I’m so excited and scared for Tuesday. Tuesday is the day that I leave with the Gregston family to go on a 5 day medical mission trip. That’s the exciting part. The scary part is that there will be no lab technician. We’re not quite sure what our lab capabilities will be yet, but whatever they are, in America, they generally aren’t run by two 16 year olds and a 12 year old. Thankfully, because of our “practice” (stabbing various Ugandans) in the lab, I would trust Jake with my life when it comes to malaria and there is no one I would rather have draw my blood than Jared the 6^th grader, so we’re in pretty good shape. The downside is that not one of us has even set foot in med school, so we really have to rely completely on each other. And people thought “trust falls” were a good team building experience..

I feel so blessed that the Gregstons are letting me come with them on their trip and so grateful that they are here. I’m reminded hourly (they live about 2 meters below us) how amazing it is to have them here. I can’t imagine our trip without them. This is one of the few times in my life that it has fully and completely hit me that God really knows what we need before we even ask.

You might be in Uganda if . . . you went to your doctor’s appointment and were registered at the reception desk by an 11-year-old.  You might be in Uganda if . . . you went to the blood lab and found that the technician drawing your blood is 16-years-old, or even 12-years-old.  You might be in Uganda if . . . you went to the pharmacy and saw that an 11-year-old and 13-year-old were filling the prescriptions.  Welcome to Uganda!

It might seem crazy in the United States, but here in Uganda it seems perfectly reasonable to allow children to do the job of medical professionals.  I am not kidding!  I think it is wonderful that my children and I have been given the opportunity to help the underserved receive medical treatment.  We spent two days this week helping an organization called Africa Renewal in a village across Lake Victoria.  We were very thankful that the Gregston family (our twins from Oklahoma) invited us to join them in their work.

While Jay used his training as a medical doctor to examine patients, the rest of us learned new skills as medical receptionists, phlebotomists (blood-drawing technicians), pharmacists, and social workers.  I think the photos will tell the story that you wouldn’t believe otherwise.  The Gash children shown are Jessica (16), Joshua (13), and Jennifer (11).  The Gregston children shown are Jake (16), Jared (12), and Jayne (11).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do the Gash and Gregston families have future doctors in the making?  See Jessica’s post if you want to read her perspective on the beginning of her medical career.

Last night, Henry and I decided that he would make the trip from Hoima to Kampala this morning so we could attempt to make further progress on getting him admitted to his dream school.  While this was Henry’s second visit to Kampala (he came on a school field trip about six years ago), the day was filled with firsts for him.

After I met with some of the probation officers at the Naguru Remand Home (children’s prison) and the head of the children’s division of the DPP (prosecutor’s office) in the morning, I spent most of the rest of the day with Henry.

After arriving at the bus park from Hoima, Henry met me at Garden City – the first constructed of Uganda’s two malls.  I walked him through the Uchumi pretty quickly for his first look at a real grocery store.  From there we headed back to my office at the Commercial Court where he had his first elevator ride.  He had no idea what the metal box was or did when we stepped in and I pushed the button marked “3.”

“Ah! We are moving!  Where are we going?”

When we got out and looked out the window, he laughed heartily at the magic box that transported us upward.  After picking up a few things from my office, we headed back to my apartment where I showed him (and he took) his first shower in a stand-alone shower.  I also showed him the first oven, stove, and microwave he had ever seen (we heated some water, and he was quite impressed).  There are some complications that have arisen with Sara Ribbens and the securing of the visa for Nya from the US Embassy, so I spent an hour or so rewriting portions of the final order we hope the court will sign – more on that in the next few days.

While at the apartment, he got to see for the first time how a photocopier/printer worked as we scanned his birth and baptismal certificates.  We then headed to the school we hope to get him into.  This was my fourth visit there in less than a week, so they are getting to know me there.  When I walked in, Judith and Ruth both said, “You must be Hillary, you are most welcome!”  Unfortunately, the Head Teacher wasn’t in, but we were able to finalize his application and we were told to call the Head Teacher in the morning.  We are praying hard that tomorrow may be the day he is admitted.

