Kisses From Katie: A Story of Relentless Love and Redemption

by Katie J. Davis

  From the moment I got there, I was busy, happy, and exhausted from rocking babies, reading to toddlers, playing with preschool-aged children, and entertaining the five- and six-year-olds. I spent mornings teaching kindergarten and spent most of my afternoons with the two- to six-year-olds at the orphanage because the older children attended school during the day and didn’t return to the orphanage until about 5:00 P.M.

  I had come to Uganda loaded with paper, crayons, counting charts, and picture books, prepared to teach the twelve or fourteen kindergarten-aged children who lived at the orphanage. As I was in transit from the States, however, the pastor had decided he felt led to open the school up to the slum community surrounding the orphanage, and the villagers were quick to jump at the opportunity for an inexpensive education.

  Imagine my surprise, then, when I showed up to teach twelve children and 138 pairs of eyes stared back at me, a sea of 138 brown little faces crammed into the barn-turned-classroom (which smelled exactly like a barn and not at all like a classroom), all ready and eager to learn. As I made my way through the maze of little bodies sitting on wobbly benches, the room was silent. Finally, someone was unable to contain a giggle any longer, piercing the quiet with joy. Some of the other students started laughing, too, while others began to cry. The children didn’t know what to do; they had never been to school before. And none of them spoke English. Some, never having seen a white person, trembled with fear and were hesitant to even look at me. Others, so intrigued by this new kind of person, cautiously petted my hair, tugged on my arms, and carefully examined my blue veins through my translucent skin.

  My students were respectful and obedient, but the language barrier, combined with the sheer number of them, made teaching anything seem almost impossible. I spent the first week just trying to come up with a good system of communication. “This is a ball,” I would say slowly, enunciating every syllable. “Dees ees a boll,” their squeaky voices echoed back. We would spend all morning repeating this exercise, only to have someone come up to me at the end of the day holding a pencil and proudly proclaim, “Dees ees a boll!”

  The language issues came as a bit of a surprise because I hadn’t dealt with them while working at the babies’ home during my three-week stay in Uganda. The babies’ home was located in the city of Jinja and many people there spoke English, so my mom and I never had trouble communicating. Besides, technically, English is the official language of Uganda, but the truth is that very few people outside the major cities speak English, certainly not in the small villages outside Jinja, such as the one in which I was living and working. What I learned during that time, though, is that love knows no language. Although we were not able to speak to one another, we found many other ways of communicating; the children seemed to know I loved them, and I knew they loved me too.

  God did eventually send a wonderful translator and three marvelous Ugandan women to teach beside me. I am certain that I learned much more from my students and fellow teachers than they did from me.

  As much as I learned from others, there were certain aspects of adapting to a new culture that I simply had to figure out as I went along, things like how to calculate quickly how many Ugandan shillings equaled one American dollar or trying to ride sidesaddle on a piki. (A piki is a motorcycle and serves as the primary mode of transportation for many people in and around Jinja. Many men have their own businesses as piki drivers. They can be found congregating in groups in the middle of downtown Jinja or hailed, like taxis in the United States, along the side of the road.)

  Days were spent learning to communicate, laughing hysterically with my students, and trying to laugh at the frustrations that came with this new job. Afternoons were spent with the children at the orphanage playing tic-tac-toe and hangman in the dirt, having my hair tugged in all different directions, and getting covered in the red dust that I was learning would never wear off my feet.

  One of my greatest joys was the orphanage’s time of praise and worship to God with all 102 children who lived there. During this time, which lasted for about an hour before the children went to bed, they sang with all their hearts, laughed, cried, and prayed in a language I couldn’t understand. They were simply being with Jesus and I could feel God’s presence there more strongly than I ever had before. I marveled at God’s huge love for us as I cradled little babies late into the night—that even these children, the least of these, were created by Him specifically for a very special purpose.

  There were many moments of great joy: singing of Jesus’ love with the older children as we took a walk to the river to throw stones, cuddling with babies from the orphanage in my twin bed at five in the morning, jumping for joy in church with people so full of God’s love that they could not hold still. However, there were still many moments when my patience was challenged. Through the frustrations, God taught me to laugh at myself, my ways of doing things, and what used to be important to me. He taught me that when doing my best was still not enough, that was when He took over; and because of His great grace and love, even in the frustrating moments I was filled with an inexplicable happiness and peace, my daily proof that I was living my purpose.

