A New Year's Benediction

Um, is this thing on?  I forgot how to use it.

It's lovely to be with you again.  I feel like I should explain why I haven't been here in quite some time, but the truth is I don't have a reason.  I just didn't have anything worth saying.

Two things have compelled me to write today.  First of all, tomorrow I get to speak at a Rotary meeting about my loved ones in Uganda, my Vigilantes of Kindness here at home, and the beautiful story we wove together last summer.  I'm thrilled to share and horrified, absolutely horrified, at the thought of speaking to a largish group of adults.

Just thinking about it makes my armpits drip sweat.  Hang on a sec while I go administer copious amounts of deodorant.  Talk amongst yourselves.

Alrighty, now that I've got that under control, the second thing that made me pound away at the keys today is Neil Gaiman.  You know him, right?  Amazing author, incredible speaker.  He probably doesn't sweat a drop when he speaks.

Anyway, Neil Gaiman has written several brilliant New Year's benedictions for the world.  You should read them.  You'll be better for it.  Promise.

For the conclusion of my Rotary talk, I reflected on my trip to Uganda and the year as a whole and then I wrote my own New Year's benediction.  It's as much for me as it is for you, but most especially it's for my Vigilantes of Kindness from last year and the Vigilantes who are already on board with me as my return trip begins to take shape.  I'm grateful for each and every one of you.  You inspire me.  You move me.  You make me absolutely giddy to see what's in store for us this year.

A New Year's Benediction

In this new year, I hope you love deeply and are loved in return.

I hope you find family in the most surprising times and places.

I hope you make beautiful plans, but more importantly I hope that when your plans fall broken at your feet, because they sometimes will, that in quiet solitude you’ll want nothing more and nothing less than to hear God.

And then I hope you’ll listen for His voice, listen so hard that the pounding of your heart overwhelms your eardrums and your very spirit.

I hope you’re tickled and delighted when He answers you in the most unexpected of ways and suddenly you find yourself living a dream greater than you ever fathomed.

I hope you discover depths of humility that compel you to lay aside your own ideas and speak the soothing words, “What do you need and how can I help?”

I hope that when you encounter inequality that you will resist the urge to run and instead stand with feet firmly planted in justice.  I hope that your voice, quiver as it may, rises from your throat in defense of those who have not been allowed to speak for themselves.

I hope that both in the warmth of joy and in the cold face of contempt, you’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that beauty rises from our tender, broken places.

Most of all I hope that in this new year you’ll be passionately, unswervingly, desperately vigilant in lavishing kindness on one another.

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: A Cinderella Story

I thought when I returned home that this chapter of Vigilante Kindness would come to an end until I return to Uganda next summer.

Boy was I wrong.

It started with an early morning message from my friend, Kristine, an educator in Uganda.  It was the wee hours of the morning here and approaching afternoon there.

Kristine was struggling to help one of her students keep his younger siblings fed and in school.  Kristine had paid his tuition and arranged for food for the family.  But they were struggling to pay the school fees for seven of his siblings in school.  Kristine listed the name of each sibling, the name of each school and the remaining balances.

All told, $120.00 was needed to pay the fees.  It was a check I could have easily cut, but when I woke up later that morning, I was compelled to share the need with my friends and family.  With a quick post on Facebook, I was off for the day.  About thirty seconds after I posted it, my friends stepped up on behalf of this young man and his siblings.

Within a day I had more than enough to cover the fees.  It came from friends who shoved checks into my hand while I did bus duty after school.  It came from the lean pocketbooks of fellow teachers.  It came and it didn't stop.

Two gifts in particular struck me, both from former librarians.  The first came with an apology.

"I'm sorry it's not more," said my friend placing three dollars in my hand.

"Every little bit helps.  Three dollars goes a long way in Uganda," I assured her.

She gave her three dollars gladly and I thought about the widow's mite.  I thought about how haughty I am and how I always feel like my donations have to be substantial to matter.

It's such bologna, this lie that we have to give a sizable amount or not at all.  I tucked her three dollars into my purse, grateful for each one and for the lesson they taught me.

The second gift was from another former librarian at my school.  She's moved on to being the librarian at a local high school, but when she was the librarian at my school I loved when she read to my class, particularly when she read interesting versions of fairy tales.  The Three Little Wolves and the Big Bad Pig and so on and so forth.  The more unusual the fairy tale, the more I loved it.

"It was my birthday a month ago," the librarian told me in my living room.

"Happy birthday,"

"Thank you.  My son gave me $100 for my birthday and I've looked and looked for something special to spend it on.  I thought about buying a piece of jewelry, but couldn't find one that was right.  Then I saw a vase at school sculpted by a fellow teacher.  It was beautiful.  I asked him if it was for sale and if I could buy it.  He gave it to me instead.  So again I was left with nothing to spend my birthday money on until I saw your post and I knew that's what I should spend it on."

"Thank you so much," she and I both fought back tears.  I couldn't believe she would give her birthday money to help a family she'd never even met in a place she'd never been.

Would I be so generous?  I already knew the ugly answer.

I wired the money over to Kristine, each wrinkled dollar, each scrawled check, each cent from a birthday wish reaching around the world.

Just before I wired the money, I looked over the names of the children again, double and triple checking the amounts to make sure it was enough.

It was.

And then some.
I don't know how I missed it, but the second time I looked at the names, one of them reached out and grabbed me.  I couldn't help but smile when I realized that because of the Vigilante Kindness of my friends, twelve-year-old Anena Cinderella would get to finish fifth grade halfway across the world.

I shook my head in disbelief that once again I got to play a small part in what can only call the sweetest of all Cinderella stories.

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: A Gift From Oregon, Part 3

My stomach was a ball of nerves, like one of those giant office supply rubberband balls snapping and bouncing between my ribcage.  The ride to Bungatira took me way outside of Gulu, past several villages each boasting a small roadside store or two.  Boda drivers waiting to carry fares sat parked along the road and clustered on the corners.  Mothers and children sat selling the riches of their gardens and the children called out, "Munu!  Munu!"  I waved and smiled at their innocence, but the rubberband ball in my gut continued to ping pong off my insides.

Denis was his usual chatty self, but I couldn't help but remember my last visit to Bungatira.

The pain of seeing discrimination against people with mental illnesses inked so clearly on their community Constitution.

The anguish of sitting beside my son during talk of child soldiers returning from war changed for the worse.

The feeling of wanting to run away.

The burning sensation in the very core of my being that made me stay and speak up for my loved ones.

The community members who walked out of the meeting.

The tears that fell in the red dirt when I spoke about my loved ones struggling with mental illness and the searing pain that they wouldn't be welcomed in this group.

The heartfelt apologies for causing me pain.

And finally the blissful relief of seeing those discriminatory words removed from the community Constitution.

This time I returned with a purse full of shillings for the Bungatira community group.  640,000 shillings from my friend Jenna who had been so moved by their willingness to change that she bequeathed $250 raised by her Oregon Vigilantes of Kindness to the group in Bungatira.

The money would go towards helping their savings and loan program, wherein group members could borrow reasonable amounts and pay them back with interest.  The people of Bungatira would now be able to take out loans to pay their children's school fees.

Inside my purse beside my fat stack of shillings was my iPad.  On it I had pictures of my loved ones who struggle with mental illness and pictures of Jenna and her loved ones as well.  I'd go and share our stories, share that we too are mothers and wives battling on our knees alongside our loved ones.

