I Cannot Stop at Mourning

Disclaimer: I may be including some slightly intense details of my slum experience. I want to try my best to convey what I have seen. Also, this is really long, but I would advise you to please read it.

Doing slum outreach yesterday was the hardest, saddest, and most terrifying day I may have experienced. What made it such a difficult day was just seeing the way these people live. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to actually live this everyday, and I only observed it. I will try my best to write about this experience. It will be difficult though because it’s something you must see to understand the emotional affects of it. Words won’t do this encounter justice.

Yesterday we met up with Chris and Betty. Chris works as the Dwelling Places rescue manager, and Betty works with family relationships of the children in DP (Dwelling Places). Chris is a tall man, married, and has children who are in elementary school. He played the role of protector, dad, and guide on our way to the slum and during our time there. I was so grateful for his presence with us. He wore jeans and a bright red shirt that my eyes were constantly aware of. Knowing where Chris was in relation to the rest of us girls was my top priority.
Betty is a rather slender woman with a tender and nurturing heart. She dressed in a work suit wore a pair of glasses over her eyes. She did an excellent job of communicating what goes on in the slums to us.

After yet another up-tight taxi ride, we made our way through the city and onto an old railroad track. We followed it for about five minutes until it curved around a large, vacant building only to reveal a sea of tin roofs behind it. From the outside, you can’t see much. It just looks like a bunch of houses crammed together. It wasn’t long from stepping off the railroad track that the tin roofs disappeared, and we found ourselves inside the slum.

First we walked through a small tin door way. I was the last to walk in, and Dawn was in front of me. She walked in and turned to the left. Before I could get in the doorway, she looked back at me and said, “This is intense.” I could already see the compassion building in her eyes. Bracing myself, I turned the corner and saw a sight that no amount of preparation could truly prepare you for. In front of me was a long walk way roughly three feet wide. Each of the rooms the people live in is side by side. An average room is about the size of an American, walk-in closet. Inside are jam-packed beds. You would have just enough room to get out of bed until you’re back in the ally way again. Hanging all along the center and top of the ally were dirty clothes that had just been washed and hung to dry. Occupying the crammed quarters, were women and children. The women were washing what few dishes they had, and the children were playing half dressed. Swarming the ground, food, and children were flies everywhere. “Uncle Chris! Uncle Chris!” I heard from all directions as he led us inside. The people loved him, and he made is way down the ally where we sat down. The women were so hospitable. They had clearly put on their best clothing before coming out to see us, and pulled their recently washed clothes off the line and set them on the ground for us to sit on. Children ran and jumped in Chris’ lap. Seeing him love these people and his relationships with them was deeply inspiring. My heart was heavy with conviction. It was initially hard for me to love these people because I was in such shock. Not only shock, but fear of the disease around me as I looked down at the flies swarming my feet. I finally just had to pray and trust that the Lord has me here to love these people for a reason. And the loving began…

We met an elderly woman who is a great-grandmother to one of the boys at DP. She was about 80-90 years old. Not only was it an honor to meet her, but also rare to see a woman of her age in Africa. I passed a couple doorways and took a right turn into her room. Sitting there in a chair in this dark, small room was a frail, weak woman. We were told that the mere fact that she was sitting up was huge. She had hardly any hair on her head, and you could see every bone in her body. Generally, they have to feed her, and she lies in bed all day. You can’t help but pray that the Lord would just take her soon. Seeing such an old woman in those conditions is so heart wrenching. All I could do was share a smile with her and feel compassion.

When I walked back into the ally way, the children had their bowls of rice eating lunch. Just watching their eating conditions made my heart hurt. They ate their rice with nothing but their saliva-covered hands, which they carried not only from their mouths and back into their bowl but into their neighbor’s bowls as well. Inside was not just rice. There were flies swarming their food. In this moment, I realized that something so small as a fork would have done wonders for these children.

Before leaving, we met with many of the people in this area sick with malaria. Prayed with them, and shared some smiles. Then we soon said our goodbyes and made our way out of the ally and on to our next visit. Outside the door was a small child standing there. In his hands was a condom that he played with as a balloon. My stomach turned within me as he took his lips off the condom to smile and wave at me. Through smothering tears and hiding hurt, I forced a smile and wave back at him. This was the beginning of children being around us all the time. Every one of them had flies in their faces and was halfway dressed. So many of their private parts were just exposed and dirty. One time, I looked over to see a boy squatting and his private parts just sitting in the dirt. Some of them have growths on their faces, mucus-like coughs from the pollution, and dirty, runny noses as well as yellow eyes. Everywhere we went, they followed behind us in groups of about 10-14. They were marveled by us, and it didn’t take much on our part to get them laughing.