He seemed to enjoy the mall so much that we went to the other mall in Uganda (right next to the first one) and explored the place.  Before entering, we stopped at an ATM and he saw his first cash withdrawal.  I felt horrible (kind of) for laughing so hard I almost fell down during his first encounter with an escalator.  We first went down.  Predictably, he stepped on a seam and lost his balance just as soon as they separated.  He laughed also.  When we headed back up, however, he found another seam and lost his balance and stumbled down the upward moving stairs for a good seven seconds before leaping off, turning around, and jumping back on (with a big grin) the horse that bucked him.

As we walked through the Nakkumatt – a very large (at least for Uganda) Targetesque store, Henry saw his first freezer, first coffee maker, first washer, first dryer, first frozen kilogram of hamburger, first cereal box, and first mustard container, among others.

After further exploring the mall, we met up with John Niemeyer, who is the Country Director of Restore International – Bob Goff’s organization that runs the school in Gulu from which Henry just graduated.  John came to Kampala today for a few days in order to take care of some business for Restore and to see if he could help Henry get admitted.

 

John joined us for dinner at our apartment where Henry had his first pizza.  “Very good.”  Tonight, he is spending the night with us as our first overnight visitor.  Which one of you will be coming to visit next?

My wife and kids also had a great day – Jessica learned how to draw blood, and the started doing it like an old pro, testing for HIV and Malaria.  And yes, she was wearing gloves.

I suspect that this will not be the last of many firsts over the coming months.

Today was a day I have been anticipating for nearly two months, and it went even better than I could have hoped.

Henry met us at our hotel at 7:15 a.m. and rode with us to his church, which actually started with a time of worship at 7:00 a.m.  When we walked in, the place was hopping.  Literally.  The song leader was hopping up and down as he sang about raising Jesus higher.  There was also a mother with a baby in her arms jumping around between the front row and concrete stage.  The song leader had a microphone that kept cutting in and out and two female background singers dancing behind him.  To the side was a keyboard player who was doing a good job adjusting to the leader’s irregular improvisations.  We were ushered to the front row, presumably so the congregants could watch us struggle to keep up and keep the rhythm.  I went 0 for 2.

After the praise time, the pastor asked if anyone had something for which they were thankful that they wanted to share.  Henry was third person to take the microphone.  He was kind in his words of gratitude to us and in his welcome for his “visitors.”  When he handed the microphone back, the pastor feigned confusion about the “visitors” and pretended to search the audience for the elusive guests.  Everyone had a good laugh about that.  And yes, we were the only mzungus at church on Sunday. (In fact, I didn’t see a single mzungu in Hoima the entire weekend, but Joline and the others saw and talked to an American missionary girl they met at the hotel while I was with Tango and Henry searching for Elsie, Bessie, and Bevo).

Henry’s mom got up next and also thanked God for her guests, with special emphasis on the possessory element.  A few minutes later, it was go-time.  The pastor moved the podium to the center of the stage and invited Joline, Henry, and I to come forward.  Even though this was the “English language service,” the pastor wisely called upon Henry to interpret our mzungu English for the congregants.  In fact, I started out with a quick attempt at humor regarding having an interpreter for the mzungu at the English language service.  Half of the laughter came when I delivered the punch line, and the other half came when Henry interpreted it.

After I introduced myself and Joline and brought greetings to them from Pepperdine and the University Church of Christ, Joline introduced our family, and called Jay Gregston up to bring greetings from his church in Oklahoma, to introduce his family, and to briefly describe the medical missionary work he and his family are doing in Uganda.  Joline then brought greetings on behalf of the Community Bible Study in Malibu and told them that this group of women prayed often for Henry, Joseph, and their father while they were in prison.

Over the next twenty minutes or so, Joline and I alternated as we shared some scriptures and words of encouragement.  It was a good thing Henry was interpreting because the periodic pauses allowed me to (barely) keep my composure.  I choked up a couple times, but avoided any on-stage sobbing.  I couldn’t help but think back to one of the first reports Henry gave me after he had been released – he had taken the same stage and poured his heart out with gratitude to God for sustaining him during his two-year imprisonment.  Toward the end of the service, the pastor encouraged the congregants to say a blessing over us.  It was quite special to have a handful of total strangers fervently praying (in Runyoro) while gently touching our heads, faces, and hands.  We won’t soon forget this.