Donald M. Murray, one of my favorite writers and writing teachers, once said, "The more personal I am, the more universal I become."  As Denis steered us closer to Bungatira, I prayed that would be true.  I prayed that in sharing the stories of my life and explaining what compelled Jenna to choose Bungatira to receive the money from Oregon, the people of Bungatira would see the very personal side of the universal issue of living with and loving people living with mental illnesses.

I didn't want to be another white person advising them on what I think is best for their community.  I wanted to be Lanyero, a woman and a friend who has walked some of the same paths they're walking and has come out scarred, but stronger for having chosen to love when it was painful and to fight for my loved ones when they couldn't fight for themselves.

But, Lord have mercy, that was a tall order and the closer we got to Bungatira, the more it felt like I wasn't up to size.

The sky turned from blue to pallid gray, the perfect match to my unease.
We first stopped at Denis' brother's store in Bungatira where a local women's dance troupe were preparing to perform underneath a mango tree behind the store.  Denis had asked them there in my honor and these women were stunning, absolutely stunning.  They were dressed in every color of the rainbow with bells tied around their ankles.  Two men brought out drums and these beautiful women sang and danced with such strength that my heartbeat began to keep time with their songs.  I'm told they didn't sing a prayer for rain, but the rain came nonetheless and the women kept on dancing.

I couldn't snap photos quickly enough.

I marveled at their feet, so tough from everyday life, so exquisite as they danced in time together.

The rain came down in sheets and we moved underneath the overhang in front of the store.  The women kept dancing and singing, their voices rising over the rain, which drowned out the thumping ball of nerves in my belly.

After the dancing, we ate cookies and drank soda with the women.  When the rain let up, it was time to complete the journey to Bungatira.  On the back of Denis' motorcycle, I took deep breaths and listened to the greenery thwapping against my skirt as the road grew narrower.  Upon reaching Denis' compound, the community group gathered and I sat in a plastic chair with the officers of the group.  Denis' brother, Michael, sat beside me ready to translate.

They opened the meeting with a prayer and after a few short words, I had the floor.  Gulp.

I looked into their eyes and they into mine.  With a final deep breath, I began to speak, first thanking them for inviting me back and then the time came to share my story of loving people with mental illnesses.  I willed the lump in my throat back down as I spoke and barely contained tears as I spoke of a particular loved one living a happy and healthy life with bi-polar disorder.  Michael translated that my loved one is now happy and healthy and the group gathered on papyrus mats at my feet broke into applause.  I smiled and showed photos and then told Jenna's story of loving someone through post traumatic stress disorder.  They clapped and cheered when I told them that fatherhood is helping this particular person heal from PTSD.  They clapped and cheered like our loved ones were their loved ones.  The ball of rubberbands in my stomach settled as my heart filled.

I explained that because they'd changed their constitution to include people struggling with mental illness, Jenna and the Oregon Vigilantes had sent me with money for their savings and loan program.  I presented all 640, 000 shillings to the Treasurer and again, the people of Bungatira broke into applause.  Denis spoke kind words over me and I deflected them, insisting that the money was because of the changes they'd made not because of anything I'd done.

Denis introduced me to a man and his daughter.  The man is a single father and his daughter had epilepsy and autism.  Denis explained to me that when the father heard the group was accepting people with mental illnesses, he and his daughter had joined immediately.

Denis' words were like a punch in the gut.  For them, the term "mental illness" also encompasses mental disabilities.  Oh God.

I found myself struggling for breath.  I thought of all the kids with special needs who I've fought to include in my classroom, all the meetings where I've gone toe to toe to fight for their rights.  To find the fight here in the African bush had knocked me off kilter.

I looked at the man and his daughter sitting so proudly as official dues paying members.  Equals with equal buy-in and equal power.

"I'm so glad you're both here.  It's a pleasure to meet you." I met the father's eyes.

Michael leaned in and explained to me that since the man and his daughter had joined the group, the people of Bungatira had met to see how they can help him raise his daughter and keep her safe.  The women are teaching the girl to cook and the men of the community are acting as her extremely protective big brothers.  They have surrounded the man and his daughter and enfolded them into their own families.

After a day of holding back tears, I let them fall freely.  I cried for the beauty of it all and for the fact that I got to play a small part in this story.

I stayed in Bungatira until nightfall, when Denis' family sits nightly around the bonfire and roasts maize.  The bonfire is where they gather as a family and address any concerns.  It's a sacred time and as one of the children crawled into my lap, I knew how fortunate I was to be included.  I sat in their inner circle and listened, gazing up at the sky which had cleared and given way to millions of blinking stars.

On the boda ride back to town, I felt a particular sadness leaving Bungatira and her people.  I held their faces in my mind and closed my eyes to the wind on my face.  Denis told me several times during my trip that I was changing the world, but leaving Bungatira for the last time, I knew that I was the one who was forever changed.

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: Field Trip to Murchison Falls

With only a couple of days left in Gulu, I was struggling to find a worthy use for a last-minute Vigilante contribution I'd picked up at Western Union.  I didn't have time for a big project like tracking down more shoes.  My other problem was that I didn't know of any other needs that could be met immediately.  I was at a loss.

That morning I found myself praying a familiar prayer.  God, what do you want me to do today?  Help me not to plant tomatoes for hippos.  Tell me what to do with this money and I'll do it.  The longer I'd been in Uganda, the more to the point my prayers had become and the sloughing off of any formalities when I talked to God was something I hoped to hold tight to when I returned home.

Out at the school that day, I overheard one of the teachers talking about a field trip the Senior 4 and Senior 6 kids would be taking to Murchison Falls during the upcoming third term.  I'd visited Murchison Falls last year and it was staggeringly powerful-the beauty and pounding force of the water rushing into the Nile is something I'll remember my entire life.  I overheard the teacher saying that many of the kids wouldn't be able to go on the field trip because they couldn't afford the trip across the country to visit the falls.  Many of the kids haven't ever been more than ten miles away from home.  To visit something across the country would be an incredible luxury.

"I'd like to help you with that," I interrupted the conversation.  "I can't help all of the kids, but this will send five on the trip,"   I counted out the Vigilante shillings and took my receipt.  The teacher thanked me as did the others in the office.  "I can't take the credit.  The money came from people back home-people who love to travel, so I know this would make them happy."

It's the third term now and the kids haven't taken the trip yet.  I wait with anticipation to hear about them hiking to the top of the falls and feeling the mist kiss their faces.  I wait to hear about what animals they saw and how it felt to hear the thunder of the Nile passing through the waterfall.

Sitting in my living room, across the great wide world from these children I love so dearly, I hope that Murchison Falls will water their desire to travel more, to meet people who are vastly different from themselves, to find family in unexpected places and perhaps even to know the profound blessing of being able to call another country home.

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: A Gift From Oregon, Part 2

Denis at his new school

While in Uganda I got to spend a lot of time with Denis riding on the back of his boda and visiting his village, Bungatira.  He became my closest Ugandan friend which meant I got to see him when he was happy, when he was annoyed with me (which was hilarious), when he was grateful, when he was inspired and when he was sad, but I'd never seen his nervous side.

That is, I'd never seen his nervous side until the day we went to his new school.

I'd heard about his plans to return to school for weeks on end, heard all the questions he was going to ask the admissions counselor, heard him vacillate back and forth between studying to become a doctor or a teacher.  School was all he could talk about since the day he picked up his new pigs courtesy of my friends, Julie and Clark.  This talk was kicked into high gear when Jenna and her posse of Oregon Vigilantes, bequeathed Denis enough money to return to school that very term while his pigs matured enough to breed and sell for the next term's fees.

