is not released here next weekend, I’m afraid I will be “forced” to resume my pirating adventures.

Tomorrow, we are getting up early and taking Henry home.  On the way, however, we are going to spend some time in Masindi where Henry and I met — at the juvenile prison where Henry spent nearly two years of his life.  More on that visit in the next day or two.

But today’s post is about a very different homecoming – one that we (and many of you) have been praying about for several weeks.  Tomorrow (Monday), Lindsey Doyle is bringing Eden Hannah home.  I posted about the Doyles previously here.  Briefly, Eden’s birth mother is mentally ill and does not have even a minor grasp on reality.  Eden wasn’t expected to live after she was found, but was nursed back to health by a couple of American nurses before she was matched with the Doyles.  After several weeks in Uganda, the Doyles were granted legal guardianship over baby Eden in November.  Unfortunately, however, the US Embassy in Uganda sent their case to the Nairobi Embassy for further evaluation.  While the matter was pending in Nairobi, the Doyles had to return to Nashville to wait.  Eden was overwhelmed with love and protection by a remarkable family in Jinja while the Doyles waited for a ruling from Nairobi.  Unfortunately, the ruling came back unfavorable – the Nairobi office issued a Notice of Intent to Deny the visa application.  The problem revolved around the language used in the Ugandan judge’s legal guardianship order and its relation to American visa law.  Nothing was intrinsically wrong with the order – it said all of the right things for all of the right reasons – but the mental illness of the mother was not addressed in a way that allowed the US Embassy officials to determine that US laws were met.

Stalemate.

It is very difficult to get a revised ruling in Uganda in the less than a year, if ever.  After lots of prayer and a little well-timed encouragement at a God-orchestrated unofficial meeting, a new order was issued in time to meet the response deadline to the Embassy’s Notice of Intent to Deny.  We were all thrilled when on Monday, the US Embassy changed its position and issued its final decision – VISA APPLICATION GRANTED.

Lots of tears of celebration.

As I write this post, Lindsey and Eden are here at our apartment having a sleepover.

Lindsey and Eden Doyle with Jim

Tomorrow morning, they pick up their visa and tomorrow evening, they fly home to the rest of their family.  Praise God.  Thanks for all of your prayers on their behalf.

But I Don’t Want to be a Pirate

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Before coming to Uganda nearly three months ago, I had no intention of becoming a pirate.

I know pirates.  Some good friends of mine are pirates.  I am no pirate.  Of that, I was sure.  Now, nearly three months into our Ugandan adventure, I think I might be a pirate.

“But I don’t want to be a pirate.”

Those of you who are Seinfeld fans will immediately recognize the quote from the Puffy Shirt episode.  But my desire not to be a pirate has nothing to do with a large white blouse with a ridiculous number of ruffles.

The Puffy Shirt Episode

Let me start at the beginning.  During my first visit to Uganda over two years ago, I was walking through a market area in Kampala with Pepperdine alumnus John Napier and some others.  Someone approached us clandestinely and asked if we wanted to buy a movie.  John brushed him off nicely, and we continued to walk.

“What kind of movies was he trying to sell us?”  I inquired.

“You name it – they have old movies, classics, and movies still in the theater,” he explained.  “They are all pirated, though.  You cannot buy a legitimate movie in this whole country.  They simply don’t sell them.”

Curious, I asked him if he was a pirate.  He laughed and told me that he wrestled with what he would do early on, but had reached a compromise in his own mind after a few months in Uganda.  He would buy the pirated movies, but resolved to legitimize his purchase when he got back to the United States by buying or renting the same movie when he got back.  While it made sense to me, I must confess that the righteously indignant part of me winced a bit about what I perceived to be a healthy dose of rationalization.  I would never be a pirate, I thought, but didn’t say.

Fast forward to three weeks ago.  Joline and I went to see “Seeking Justice” at the local theatre (that’s how they spell it here).  It was a Nicolas Cage flick that was short on plot, long on action.  Afterward, we went to the grocery store to get some stuff before heading home.  Attached to the grocery store is a video store.  It doesn’t hurt to look, right?  In the store were a couple thousand American and Indian movies in what were clearly photocopied DVD jackets.  The disks themselves were blank DVDs with the name of the movie handwritten on them.

“Are these legitimate, legal movies?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” came Pinnochio’s reply.

On the counter was a three-ring binder with photocopied movie jackets in plastic page protectors.  “You have these movies also?” I asked.

“Yes, but they are behind the counter in the drawer.  You can look through the binder and tell me which ones you want,” said the man whose nose by now made Barry Manilow (or Squidward, for SpongeBob fans) look understated.

As I glanced through the binder, I noticed several movies that I really wanted to see, including Act of Valor.  I also noticed that “Seeking Justice” was in there – the movie we had just seen.

“How much for the movies?” I inquired.

“Five Thouthand shillings,” came the reply (that’s how they say thousand).

Two bucks.  My resolve began to weaken, but I caught myself and simply walked away.

One week later, temptation reappeared.  I was at a gas station with my driver when some dude knocked on my window.  I ignored him.  Lots of people knock on my window in Kampala.  They are usually kids with an outstretched arm, open hand, and a sad face.  “Sello.  Mzungu, you give me money,” they demand.  It is really sad, but giving them money guarantees that they will remain on the streets begging.  (I know that this sounds heartless, but I can assure you that we have thought through this thoroughly and are convinced that giving them money will ultimately harm more than help them and others in their position).