After church ended, a make-shift receiving line formed as many members of the congregation filed past us greeting and welcoming us.  As we walked out, we had a chance to approach some little kids and interact with them.  Only a couple of them ran away screaming at the sight of our white faces.

From church, we dropped off the Gregstons, Joline, and the kids at the hotel.  Tango (the driver who is originally from Hoima District), Henry, and I then set out in search of some Grade A Ugandan beef.

Wisely, Tango had targeted the butcher of his home village (which was nearby) the day before and let him know we were looking to buy cows.  Naturally, the butcher had a pretty good sense of the expendable cows within a 10 kilometer radius.  The day before, this butcher had put us in touch with a local farmer and we had agreed to pay 750,000 shillings for a medium-sized cow (about $350 at the current exchange rate).  Since it didn’t make sense to buy and transport one cow yesterday, we agreed to come back today and complete the deal.  In exchange, the farmer agreed to ask around for others interested in selling cows to a mzungu with a wad of cash.  My cover had been blown on Saturday, so I no longer pretended to be invisible.

When we arrived in the village at around 10:00 a.m., we had several interested sellers waiting for us.  Since Tango had transported us and Gregstons from Kampala in a van, and since we had dropped everyone but me and Henry at the hotel, we had plenty of room in the van for the numerous villagers who kept jumping in to direct us to their farms, or those of friends.  Several just came along for the adventure of it all.  The first farm had only one fairly young cow, but it looked healthy so we entered negotiations.  I use “we” somewhat loosely.  I simply bounced my gaze back and forth between Tango and Henry on the one hand, and the would-be seller on the other as they verbally jousted in Runyoro.  After a few minutes, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked where things were.  We were at 600,000 and he was at 700,000.  Since Tango had told us that there were going to be three other cows for us to look at where the one we had agreed to buy on Saturday was, and since my expectation was that we would buy three or four today, I stepped in and forthrightly declared that either we bought the cow for 600,000, or we left to look at others.  We were on a strict timeline and I made that clear.  Unsurprisingly, we got the cow for 600,000.

When I tried to count out the money into the seller’s hand — one 50,000 note at a time — he waived me off.  Tango grinned and explained that they have their traditions (meaning superstitions), so Tango counted the money in his own hand, and then gave it to seller, who did the same.  Lesson learned.  Once word got out that the mzungu was definitely paying cash (and likely overpaying), those in our growing entourage started dialing and their phones started ringing.

Next we headed way off the beaten path (which is saying something because the path we had been on was only lightly trodden to begin with) and tracked down a guy way out in the bush who had two female cows and one young bull.  He also wanted 700,000 for each.  Since they were young and relatively small, I told him I would give him 1.1 million for the bigger of the two cows and the bull.  Deal.  The problem, however, was that he was a good five kilometers (three miles) from the village center and we were on a timeline.  For 20,000, he agreed to run the cows to the village, cash on delivery, including the 1.1 million.  I wasn’t about to hand this guy that kind of money on the promise that he would bring them.

(Parental guidance suggested for this next paragraph.)  We knew we needed a big bull who was fond of cows so we could grow the herd.  Accordingly, we headed back to town and across the main road to look at such a bull.  He must have sensed our interest in his virility because as we approached him, he approached a nearby cow and unsheathed his manhood.  It would be unforgivably unfair to him to describe what he had as a baseball bat.  It was more like a jousting pole.  He reared up on his hind legs and buried his lance.  “I’ll take him!” I exclaimed.  Needless to say, this probably undercut my bargaining position, but I didn’t care.  I got him for 900,000 and he was worth every inch, I mean shilling.  At the risk of being accused of, well, compensating, I named him “Big Jim.”

We now had four locked up and we were on a roll.  We finally headed back to original place we started the day before.  When we arrived, there were four cows waiting for us, including the one we had verbally bargained for the day before.  After some dickering, we had the lot.  In fact, one of the sellers asked us to wait while he fetched another cow.  This confirmed what I thought – we were likely overpaying for cows, but both Tango and Henry thought we were getting good prices so I didn’t feel too ripped off.  It was also clear that the sellers had virtually nothing other than their cows so if they got a few extra shillings in their pockets for their families, then it wasn’t the end of the world.