All his talk of returning to school was endearing.  There aren't free public schools in Uganda.  Only the well off get to send their children to school.  That sentence catches like rocks in my throat each time I write or speak it.  Denis' parents had done their best to raise and sell crops so he could attend school, but the money ran out before the third term of his Senior Three year, the equivalent of the third term of his sophomore year in high school.

Denis is 27.

And he was on his face desperate to return to school.

Can you imagine returning to your high school courses at the age of 27?  Neither can I.  Friends, that takes moxie I simply don't have.

Denis completed the form and we left the school under a drizzling sky that couldn't begin to dampen my mood.  I snapped a final photo of Denis standing outside the doorway, his school name emblazoned above the door.

So Denis had every right to be nervous and as he pulled the boda onto the school compound, he was quiet.  I had my camera at the ready, knowing that he might be too nervous to remember the details of the day, but that it was a day so worthy of remembering.  We entered the modest handmade brick building that serves as the office.  The administrator was working inside and she welcomed us as we entered.  We sat in front of her desk and to my surprise, Denis asked her none of the questions he'd mentioned to me on the boda.  He sat quietly in the chair and twisted his hands, fidgeting and barely making eye contact.  I began to ask questions on his behalf, voicing all the things he'd wondered aloud on our daily rides.  The administrator gave Denis the registration form and he fumbled with it, his hands visibly shaking.

"Denis, relax.  This is a good thing.  You get to go back to school," I covered his hands with my own.  "Just relax.  Why don't you fill out the form while we're here and if you want me to look it over, I'm happy to do that."

"Yes.  I'll fill it out right now," Denis removed a pen from his pocket.  I watched as he wrote every word and letter with precise care.  I talked to the administrator while Denis filled the form out and I was delighted to find out that the administrator was once a primary teacher.  I shared with her that I'm a primary teacher in the U.S. and we had a lovely chat.

"Alicia, will you take a look?"  Denis passed me his registration form.  I scanned the facts of his life.  His age.  His family name.  His tribe.  His birthdate.  The name of his last school.  So much information about my friend and at the same time so very little.

"Looks good, Denis, but you have to fill out the back as well," I said quietly turning the paper over and passing it back to him.

"The back?"  If it were physically possible, I think Denis would've blushed.  He took the paper and read the backside, carefully filling in more spaces.

"Are you his sponsor?" the administrator asked me.

"No, I'm his friend."

"His friend?"

"Yes, he's my boda driver and we've become friends."  I smiled at Denis and snapped his photo as he filled out the registration paper.

"Can I put your name here?"  Denis pointed to a place on the form for names of people likely to visit him at school.  He'd listed his mother and one of his brothers.  There was one more line.

"Definitely.  I'd love to visit you at school when I return."  Denis wrote my name.  The form also asked for the relationship.  Denis penned the words 'best friend'.  I smiled knowing I was in good company with his best friend J.B. and his other best friend, my oldest son, William.


A couple of days later he returned to school with the requisite passport sized photo and his enrollment fee, courtesy of my beloved Oregon Vigilantes.

In one of our many conversations, Denis asked if I would return to Uganda for his graduation.  "You will sit next to my mom and wear a Gomesi."

"I'd like that."

"To wear a Gomesi?"

"To see you graduate."

On my last evening in Uganda, I sat in a hotel room near the airport and all the way across the country from my loved ones in Gulu.  My phone rang and on the other end was Denis calling to tell me he'd used some of the money from the Oregon Vigilantes to sign up for additional tutoring before the term started and also to buy books and a school uniform, the requisite attire for all schools in Uganda.

The new term begins in a matter of days and after years of waiting and working and praying and hoping for a second chance to go to school, my dear friend Denis is a student once again.  And it's all because some recklessly kind Oregon Vigilantes saw Denis' potential from halfway around the world and decided to do something about it.

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: A Gift From Oregon, Part 1

"They came back to Bungatira after I took you home," Denis sits across the cafe table from me with his hands folded.

"They did?"  Nerves bounce in my stomach and I think a familiar mantra. Walk into the conflict.  "Denis, I really didn't mean to offend anyone.  In my spirit, I couldn't agree with your original Constitution.  I just couldn't."

"I know and I'm sorry for causing you pain," Denis apologizes for what is the fourth or fifth time and he is so sincere that I have to look away before my tears spill over.  "But they came back to assure me that they really will change, that we will accept people with mental sicknesses.  We will change.  I promise."

"They really walked back to Bungatira in the dark to tell you that?" I'm incredulous.

"Yes.  And I promise we will change," Denis holds my gaze.

"I believe you.  It's actually why I wanted to meet with you today.  I have good news for you and for Bungatira."

"I already have pigs.  What other good news could there be?" he laughs.

"You know how my friends and family have been sending money for me to do kind things here?"

"Yes," Denis nods.  He knows better than anyone because he's helped me haul pigs and shoes and mattresses and medicine and a wild assortment of other things.

"This is my friend Jenna," I show Denis a photo of her on my iPad.  "Jenna and her friends in Oregon sent over a large sum of money, so large that Jenna and I weren't exactly sure what to do with it.  So we've been praying about how to best use this money.  You know that some of my loved ones have mental illnesses, but what you don't know is that Jenna's son, who was a soldier in Afghanistan, has returned home from war and has also been struggling with post traumatic stress.  Here he is with his newborn son," I flick to a new photo on the iPad.

"I'm sorry," Denis' forehead is creased with worry.

"Jenna tells me that fatherhood is helping him return to himself, helping him remember who he's called to be.  Denis, I wrote about my difficult day in Bungatira and when Jenna read that you'd changed your Constitution to include people with mental illnesses, she immediately messaged me to give the money to you and to Bungatira.  Jenna and her friends are giving you this money so that you don't have to wait for your pigs to mature in order to return to school."

I open my travel notebook to the page where I've scrawled 250,000 shillings, the equivalent of $100.  It's enough to pay for schooling for the upcoming trimester as well as part of the next trimester.  On a good day driving his boda Denis makes approximately $6, not enough to live off, let alone pay for school.  I take the shillings out of my purse and slide them across the table to him.  He counts them in disbelief.

"Thank you, Alicia.  This is all because of you."  Denis comes around to my side of the table to hug me.

"Denis, I need you to hear me when I say this.  It's not because of me.  It's because of the changes you and the group in Bungatira are making.  You've inspired Jenna to support what you're doing here.  It's because of you, not me.  I'm just the one who gets to deliver the message."

"Now you listen to me, Alicia," Denis jokingly wags his finger at me.  "You're delivering the message and your message is hope." By this time, tears are welling in Denis' eyes and flat out dripping down my own cheeks.  He continues.  "My family told me to go to a trade school to become a boda mechanic, but I kept telling them that I wanted to go back to school and get my degree, that I want to me more than a mechanic."

"And now you can.  Denis, you get to go back to school."  We're both smiling and blinking back tears.  "You get to be a student again."

"Will you go with me to register for school?" Denis grins from ear to ear and I do, too.  He's 27 and he'll be returning to what is the equivalent of third trimester of his sophomore year in high school.

"It will be my pleasure." I use a napkin to wipe my eyes.

"I might become a doctor instead of a teacher," Denis dreams out loud.

"I think that would be great.  Doctors are teachers, too, you know."  We sit for a moment with that dream between us on the table.  "But wait, Denis, I have more good news.  Jenna and her friends sent money for Bungatira so your group could start up the savings and loan program you've been talking about.  People in Bungatira will be able to take out loans to send their kids to school.  Here's how much Jenna and her friends want to give your community group.  I slide the notebook over again and point at the number I've written.  640,000 shillings, approximately $250 dollars.

Denis is out of his chair again and we're hugging and laughing and crying and making a complete scene in the cafe.