But this knock was from an adult, and he looked vaguely familiar.  He held up about twenty movies, and yelled “You want good movie, Mzungu?”  Was this the dude that approached me and Napier a couple years ago?  Couldn’t be, could it?  And yes, the top movie on the pile was . . . Act of Valor.  Against my better judgment, I rolled down my window.  He thrust the movies into my hands.

“How much for ‘Act of Valor?’”

“I give you discount price, Mzungu.  Five thouthand.”

“How do I know that this is a good copy?”

He pointed to the cover where the words “Clear Copy” were printed on the front.

Seeing that I was contemplating the purchase, he dropped the latest “Mission Impossible” onto my lap and said, “you buy this one too and I give you special price – ten thouthand.”

“How is that a special price,” I laughed.  “And this one doesn’t say ‘Clear Copy’ on the front.  Is this a clear copy?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know that?”

“You trust me, Mzungu.”

I almost cracked a rib laughing so hard, but ultimately the art of the deal got the better of me and I bought them both for eight thousand.  Looking back now, I think that was my first toke from the crack pipe.

The next day, I purposely drove to a video store I had seen when I was looking for apartments for the Pepperdine students who are coming to Kampala for the summer.  The store is on a narrow street in what is a poor excuse for a strip mall.  There is parking on the side of the street where the shops are, but not on the other side of the street because the street is otherwise too narrow to allow for traffic.  As I pulled into the only open space, a guy wearing a really baggy canvas orange vest (like the paperboys used to wear) approached me and told me that I would need to pay him to park there.  On his vest was scrawled “Parking Patrol.”  I had seen something similar before, and if it wasn’t legit, it was at least creative.  I gave him one thousand shillings and asked for a receipt.  After he gave me a puzzled look, I told him I was joking and walked into the store.

I will confess to feeling a little tentative and guilty (like the first time I entered a casino), but I entered the store nevertheless.  I had the scent and I was on the prowl for a fix.  The binder that this store had was twice as thick as the one in the grocery store.  In the end, I selected ten movies.  The cost – thirty thousand ($12).

When I went to pay, he waved me off and said, “you pay when you pick up the movies.  They will be ready in an hour,” he said as he pointed toward his computer and stack of blank DVDs.

Subtle, I thought.  He makes no pretense of being legitimate.  My conscience tried to cry out, but I rammed a sock in its throat.  “Shut it.  We are in Uganda – we have no choice,” I told my sputtering inner voice.

When I came back to pick up the movies, there was nowhere to park on the side of the street where the stores were, but there was a row of cars parked on the other side of the street, and they were straddling the curb – two-thirds of the car was on the sidewalk, and one-third in the street.  Monkey see, monkey do.  Parking Patrol Paper Boy jogged up to me and I slipped him another thousand shillings.  When I got back into the store, the previously blank DVDs were in clear plastic DVD wrappers with the names scribbled on them.  As I paid, my conscience spit out the sock and started to cuss at me, but I punched him in the stomach and paid the nice entrepreneur behind the counter.

When I got back into the car, I turned the ignition.  The engine turned over, but wouldn’t catch.  I tried it again.  And again.  And again.  “Told you, filthy sinner.  God is punishing you,” blurted my conscience.

Hook, uppercut, sidekick.  My conscience fell silent again.

I remembered that the car was very low on fuel, which is a constant in Uganda – no one fills up all the way with gas because they live from day to day and don’t want to get their tank syphoned by a thief.  I wondered if the angle of my car, which was pretty heavily leaning because I was mostly up on the raised sidewalk, might be depriving the engine of fuel.  So I summoned my inner Einstein and decided that since I was pointing downhill, I could put the car in neutral, take off the emergency brake, then start to roll forward.  I had just enough room to steer into the street without hitting the car in front of me.  So I did.  Miscalculations abounded.

First, without the car actually on, I had no power steering.  Had I not been eating steroids like Skittles, I wouldn’t have had the massive upper body strength necessary to crank the wheel enough to just barely miss the parked car in front of me.

Second, the downward gradient of the road was so slight that I quickly created a traffic jam behind me as I inched along futilely trying to start the car as I crawled forward.  No dice.

Third, without the car actually on, I had no power brakes.  As the downward gradient steepened (and just in time because the guy behind me nearly broke his wrist as he beat the crap out of his horn), I realized that I had no exit strategy.  I guess I thought it was going to work.  Cars to the left of me, cars to the right of me, honking cars behind me, intersection in front of me.  I won’t even start to tell you what word was going through my mind.  It rhymes with . . . well, you can guess.

As panic (and the steroids) kicked in, I was able to jam on the brake with both feet and drift into a driveway where there was a clearing near the bottom of the hill.  And no, it didn’t occur to me until writing this that I could have put on the hand emergency brake.

After my blood pressure returned to a level that allowed me to dial a phone, I called my driver and told him that the car wouldn’t start.  “No problem.  Just push the lock and unlock button on the keychain a few times.  It will then start.”  (Since my original car was in the shop, this was a rental and he had forgotten to tell me about this quirk).

It started right away, and I made it home with the pirate booty.  The kids were thrilled since most of the movies I got were for them, at least as far as you know.

So, am I a pirate?  Perhaps, but I have decided to follow the Napier rule.  We will destroy the movies before we come home.  Any movie we bought here and watched once, we will rent at home (and not watch it).  Any movie we watch more than once here, we will buy it when we get home.  I encourage anyone who reads this to hold me accountable for this.

One of my friends jokes that her spiritual gift is justification.  Perhaps it is contagious, matey.