It turned out to be more of a challenge than we had hoped to secure a truck to haul the cattle from the village to Henry’s house.  Additionally, we were informed that we needed to get the village chairman’s permission to take the cows from the village.  Really?  Yep, but it was as much for our protection as anything because he gave us a stamped letter that traveled with us so that if we were stopped by the police and questioned about why we had a truck full of cattle, we could show them the “official” letter.  This set me back 45,000 shillings.  While we were getting the certificate, the other cow one of the earlier sellers set off to fetch showed up and we bought her also.  This gave us nine cows (two of which were purportedly pregnant) for a grand total of just over 7 million shillings (including transportation, loading, and other commissions and fees).

When the truck arrived to transport the cows, I learned how to load cattle in Uganda.  As pictured below, the truck has a skeletal cage of sorts over the top that allows the cattle to be tied in place during the transport over the rather uneven roads.  But that assumes the cattle are in the truck.  How tough can that be?  Just walk them up the ramp.  What?  No ramp?  You are going to lift them into the back of the truck?  With your hands?  Seriously?

Four dudes.  Two in the truck, two on the ground pinning the cow against the back of the truck.  One in the truck gets a death grip on the tail, while the other in the truck pulls with all of his might on the rope tied around the huge horns.  Meanwhile, the two dudes on the ground with the huge quadriceps deadlift the cow until it skids onto the bed of the truck on its side.  As you might expect, the cow doth protest much.  None as much as Big Jim, but when they finally got him into the truck, he soon discovered his awaiting harem and sought to, well, introduce himself more formally right then and there.  After a bit of wrestling (and lots of rope), Big Jim was tied down in a prone position such that the introductions ceased.

After the forty-five minute loading process, we left the village on our way back to Hoima.  We stopped and picked up the Gregstons and the rest of the Gashes, then continued to Henry’s house.  We made sure the cattle truck stopped around the corner until we could set up the surprise.  We gathered the entire family and I told them that we were aware that they had lost their herd of cattle and their chickens when Henry, Joseph, and their father were unjustly imprisoned.  I explained that one of my former students named Holly had organized other former Pepperdine students and had taken up a collection, along with my parents and sister, and that Henry and I went shopping that afternoon for them.

They all looked at Henry and then back at me.  It seemed as if they sort of understood, but were not quite sure what to say or what to expect.  Cue the truck.

As the truck rumbled down the dirt road toward their house, all eyes (including about a dozen neighbors who had gathered) turned toward the truck.

As it approached, Henry’s mom saw the huge Ancholi horns over the truck’s cab and let out an “alarm,” which is a high-pitched warbling “Wa-la-la-la-la-la!”  She has high blood pressure and Henry was actually a little worried about her fainting when the truck arrived.  She didn’t faint, but her emotions were on full display.  Same for everyone else.  Including the grim weeper, me.

Henry’s whole family was overjoyed and we all watched as the unloading of the cows made the initial loading look high-tech.  One of the back legs was roped and then yanked and dragged until the cow literally plopped onto the ground from a height of about three feet.

Most quickly popped back up, pissed off and looking for someone to blame.  Big Jim fell harder than the rest and seemed to have the wind knocked out of him, but eventually recovered.

They tied him to a tree away from the others so he wouldn’t resume his enthusiastic “courting.”

After the cattle were unloaded, I brought Henry and his family into his house, closed the curtains and explained that there was still two million shillings (about $900) left over after we had purchased the cows.  I encouraged them to buy 100 chickens and all the chicken and cattle feed they needed.  I also asked them to use 300,000 shillings to pay the annual school fees of Herbert (the youngest in the family), who hadn’t yet enrolled in S1 because they couldn’t pay the necessary costs for him to start at the beginning of the term two weeks ago.  They were all elated, especially Herbert.  Henry’s mother insisted on leading a prayer then and there.  The only word I recognized in the prayer was “Jim,” but her gratitude toward God came through loud and clear.

Before I left, I reminded Henry that the big bull was to be named Big Jim and the biggest cow was to be named Rosella (after my mother).  Two other cows were to be named Holly (after Holly Phillips, who organized this shopping spree) and Julie (after my sister who paid for a full cow).  I also told Henry that the young bull that was still too small and immature to mate should be named Jeremy (after Jeremy Shatzer, who contributed to the fund and wanted to help name one of the cows – thanks for the help, Jeremy!).