"I know my last visit to Bungatira wasn't easy for, well, anyone, but I'd like to return and tell the group about Jenna and her son and tell them that the changes they're making are inspiring people halfway across the world.  The other thing I'd like to do is return next year and see all the good Bungatira is doing with the money.  Is that okay?"  I'm hesitant about asking to return.

"Of couse, it's okay.  You're ever welcome in Bungatira," Denis smiles and then pauses.  "Alicia, where are you from?"

"Denis, you know I'm from California," I laugh because this is a fact he's known for over a year.

"No, I mean where did you come from?"

"Sorry, I don't understand the question."  I'm lost in translation a LOT in Uganda.

"I mean, I don't think you were born.  I think you were sent."

"What?  Denis, trust me, I was born.  I weighed nine pounds, one ounce.  I was definitely born.  Just ask my mom."

"Alicia, trust me, your mom would say you were sent."

"Denis, you give me too much credit.  This is because of you, not because of me."

"And you don't give yourself enough credit, Hero Lanyero."

I blush at my name, one I'll forever try to live up to.  I quickly change the subject.  "You'll talk with the group in Bungatira and let me know when I can return and present the money to them?"

"Yes, we'll go on Sunday.  I'll ask the local dance group to come and perform traditional dances as well."

"I'd like that.  I haven't seen any traditional dances yet."

"And tomorrow we'll go to my school so I can register."

"I'd like that even more."  My cheeks ache from smiling, but I can't help smiling at my friend who gets to go back to school. I can't help but smile for my sweet friend, Jenna, and her fellow Vigilantes of Kindness who have made this possible.

Denis leaves me alone in the cafe and I sit thinking about how blessed I am to return to this land and to this people I love so dearly.  My mom can verify that all nine pounds, one ounce of me was born in California, but sitting in my favorite cafe in Gulu, I know with every beat of my heart that this-this beautiful work of being kind for the sake of kindness-this is why I was born.

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: Ivan's Paintings

"Alicia, will you buy one of my paintings?" Ivan chuckles. He laughs like the cartoon character Goofy and I giggle each time I hear his laugh. "I need to earn some money to buy school supplies and some more art supplies."

I love this kid for wanting to earn money instead of asking for a handout.

Ivan is one of my favorite kids from this year. A few years ago Ivan and his younger sister were taken in by an American couple. Ivan didn't have a father in his life and after a tragic accident his mother was left mentally disabled and unable to care for her children. She now lives in a care facility in another part of Uganda. Ivan calls the American couple his parents. When his parents had to return to the U.S., they left Ivan and his sister with a house to live in. His parents send money for the house, for bills, for food and for schooling. Ivan keeps a detailed account of the expenses and he reports it back to his parents every month. Any extra things Ivan needs, he pays for himself by selling paintings out of the art studio at his house. When Ivan and his sister finish school here, they will join their parents in the U.S., where Ivan hopes to attend a university and major in art.

"I'd love to buy a painting, Ivan. Do you have them here?" It matters little to me if his paintings are any good.

"No, but I'll get them from town and show them to you. I've got four finished paintings, but I want to give one to the Vice President of our school when he visits."

He brings the paintings to school and we go behind one of the classrooms where he lays them out on the ground. They're good.  I immediately know exactly which one I'm going to buy for myself. It's a small painting of the word LOVE with Africa in place of the O.

Love

What Ivan doesn't know is that I'm using Vigilante money to buy the other two remaining paintings.

I pick up the LOVE painting and the two other paintings. "I'll buy these three, Ivan."

"Three? Really?" His Goofy chuckle rolls up from his belly.

"Yes, three. How much do I pay?"

"Anything is fine."

"Ivan, I want to support the work you're doing as an artist. So think of a price that's fair for both of us and that's what I'll pay."

Ivan takes a few minutes to think. "Is 200,000 shillings okay?" I do some quick converting in my head. He's asking for roughly eighty American dollars. I pull shillings out of my wallet for the smaller painting and use Vigilante shillings for the other two paintings. We shake hands and both of us leave feeling like we got the better deal.

In even more exciting news, after seeing my LOVE painting another friend in Africa is commissioning Ivan to paint a similar one for her. My sister is also going to help Ivan make and sell prints of his paintings. Again, one small act of Vigilante Kindness snowballed into something even greater.

When I bought Ivan's other two paintings I honestly didn't know what I was going to do with them. I just knew that I wanted to support Ivan and his budding art career. Later in my hotel room as I spread the paintings out on my bed, an idea came to me: I'd give them away to my fellow Vigilantes of Kindness. The only problem-and it's an incredibly good problem-is that I only have two paintings and I've got way more than two Vigilante donors.

Ivan's impromptu gallery

The two paintings up for grabs are the two closest to the love painting. One is a vertical tree painting. The other is a landscape with elephants in the foreground. I'll take better photos when I get home.

So here's how it's going to work, for every dollar you donated, you'll get a ticket in the drawing. So if you donated $20, you'll have 20 tickets in the drawing. If you donated $200, then your name will be on 200 tickets and so forth. I'll do the drawing on September 30th. That will give me time to take photos for making prints.

This is also good news for those of you who wanted to be Vigilantes of Kindness, but weren't able to because you offered to donate when I was already making my way back home. You can make a donation and be entered in the drawing as well. (Message me for details on how to donate.) Any new donations will go toward my return trip next year and the Vigilante Acts of Kindness that are yet to come.

I'm absolutely giddy at the mere thought of returning to the land I love and exacting more kindness for the sake of being kind. I look at Ivan's LOVE painting and wonder just what's going to happen next in my love story-our love story-for Uganda.

Magnificently Ordinary Vigilante Acts of Kindness

Sometimes committing Vigilante Acts of Kindness in Gulu involved really glamorous things, the kinds of things that look good in photos, like buying shiny new shoes for 30 kids or wrestling a manure filled sack of piglets on the back of a boda. Like I said, really glamorous stuff.

Other times, the Vigilante Acts of Kindness were magnificently ordinary. Basic needs that were met because I didn't have my own agenda and instead took time to ask, "What do you need and how can I help?"

I spent an entire day in Gulu town with the head teacher JB and my trusty sidekick, Denis, making sure some of those basic needs were met.

The first item on our list was to buy fencing materials. The boys dorm on campus backs up to a road and JB had been losing sleep at night because the road provided the perfect opening for trespassers, of both the animal and human type, to enter campus.

"So let's go buy a fence, JB," I shrugged.

"It will be expensive and we will have to rent a truck to transport the materials."

"I think I've got enough donations, but write down your estimate and let me make sure."

After a few quick calculations, JB shows me a number. It's sizable, roughly one hundred fifty American dollars, a small fortune here in Uganda.

"That's no problem."

"I didn't include the truck," he scrawls another number and shows it to me. A truck rental will be 40,000 shillings, or roughly sixteen American dollars.

Buying a fence with JB

"That's fine, JB. What else does the school need?"

"I still have many textbooks that we need for the library."

"Let's get those while we're in town and you can throw them in the truck, too."

"Are you sure you've got the money?"

We purchased a total of over 50 textbooks.

"Yes, and I'm running out of time to spend it. What else does the school need?"

"Well, the primary kids need readers and some workbooks. And teachers need pencils, pencil sharpeners, markers and chart paper." JB waits for me to say no, but with a wad of Vigilante shillings stuffed in my purse, my mouth is full of yes.

School supply shopping is so much more fun on a boda.

"Good. Let's get that stuff while we're in town and toss it in the truck, too. I know the students need ringworm cream, so I'm going to go talk to Mama (the dorm mom) and see what other medicines she's short on."