One of the places we went was to see Mark’s mother. Mark is a child in the TRH and is about four years old. His mother lost his sister just a few days before. We went to pray with her and pay our condolences. Before we walked into her room, I saw the most devastating thing. Outside, lying on the ground was a dirty, little boy sleeping. On him were a slew of flies. About 10 of them flew in and out of his dried out mouth. I sank within myself as this boy looked like a rotting carcass-he was only sleeping. No person, let alone a child should ever sleep like that. I had to peel my eyes away from this sight as we walked into Mark’s mother’s room. We prayed with her, and my heart ached once more at the helplessness of these people.

When we left her room, Chris and Betty went to fellowship with some of their friends right outside in Luganda (the native language here). There was a gathering group of children near by. I followed Dawn as we went to play with some of these children. We kicked the soccer ball, tickled them, took pictures, and laughed as they attacked us. To be honest, I loved it. That is what I feel like I came here to do. Walk into the slums with these people, love them, and put smiles on the faces of these children. It was an amazing honor to be the person who made them smile today. Unfortunately, the smiles didn’t last all that long as we made our way to see Richard’s mom.

Richard is a nineteen-year-old boy who works in the DP offices. He is one of my favorite, new friends. He is sarcastic, witty, and always smiling. We’ve been praying for his mother, and I’ve been keeping up with him on her health. Just when I thought my heart couldn’t handle the hurt of these people, it got much more personal. We had to hold hands as we felt our way into her room. It was so dark you could hardly see anything. Inside, she sat on the floor with her hand covering her face. Her eyes have been hurting and she cannot see. Betty cried from helplessness and not knowing what to say. Seeing my friend, Richard’s mom there was so sad. We prayed healing for her, and shared what smiles we had left in us to give her. Though she couldn’t see us, I know she was blessed by our presence. To be sick and lonely is far worse than to be sick and in fellowship.

After leaving Richard’s mother, we slowly made our way back to the railroad. I loved watching Chris and Betty talk with people they have built these relationships with. They brought them the powerful medicine of a cheerful heart and love. As we got closer to the railroad tracks, terror set in. We stopped just before leaving the slum area because Chris and Betty were talking to people. Somehow they got into their own conversations and we (the teams of 4 white girls) slowly began to get bombarded.

First a man came up to us trying to speak French. We told him we didn’t know what he was saying. Then he came at us in English. He asked for our emails and addresses. While he was talking, a woman came crawling up to us. She was begging for money. Before I could even process that, a woman tapped my shoulder. I turned around and she was showing me her wound. On her shin was a sickly looking cut. They were all speaking Lugandan, and we didn’t know what they were saying exactly. But we knew they were begging. While this woman was talking another man came up asking for 500 shillings over and over. He was followed by yet another woman. She was nursing her child, breast out, and aggressively pleading with us. We walked away from all of them only to be followed by a girl named Lydia. She was also making up reasons to get our emails and addresses. And once again they slowly continued to gather one by one. I felt as if walls were closing in on me. We were being harassed, and I felt overwhelmed. Finally one of us just interrupted Chris and said, “We have to go. We are getting hassled.” He felt horrible and was quick to get us out. The first man who approached us kept following Chris. He was telling Chris that we were the only way to get the kids out of there. He continued pestering until Chris lovingly said the right thing to make him stop and walk away. At this point, I just wanted nothing more than to cry and run so far away.

We made our way back to the railroad tracks where we were still followed until we got to the end of the tracks and back to the hustle and bustle of the city. We once again followed our friends back to the taxi pad where they took care of us. They paid for our taxi, and sent us on the correct car taking us directly home. I was overwhelmed not only by the experience, but even more so that I was headed to a place I can call home. I was leaving the slums. The people I just prayed for….were not.

This is only a small, small portion of all we did in the slums. I already have written so much, and only included less than half of what we did. We visited many other mothers and prayed for many women. We played with many kids, and were even offered drugs once. Which was nice only for some comedic relief. However, the day in the slums was trying, sobering, and an honor to love those people. No amount of money can do what a personal visit does.

After seeing the slums and processing all that I saw, I cannot stop at mourning. I cannot stop at sorrow. I must utilize these things to realize that tomorrow the Lord has given me an even greater reason to smile. To leave the joy of those children at the slums does them a disservice. The Lord can use them to press me into further joy in the life I have. I will never forget this day. I will always remember slum outreach. I will rejoice for the blessings I have. I will share the smiles of those children with the world.