It’s a Boy!

Over the past few years, I have done several things I had previously been certain I would never do.  Bungee jumping, living and driving in Uganda, admitting I needed glasses, etc.  Continuing this stretch of firsts, last week I was asked to name a newborn Ugandan boy.  In fact, the father of the boy insisted that the baby would not have a name unless I stepped up.  Talk about pressure.

So who is the baby boy?  He is Henry’s little brother.

Near the end of our stay in Uganda, Henry’s mother (in her early 40s) was experiencing what she thought were problems associated with high blood pressure.  Dr. Jay Gregston (father in our Twin Family) reviewed the meds she had been prescribed and provided some friendly physician guidance.  When Henry arrived home from school at the end of November, his mother told him that she just learned that she was pregnant . . . and due in less than a month.  As you might expect, the pre-natal care in Uganda falls well below western standards.

For a while, labor pains and contractions pointed toward a Christmas Day birth.  Henry and I talked or texted day after day, but no baby.  Finally, just after midnight Uganda time on January 7^th, I received a text from Henry asking me urgently to pray for his mother.  I immediately complied.  Fifteen minutes later came the news that the child had been born and that all was well.  Praise God!

A short while later, Henry texted me again saying that his father wanted me to give the baby his two names.  (In the Ugandan villages, there are no family names – just two names.  Usually, one is an English name and one is an African name).  I immediately picked up the phone and called him.

Me: “Um, your text sounded like I am supposed to give this boy his names.  Are you serious?”

Henry: “Yes, my dad said you need to provide both of his names.”

Me: “I wouldn’t know where to start.  Is your father serious?”

Henry:  “Yes, he said that the boy will not have a name unless you name him.”

Me:  “Well, I guess I could give him his English name, but I don’t know any Runyoro tribe names.”

Henry:  “Any two names you choose are fine.  He does not need a Runyoro or African name.  Just pick two names.”

Me:  “OK, let me call you back.”

I tracked down Joline and informed her of my (our) weighty responsibility, and then we got started.  We got on Google and tooled around a bit looking for inspiration.  We had only named three babies before, and each of those names started with a J.  Make it four.

We immediately gravitated toward Biblical names and kicked around a few of those before settling on Josiah – the Biblical boy king who found favor with God – for one of the names.  For his other name, we decided to suggest a few names that would have significance to how Henry and I met.  The names we suggested were Robert (after Bob Goff, the guy who inspired me to journey to Africa in the first place), Justice (what we jointly sought together after we first met), and James (my given name).  I texted these three names to Henry.  A few minutes later, the boy had a name – James Josiah.

In other news, the door to the prison where I met Henry, which Bob Goff brought me last fall from Uganda, is now installed in its final resting place – pictures in the next few days.

Also, on Friday, I booked a ticket back to Uganda at the end of this month.  I will be there for just over a week as the next juvenile justice session begins.