Mama is all smiles when I ask her to make me a list. She doesn't hold back and I love her for being so candid about the needs of the students.

On the day we hit town to pick up all these things, I love Mama even more for adding yeast infection kits to her list. Watching Denis turn thirty shades of red while he translated that one to the pharmacist was worth ever shilling!

How do you say 'yeast infection' in Acholi?

On my last day at the school, Mama found me and invited me into her living quarters at the far end of one of the girls dorms.

"Hi, Mama. Itye maber? (How are you?)" I sit in the plastic chair she's brought out for me.

"I'm fine. Thank you for buying medicine for the students. Five girls have already made use of the feminine medicines." She sits down across from me.

"Mama, you already thanked me. Three times. I'm glad the medicine is helping." I pat her hand.

"You're different, Alicia."

I don't really know how to take that one. Different like the kid who eats paste kind of different? Sometimes compliments here are hard to swallow, like how being called fat is a good thing because it symbolizes wealth.

"You're different than other muzungus who come here. You asked what we need and then you took action."

"Thanks, Mama. It's a lesson I'm still learning with lots of help from the people at home." I look down at my hands.

Mama's right, I am different. I'm different than the person I was when I arrived. I've tried to heed Ernesto Sirolli's wonderful, if not eloquent, advice to ask what people need and then shut up and do it. No more planting tomatoes for hippos.

"Greet the people at home and tell them thank you for me," Mama hugs me tight. She's soft and I see why the kids have such deep love for her.

"I will, Mama."

I leave campus that day knowing that I'm leaving my kids in good hands. I'm leaving them in Mama's hands, hands that daily commit magnificently ordinary acts of kindness without fanfare, fuss or recognition.

Beautiful, soft Mama

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: The Secrets We Keep

"I found out a secret about you today," I smile and tease.

The boy's face drains of color. I've forgotten that I'm in a land where secrets are buried deep in the blood stained soil, where secrets are nightmarish memories to be escaped in the waking hours.

I feel my face redden at my thoughtless blunder. "It's a good secret. I found out that your friend is a waiter at my favorite cafe in Gulu town. See?" I hold up my iPad. "He sent you a video." I press play and the friend's face comes to life.

He finds me again later that same day. "Alicia, I need to talk with you privately."

"Okay." I search his face, but I don't recognize this expression. Fear? Shame? Worry? I can't break the code. "Do you want to talk now?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow then."

Tomorrow arrives and admittedly, I've forgotten about the private conversation we need to have. I speak with him every day, mostly in relative privacy, so his request hasn't taken root in my memory. I see him and wave, greeting him in my laughable Acholi.

He does not greet me in return. "Can we talk now?" He doesn't wait for my response. Instead he guides me by the elbow into an empty room where we sit side by side.

"I have to tell you a sad story about myself. I want you to be prepared." He is serious.

I've heard lines like this my entire trip. The stories here are all sad and the stories always end with a request for money. The stories are often elaborations of the truth, hungry attempts to escape poverty via pity. I take a deep breath and formulate how exactly I'm going to say no this time. It is a jaded side of myself, one I need here and one I simultaneously loathe.

"When I was younger, there came a day when I was playing with a certain friend near a mango tree. That friend climbed the mango tree and fell out of it, breaking both of his arms."

"Sorry."

"There was blood everywhere and so I picked him up and carried him to get help."

"That sounds like you."

"I lost track of this certain friend until he called me sometime ago to tell me he is HIV positive and that I'd better get tested as well."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"Are you HIV positive?"

His eyes are downcast and when he raises them, I know the answer before he says it. He swallows hard. "Yes. And I'm starting to have many pains and sicknesses."

"I'm so sorry," I put my hand on his back.

"I've known for some time now. I wanted you to know because I've not been doing well and you're leaving soon and if I'm not," he pauses, "if I'm not here when you return, I wanted you to know why."

I don't know what to say. Or do. Sorrow rises in a wave of heat from my stomach and it's all I can do not to vomit. "You're sure? I mean, you had a second test to confirm?"

He nods. "And a third."

"What does your family think? Are they helping you get treatment?"

"They don't know."

"Why not?"

"If I tell them, I'll be excommunicated from my clan and won't be able to go to school."

I find myself wishing to God that he's lying about the HIV and about his family. He's not. "What are you going to do?"

"Live out the rest of my life." He looks at his hands.

"Are you afraid?"

"Afraid of HIV? No, I already have it so fearing is of no use. I fear dying before I get to fulfill my dreams. Do you fear HIV?"

"Yes," the word catches in my throat and I choke on the painful truth of it.

"Do you fear me?" He looks out a window.

"No." It's an easy answer. "No, I don't, but I, too, fear you dying before you fulfill your dreams. I really want you to consider treatment."

"Treatment is expensive and my test records were lost in a storm that took the roof off the hospital."

"You need to get tested again."

"I can't pay for the test."

"I've got that covered."

"Will you go with me?" His voice is small, scared.

"Yes."

"And then what?" He clears his throat and blinks. I pretend not to notice the sheen in his eyes. He hopes I have a plan. I don't.

"After we get the results, we'll have to figure something out. I don't really know what." The truth feels paltry here, but I can't make empty promises. We make arrangements to meet at the hospital Friday morning.

That day on the ride home, I cry and cry on the back of Denis' boda. Denis is quiet and just lets me cry. I think of the boy and all the things I love about him. He is honest to a fault and loyal down through the marrow of his bones. The other day I watched him raise the flag and back away in reverence. I love this boy and the thought of HIV running rampant inside him is more than I can take. I catch a glimpse of myself in Denis' rearview mirror. My tears have left trails through the dirt that bronzes my face.

I toss and turn Thursday night and can't stomach breakfast Friday morning. I call Denis to come and get me and on the ride to the hospital I'm quiet. Denis knows the reason for my trip to the hospital and he tries to cure my sadness with lighthearted conversation. My responses are brief as I tamp down the urge to vomit. It is the feeling I get each time I grieve, and I am grieving with such weight for this nineteen year old boy.

My phone rings as the wind whips through my hair on the back of the boda. It's the boy. He's reached the hospital early and is waiting by the gate. He couldn't sleep either. At the gate I shove a fistful of shillings in Denis' hand and I meet this sweet kid at the gate.

We enter and I follow him up a flight of stairs. He's wearing one fluorescent green sock and one fluorescent pink sock. With his black slacks and pressed blue button up school shirt, the socks are ridiculous and I stifle a giggle. The socks peek out over the tops of his shoes and I am reminded that he's just a kid. He later explains that he got dressed in the dark before the sun was up and couldn't see what socks he was putting on.

The hospital grounds are covered with patients who have laid out papyrus mats and their wash bins. They are a patchwork quilt across the grass, along every sidewalk and under every overhang. Their clothes hang from lines stretched across the grass, brightly colored garments snapping like prayer flags in the wind. There are no empty rooms for these patients.

I've never seen so much need before and as I follow the boy, I say a prayer for the people in this hospital and also a prayer of thanksgiving for my own health.

We wait for the doctor who has not yet arrived. We wait for hours. After the doctor arrives and performs an examination, we walk to a different part of the hospital for the HIV test. We wait again for hours. The waiting is excruciating.

The hospital walls are crumbling and rusted. The building itself looks as if it's dying, succumbing to mold creeping up the sides and covered by the film of acrid red dirt that blocks light from entering the windows.

Everywhere there are babies, hundreds of babies, tied on the backs of their mothers. ALL of the babies are wailing. Ugandan babies never cry so the sound is unbearably upsetting.