We hugged it out and they sent us away with generous portions of papayas, avocados, bananas, jack fruit, and popcorn.

I am so grateful to all who contributed to this unforgettable day.  Your generosity has tremendously blessed a wonderful and God-fearing family with a Job-like restoration of all they had lost.  While it is impossible to truly make someone “whole” after what they have been through, this is as close as it gets.

We took lots of video and hope to edit it together in the coming week or so.

I had posted the names of the donors previously, but here they are again:

Mary Ellyson Buxton, Dan Coats, Wendy McGuire Coats, Julie Wainrib Connelly, RJ Cornell, Julie Dilworth Cornell, Max Czernin, Rachel Dickey Czernin, Aaron Echols, Courtney Echols, Kevin Ferguson, John and Rosella Gash, Meghan George, Chris Gaspard, Kristin Heinrich, Randy Herndon, Christie Herndon, Brent Kampe, Miles Jennings, Wes Krider, Rebecca Lee, Brian Link, Nic McGrue, Meghan Milloy, Narguess Noohi, Lexie Norge, Lisa Ottomanelli, Holly Phillips, Amy Poyer, Jeremy Shatzer, Joel Sherwin, Brian Simas, Emily Smith, Scott and Julie (Gash) Spicer, Ricky Steelman, Erin Tallent, Brett Taylor, Melissa Thornsberry, Chelsea Trotter, Matt Williams, Jeff Wyss, and Kevin “Cookies” Assemi (recent addition).

I arrived at 8:45 a.m. for the 9:30 a.m. announcement of the appellate decision in the Ribbens legal guardianship appeal.  They had been denied legal guardianship at the trial court over sweet little 20-month-old Nya not because they were not perfectly fit parents (they are), and not because Nya is not an abandoned child (she is), but because the trial court judge interpreted Ugandan law not to permit legal guardianship by non-Ugandans unless the would-be legal guardians also complied with the adoption laws.  The adoption laws require non-Ugandans to foster parent the child in Uganda for three years before an adoption can be granted.  Many trial court judges have been granting applicants legal guardianship to skirt the adoption laws, and so a split had developed among the courts.  Today, the court of appeals resolved that split.

At about 9:15 a.m., Sara and Nya arrived with a friend and we all waited together . . . until 11:10, when the Registrar called them in for their ruling.  The Registrar read the entire opinion – about twenty pages – as we hung on every word.  Ugandan appellate decisions are very thorough, and unlike those in the United States, they don’t reveal how they are ruling until the very end.  As a rule, Ugandans speak very softly, and the Registrar did not violate this rule.  We strained to hear as he read the opinion, which began by thoroughly summarizing the trial court opinion.  It then summarized in detail the arguments made by counsel during the oral argument.  Next, the opinion summarized all of the relevant principals of law.  It then turned its attention to the factual record, describing each of the exhibits, affidavits, and findings of the welfare officers in both Uganda and the United States with respect to the fitness of the parents and the eligibility of Nya under Ugandan law based upon her status as an abandon child.  Surely, we are getting the result next?  We leaned forward, strained to hear with our hearts pounding and heard very clearly . . . a description of the points of error alleged by the Ribbens’ lawyer.  C’mon dude, we are on page 18, give us a hint – did the Ribbens prevail or not?

“We declare Andy and Sara Ribbens to be the legal guardians of Nya with the full right to take her to the United States” (or words to that effect).  Tears.  Lots of them.  Nya slept through the entire thing.

The opinion was unanimous.  And not only did the Ribbens win, but another couple whose case had been consolidated with theirs also prevailed.  And not only did that couple win, but all other would-be adoptive parents in Uganda won.  The brush is now clear for legal guardianships in Uganda.  This case created the precedent necessary to open the doors of the orphanages in Uganda so that hundreds (perhaps thousands) of these orphans will finally have families.

It was such a blessing to be able to be there when Sara called Andy and told him through her tears, “She is ours, she is finally ours.”  I filmed the phone call, but will leave it to Sara to share it if she chooses to do so.

Hopefully, the visa process will run smoothly and the Ribbens family can be united in the United States within the next couple of weeks.

It was a good day.  Thanks for your prayers and well wishes.

To read Sara’s post from her blog today, click here.