We sit by the door of a room with a solitary word painted above the door frame. "Counseling". I steel myself for counseling on treatment options for this boy to extend his life as long and as fully as possible.

The doctor arrives and we enter. After a brief conversation, the doctor pricks the boy's finger and squeezes a drop of blood onto a test strip. We remain in the room, waiting to see the pink line that indicates HIV appear. We wait only minutes, but it feels like centuries. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until the doctor says to the boy,"You're HIV negative."

The boy and I exhale, but neither of us speak.

"Are you sure?" My voice barely surpasses the lump bobbing in my throat. "I mean how sure are you?"

The doctor digs in the waste can and pulls out a test from yesterday. "See how this one has a pink line running through it? This person is unfortunately HIV positive. See how your test doesn't have any lines running through it?" The doctor holds up both and the boy and I rise out of our seats to get a closer look.

The boy sputters, "But three times I was tested and they said I was positive. How can this be?"

"Did you remain in the room while they were getting the results or did you wait outside?" the doctor asks.

"They made me wait outside. Twice over there in that room," the boy points to another building in the hospital, "And once at the hospital in my district."

"I'm guessing they made a mistake."

"Three times?" the boy and I speak in stereo.

"Usually we only administer a second test if the first is positive, but I'll administer another one right here so you can see for yourself. This one is a little more expensive though."

"I don't care." I grab the boy's hand and shove it toward the doctor so he can sample another drop of blood. He pricks a different finger and squeezes a drop of blood onto the test.

We wait triple the recommended minutes, just in case. We don't take our eyes off the test strip. We don't even blink.

The test is negative.

The doctor shows us a positive test and the results are black and white.

The boy does not have HIV.

The boy and I spring out of our chairs and hug each other. We jump up and down and laugh and hug and tears of joy squirt from our eyes. We carry on like this for a lengthy period of time. The doctor smiles at us.

"Alicia, did you bring your camera? Take my snap with the doctor." The boy stands and straightens the tie of his school uniform. He puts his arm around the doctor. They are both grinning from ear to ear in my camera lens.

"Doctor, I'm sorry to be so ignorant, but do you have a medical explanation as to why he'd test positive so many times and test clearly negative today?" I want to believe, but I don't. I want to put my finger in nail holes. I hear myself thinking a familiar prayer. Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

"My guess is that it was human error mixing up the test results. That's why we now do this test right in front of the patient." The doctor pauses, "Then again, miracles do happen."

"I don't care which it is! This is the greatest day in my life!" The boy hugs me and hugs the doctor again.

We still have to visit two other places in the hospital, one for a Hepatitis test (which turns out negative as well) and lastly to return to the first doctor for a final consultation and for some antibiotics for a couple of smaller issues. We leave the HIV counseling office and practically skip to the next building. I watch the pink and green socks flash from underneath his pant cuffs. I am smiling so hard that my face aches.

At the end of a very long day, the boy leaves the hospital with antibiotics. I leave with approximately forty-five fewer Vigilante of Kindness dollars and we both leave with the knowledge that the boy gets a shot at living a long and healthy life to pursue his dreams.

"This is because of you. You should hang onto this," the boy shoves his HIV results paper into my hand.

"You need to keep it. I hand it back. You need to keep your medical records as proof of the tests they did today."

"As proof that I am healthy," he smiles.

"You should share this good news with your family."

"I can't," he hangs his head.

It pains me that he couldn't share the heavy burden of being infected with HIV, but it breaks my heart in a new way that he can't share the lifting of that burden.

I pause for a moment, thinking about the secrets we keep, thinking about how when the boy returns to school, he won't share this news with another soul.

We part ways at the hospital gate. He takes a boda back to school and I ride with Denis back to town. I stare back at the hospital sign, "La Cor Hospital". I'm reminded that 'cor' means heart and my heart overflows.

A few days later, I'm saying my goodbyes at the school. I can't find the boy anywhere. As I'm walking toward Denis to ride back to town, I see the boy running toward me. I run, too. We hug and I fight back tears.

"I was at home today. I've just returned and I thought I'd missed you," he says catching his breath.

"I thought I was going to miss you, too. Why were you at home?"

"I told my parents."

"And?"

"They were happy for me," he grins. "I don't have the words to thank you. I just don't have the words."

"It's okay. You can thank me by pursuing your dreams all through your long and healthy life." I squeeze him tight.

"I will." He hugs me one last time. "I promise," he smiles and I know that the boy with the mismatched socks, the boy who is honest to a fault, the boy who revels in the majesty of the flag is going to spend the rest of his life doing just what he promised me.

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: Doing It Wrong

"Peter Paul Opok Road. That's where the gallery moved to."

"I do not know that road."

"A road you don't know? I never thought that would happen." I poke Denis in the back as we ride through town.

"I will find out. We will go." Denis speaks to some men building bed frames by the just moved sign hanging by the old studio/gallery. He returns a minute later. "Okay, I know."

We speed to the back side of town, curling in between traffic and pedestrians along the muddy road. I'm going to miss riding on the back of motorcycles. I tip my face to the sky and let the sprinkling rain hit my cheeks.

My favorite artist, Omuny, is in residence and she has new pieces hanging all over the walls. She's been busy since last summer. Behind the counter is a stack of paintings leaning against the wall.

"Are those for sale?"

"Yes. I just haven't put them out yet." Omuny motions me behind the counter and I flip thorough the stack.

Omuny's Angel

The moment I see it, I know it's the one for my artist sister. Supporting a local artist is the perfect way to spend the rest of her Vigilante donation.

"I'll take this one, please." I hand it to Omuny who removes it from the frame and rolls it for me.

I carefully count out bills and I squeeze them tight in my hand. She hands me the painting and I shove the wad of bills in her hand, practically running out the door. I grab Denis' sleeve and pull him out with me. "Quickly, quickly let's go!" I can barely control my giggles.

We speed away and from the back of the boda I see Omuny hurrying out the door toward us.

"How much did you pay for that?" Denis calls back to me.

"Enough."

"Did you barter with her?" Denis wrinkles his brow.

"Nope."

"How much did you pay?  Did you pay the asking price?"

"It's so much worse than you think." I turn and wave at Omuny, who has run out of the gallery after me. She waves back and smiles.

"Lanyero, how much did you pay?  Tell me." Denis is stern now.

"I paid her double!"

"You're doing it wrong." He shakes his head at me, like he so often does.

"I know." I can't suppress my grin.

Back in my hotel room I unroll the painting. I take a snap and giggle at the thought of Omuny counting out the money and finding I'd paid double the asking price. I AM doing things all wrong this trip and my heart feels so completely right.

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: Shiny New Shoes, Part 2

Denis hoisted the sack of shoes onto the front of the boda. Monday morning had arrived and that meant it was time to pass out shiny new shoes to the P1 students and to the children living on campus. Although the road was clear and Denis zipped along, the ride to school seemed interminably long.

Finally we reached the campus and Denis hefted the sack off the boda. I enlisted the help of my son, Geoffrey, and two of my young writers from last year, Richard and Johnson. Together we lined the shoes up on the step outside of the classroom, each pair with a child's name carefully penned of the tag. 27 pairs in all.

Shiny new shoes all in a row.

Half an hour before school was finished Mr. Martin brought the class outside and I called out the name of each and handed them their shoes, Mr. Martin and my three older student helpers stood ready to help tie all those shoes.

When I handed each student their shoes and a bright white pair of socks, they were too surprised to speak. The took the shoes and then in a bit of a daze, they got help putting them on. I've seen this dazed look before on my own first grade students when we went on field trips that were so amazing that all they could do was stand there and take it in.

One little one said, "Thank you" as I handed her a pair of shoes and the rest of the children remembered their manners and followed suit, thanking me in their best English.

Thank you.

When everyone had been given their new shoes, it was time for pictures. Some of the kids grinned so widely that I was sure I could see every single tooth. Others were still dazed. They sang their goodbye song and I recorded a bit of it to show the donors and then clapped to show their appreciation.

When Mr. Martin dismissed them to go inside and stack their chairs and go home, they stomped up the stairs, giggling at the sound of their new shoes on the pavement. I laughed as they stomped up a storm and when they came back outside, every single child stopped to shake my hand and say thank you.

As they walked off campus, I watched them carefully avoiding mud puddles to keep their shoes shiny and clean. One little girl stopped every few feet to dust off any specks of dirt that got on her shoes. I can only imagine how long it took her to walk home that day!

Walking Home

Another little girl could not wear her new shoes that day. In all my days on campus, I'd never seen her wear shoes. She had a wound on her foot from walking everywhere without shoes. She is the reason this Vigilante Act of Kindness was so needed. She's the reason why I'm so appreciative of all the Vigilantes who made this shoe project possible. I watched this little girl walk home, cradling her new shoes carefully in her arms. I saw her again two days later wearing her new shoes, protecting her precious feet, and couldn't help but smile in gratitude for my friends and family who had offered of themselves to provide her with shiny new shoes.

There is a musee (an elder) who stands guard at the front of the school. His English is as good as my Acholi, a fact that we laugh about daily. When Denis picked me up from school that day, the musee stopped me. He shook my hand and in words I think he'd been practicing all day, he said, "Well done, Madame. Well done." So to my fellow Vigilantes of Kindness, I pass along his words and with a full heart I say to you, "Well done, friends. Well done."

Vigilante Acts of Kindness: Visitation Day

My tiny hotel room smelled like bananas. The two clusters of bananas I'd bought were fresh from the tree and their smell permeated my living space.

The morning of Visitation Day at the school had arrived. Parents would arrive to visit their children and to talk with the teachers about their child's progress. For most it would be a happy day.

For the orphaned students it would be one of the most difficult days of the year.

The school had been buzzing about Visitation Day for weeks, but underneath the excitement I heard quieter voices, one in particular belonging to Ivy.

"Ivy, are you excited for Visitation Day?" I asked.

"Sure," she shrugged the word out of her mouth.

"Is your family coming to visit you?"

"No, my parents died when I was a baby and my aunt is paralyzed and lives too far away to travel."

"I'm coming to Visitation Day to visit my sons. Maybe I could visit you, too?" I suggested.

"I'd like that," she smiled and looked down. "Alicia, lots of kids here call you Mum. I know you have three sons. Could I call myself your daughter?" Ivy avoided eye contact.

I was taken aback by her request, but when I saw her downcast face, the only appropriate response was, "I'd like that, Ivy."

"Good. Then when the other kids ask who is coming to visit me on VD, I can say my Mum is coming to visit," she smiled at me from behind her glasses.

I picked my heart up off the ground and wondered how many other orphaned kids were wanting to, but couldn't say their mom was coming to visit.

Word spread around the school that I'd be visiting kids that day and soon the list of kids claiming me as their visitor grew quite long. I asked around about exactly what it is parents do on Visitation Day. In addition to visiting their children, and speaking with the teachers, parents bring them special foods from home.

I had the visiting thing under control, but I didn't have the skills or the kitchen to prepare any special foods from home. So I called in help. The day before Visitation Day, I had a meeting with Joseph, the fledgling chef who works at the hotel where I'm staying. Joseph is twenty-one years old and is trying desperately to earn enough money to finish his final year of culinary school.

"Joseph, tomorrow is Visitation Day at my school and I'm going to have a big picnic. Where could I get a ton of chipatti and a fresh order of bananas, too?" I sat across the table from him, drinking mango juice he'd squeezed that morning.

"Give me the contract and I'll have everything perfect for you tomorrow morning," Joseph replied.

We agreed on an amount and I gave him some Vigilante shillings. We shook hands and the evening before Visitation Day, two clusters of fresh bananas were placed in my room and the morning of Visitation Day, the chipatti was perfect, just as Joseph promised. I already had a jar of fresh groundnut paste (like peanut butter, only better) that would round out the meal.

I'd planned on looking my best for Visitation Day, wearing my cleanest hand-washed clothes, shaving the layers of dirt off my legs and washing my hair, no matter how frigid the water was. I woke up that morning and didn't hear the familiar rumbling sound of the back up generator. Oh, good, there's electricity today. I flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. Oh well, no electricity today. In the bathroom I turned the hot and cold water knobs. Again nothing happened. I guess I don't have to worry about cold water or any water for that matter. I put my relatively clean clothes on my relatively dirty body, brushed my teeth with my one remaining bottle of water and clamped a headband on top of my out of control curls. I looked in the mirror. It would have to do for the day.

It rained the entire morning and I sat by the window in my room willing the rain to stop. Instead it poured harder. The streets were devoid of sputtering bodas. When the rain slowed to a drizzle, I packed the bananas, chipatti and groundnut paste into my backpack and called my faithful boda driver, Denis. Juba Road was a slick mess of red mud. Mud flicked off the back wheel and splattered my skirt, but I was sure a little water would take care of the mud splatters. That thought was still hanging in the air like a bubble over my head when a truck came barreling down the road from the opposite direction. It raced through a puddle and splashed muddy water all over Denis and I. I was soaked to the bone and at that point all I could do was laugh at the muddy mess I had become.

The drizzle continued all the way to the school and kept parents at bay. The school was quiet and subdued, the gray skies matching the mood. The parents would have to come on foot or by bicycle, so rain was a legitimate, but still disappointing reason for their absence.

When I arrived at school, I pumped water to wash my face and skirt, but the mud was so caked to my skirt that adding water became a recipe for an even bigger mess. So I planted my mud caked self under the covering of the open classroom and waited to visit with students. A few scuttled here and there in the rain, bundled up in layers of jackets in the 70 degree weather. As the students hurried by, I called out, "Happy visitation day! Come and visit with me!" Almost every student I invited took me up on my offer and pretty soon I had a cluster of kids around me, some who were on my list to visit and other new additions. My two youngest sons were at the center of it all and they were in fine form hamming it up.

One of my favorite boys, a sweet orphaned boy, said, "I didn't think you would come because of the rain."

"I promised you I'd come. It's my first Visitation Day. I'd planned to look a little more presentable, but that didn't work out so well for me." We both laughed at my mud stained clothes.

"It's okay, Mum. I'm glad you showed up."

We were having a great time and before we knew it, it was lunch time and so we retreated into a classroom where anyone and everyone was welcome to the feast I'd carried in my backpack. When I unpacked it, one of the boys remarked, "You brought us food just like the mothers do on VD!" They devoured the food like a band of locusts. I must admit my eyes welled up when every single child made sure to thank me afterward.

Visitation Day

While we were inside eating, the rain stopped, the clouds parted and the sun came out. Mothers and fathers began to arrive. The mothers were dressed in beautiful clothes and carried baskets of handmade and homegrown food. Not a single one had a splatter of mud on their skirt. They were a parade of beauty and poise and I was a stark contrast.

I continued visiting with students all day, making sure to carve out special one on one time for my sons. It was a beautiful day.

As evening approached, or as they say here, as the sun married the moon, I returned to my hotel where I washed the slicks of mud off my skirt and scrubbed my skin clean with mercifully hot water. Under the tent of my mosquito net, I thought about how it didn't matter at all that I arrived wet and muddy. What mattered was that I showed up.

Though I searched and searched for her, I never did see Ivy that day. She later told me that she was feeling ill and had slept all day in the dorm. I wonder if the words felt as untrue in her mouth as they sounded in my ears. Many of the orphans feign illness and sleep the day away until it passes. When I told Ivy that I'd missed visiting her, she peered up at me through her glasses and said quietly, "You came for me?" I nodded and she said, "I didn't think you would. Thanks, Mum."

The new school year is fast approaching and I know I'm going to have students who are used to being let down by parents who don't show up. On mornings when I feel caked in frustration with administration, when I feel like I've been splattered with parent complaints, when I feel soaked to the bone with exhaustion, I'm going to remember Visitation Day and I'm going to show up. I'm going to show up and have faith that the clouds will part and make way for something beautiful. I'm going to show up and show up and show up, especially for my kids who are hiding out and tucking their hearts safely away. I'm going to show up hoping that when I do, it will give them the courage to do the same.

Vigilante Kindness: Piglets for the Piggery

I sat on the back of a boda wrestling a sackful of squealing, wiggling pigs as Denis carefully threaded through the trafficked streets of Pece back to his village. My skirt was slicked with mud and manure and as I grinned from ear to ear and hugged the squirming sack, I thought about the sequence of events that had led me to this exact moment in my life.

This story of Vigilante Kindness begins with my dear friend, Julie, and her husband, Clark. Upon reading the story of Denis, my boda driver, and his quest to have a piggery to earn money to return to school, Julie sent me a message asking how much it would be to buy Denis four more pigs. The amount was sizable in American dollars and an absolute impossibility for Denis to earn in Ugandan shillings. What I love about Julie is that when I told her the amount, she responded with a simple, "Done."

On the day we were to pick up the pigs, Denis first took me to his village Bungatira, meaning 'of the forest'. It was a beautiful ride with several stops along the way because Denis had to pick up cakes for me to eat, milk for me to drink and other special things that were quite costly. I watched him shell out his hard earned boda money in my honor and was humbled to be considered worthy of such sacrifice.

Denis in Bungatira

Once off the main road, the trail to the village became more like a single track mountain bike trail and as we bumped along, I smiled at the scenery of the land I've come to love-the red dirt that stains my hands and face and washes down the drain in mahogany from my hair, the piercing blue sky like the feathers of millions of bluebirds and the bright green grasses growing up along either side of the trail, flicking against my billowing skirt.

The 'Hellisha Project'

When we arrived at Denis' compound, I was tickled to see signs posted all over welcoming me to their home. I met his family and toured their farm, which included sugar cane, beans, millet, groundnuts, maize and sweet potatoes. It's humid in Uganda and I worked up quite a sweat. We reached a creek that runs along the back of their village.

"Do you want to bathe?" Denis felt badly that I was sweating so much.

"I'll bathe back at the hotel. Really, I'm fine."

"You fear the water?"

"No, I just don't bathe in public. I only bathe in private."

"We bathe here. You can bathe here, too. It's okay."

"Coo apwowo, Denis." (Thank you, but I cannot accept, Denis.)

"Then let us go back to the house and rest."

Back in Denis' thatch roof house, Denis, his older brother Michael and I were served posho, beans, bread made from millet and chicken that was slaughtered and cooked that very afternoon. I drank the milk Denis had purchased along with glass bottles of Mountain Dew that were purchased just for the day.

After the meal Denis' immediate family all joined us inside the house. Although I'd already met them, I was reintroduced to the family formally and I knew then that I was in sacred territory, in the presence of a family meeting. Around the room they went showering accolades about this amazing gift Denis was to receive. I proudly showed photos of Julie and Clark and their family.

Denis' mother, who had earlier in the day welcomed me with traditional songs and dances, pressed her hands in mine and declared me her daughter. She made me miss my own mother and sent pangs of sorrow through me for Julie, who misses her mother every day.

Sweet Mama

They continued to speak of this great thing I was doing and though I insisted it wasn't me-that it was all because of Julie and Clark-they kept saying that it was only possible because of me. Michael, Denis' older brother, translated their words of kindness to me and told me it was no use deflecting them because I was the vehicle for Julie and Clark's great generosity. Over and over again, they clapped their hands in appreciation and I sat quietly and took it all in.

I fell in love with this sweet family who had gathered together to celebrate this second chance for their son. I especially fell in love with the eighty-something-year-old parents who still tend to the crops.

When Michael bragged about how bright Denis was when he was in school, I thought of Clark who, on the other side of the world, was at that very moment preparing for his own brother Michael's funeral. The thought of these two sets of brothers honoring each other in such different, yet loving ways brought me to tears and when I told Denis' family about Clark's loss they sat in sorrow with me for Clark.

The family sent me off with their sincerest sympathies mixed with their profound thanks and then Denis and I hopped on his boda to go purchase the pigs. The ride to the farm was a long one that wound away from the villages, back through Gulu and into Pece, the home of the famous Pece soccer stadium. At the farm Denis climbed into the pig stall and selected his four new pigs, three females and one male. He placed them in a sack and then tied the top of the sack making sure there were breathing holes. The woman selling the pigs stepped inside the house to get her receipt book and I slipped the money into Denis' hand so that he could be the official purchaser of the pigs.

A sack of piglets

Denis sat on the boda and I straddled the back of it, leaving a space in between for the sack of piglets. The woman hefted the sack into my lap and the squealing pigs wiggled and grunted as they tried to get comfortable for the ride. The sack was covered in mud and manure which as we rode back through Pece ground itself into my skirt and covered my hands as I held onto the precious cargo.

"Are you okay? Do you want me to call someone else to help me take the pigs home?" Denis asked me for the millionth time.

"I'm fine. When else am I going to have a chance to carry a sackful of piglets on the back of a motorcycle? Never."

"Sure?" Denis grinned at me in the rearview mirror.

"Sure. Let's get your new pigs home." We bounced along the road and I spoke sweetly to the squealing pigs trying in vain to calm them down. Several times I felt pig hooves and snouts poking out of the air holes and smiled at the Ugandans laughing at what must have been a comical sight, a muzungu woman wrestling a bag of pigs!

Back at Denis' village the family greeted us again and helped unload the new pigs into Denis' piggery, which he'd renamed the 'Hellisha Project'. (On a side note, Hellisha is the most fantastic misspelling of my name ever. Hellisha will now be the name of my alter ego.)

The women in Denis' family tsked over my dirty skirt and Denis looked at it in alarm.

"You must take it off and let me wash it." Denis insisted.

"It's fine, Denis. I'll wash it when I get back to the hotel."

"No, you must let me wash it." Denis insisted.

"Coo apwowo." I replied.

"You must."

"Denis, it would not be appropriate in my culture for me to sit in my underpants while you washed my skirt. Thank you, but I truly cannot take my skirt off."

"You cannot move around town like that."

"I will wash these clothes and put on another pair before I move around town."

"You're sure I cannot wash your skirt?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I'll take you back." We said our goodbyes to the family and again rode back into town.

That night as I sat in my hotel room bathroom scrubbing my skirt clean, I couldn't help but smile at all the cultural differences I'd encountered that day. I hung my skirt to dry and showered off the sweat and dirt from the day. Rivulets of red mud dripped down my legs and swirled down the drain and I thought of how at the end of the day we are so much more the same than we are different.

We are friends who laugh together.

We are loud families who gather for a meal.

We are brothers who love each other through life and beyond.

We are mothers and fathers who work hard to provide for our children.

We persevere in the pursuit of education.

And on our best days we see the need of a stranger and place it above our own needs.

On our best days we are Julie and Clark.