  I laugh now to think how stressed out I was about geckos in my bed, children eating erasers, and learning to cook beans on an open fire, wash my laundry by hand with bar soap, or bathe outside in a bucket. Every day, though, as I looked around at beautiful, expectant faces with huge coffee-brown eyes hungry for the love of Jesus, I knew that I was here just to love, and the rest I would figure out in time.

  Sometimes, in the midst of all the loving, praising the Lord, and energy and laughter the children around me seemed to exude, I forgot that these children had been orphaned, that they had horrible sorrow and tremendous pain in their pasts. One day, I was reminded.

  Six-year-old Derek, a shy little boy with the face of an angel, fell and bumped his head. He looked so determined not to cry—here children are taught to be “big” and tough—but against his best efforts, tears began to flow. I pulled him into my lap, and almost as quickly as they had started the tears stopped. But what was left, the sorrow in those eyes beyond the tears, I will never forget. The eyes that peered out of that six-year-old face were a hundred years old and had seen more tragedy in their short lifetime than most ever will. I was filled with grief for this beautiful boy. I cradled in my arms a child who had seen his parents and siblings killed and had more than likely been forced to kill others himself in the war in northern Uganda. This child had known what it meant to be truly starving, to be totally lost, to be utterly hopeless.

  And in that same moment of sadness, I was blown away by the greatness of our Lord, by the fact that God in all His mighty plans had cared enough for this child, had cared enough for me, to put us together in that moment. The God who created the heavens and the earth knew that on a rainy day in Uganda a little boy would bump his head, and the pain would be deeper than just that bump. God had put me in just the right place and given me the privilege of loving this child, gently rubbing his back and holding his hand, in a way he had not been loved in a long time, if ever. By the grace of God, I was blessed with the gift of being able to hold and hug this child, eventually tickling him until those sorrowful eyes brightened a little, and Derek threatened to erupt with laugher. We sat there like that for quite some time, and Derek never spoke. When I asked him if he wanted to go play now, he shook his head and looked at me with a face that read “No, can I stay here forever,” and when we finally got up for dinner, those big brown eyes were full of gratitude. God reminded me again that day that I have one purpose, in Uganda and in life, and that is to love. I could ask for no greater assignment.

  Even though God reminded me in powerful ways at times, like on that day with Derek, that I was called to Uganda, there were still times in those early days when I wondered Why me? Why would God choose me to do this? But as I think through my life, I see how blessed and loved I have been. I think it is only normal that God would ask, even require, me to share
this love with others who may not know it. Luke 12:48 says, “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.” And I have been given so much.

  So this is why my everyday, crazy, chaotic life seems so normal. It is simply an ongoing, ever-changing result of what it looks like to try to love like Christ in my life. This is the spot on the map where God has asked me to do the things I do—like pour out my heart for children who are hungry or alone, to try to help people leave harmful work and learn skills that will help them care for their families, or to assist women who are struggling to raise their children alone. This is the place where I am supposed to follow Jesus, obey Him, and make my best effort, with His gracious help, to treat people with dignity and care for them unconditionally. To say yes to each and every thing He asks of me, to each person He places in front of me.

  ONE DAY . . .

  Saturday, September 29, 2007

  Sometimes working in a Third World country makes me feel like I am emptying the ocean with an eyedropper. And just when I have about half a cup full of water it rains: More orphaned children from the north migrate to where I live, more abandoned and dead babies are found, more people are infected with HIV. It is enough to discourage even the most enthusiastic and passionate person. And yet the discouragement lasts only a moment and God tells me to keep going. That He loves me. That He loves these people. That He will never leave or forsake any of us, not one. That my work is important—to Him.

  I spent the day today at the wedding of my friend Lydia. It was a beautiful celebration not only of the love two people can have for each other but also of the love God has for us. At the reception, there was cake and singing and dancing, just as there would be at any American wedding. One thing that wasn’t like an American wedding, however, was the congregation of street children at the gate, all longing to join the party inside. I immediately felt suffocated inside the gates of the extravagant party. So for most of the reception you could find me outside with the raggedy, dirty street children dancing and laughing and cuddling. Most people were slightly appalled that I was associating with these children—the outcasts of society. Many of the fancily dressed guests at the wedding even came and told me that I probably shouldn’t associate with these children, let alone kiss them and let them bury their faces in my hair.

  “They are street children!” the people would cry, as if it was some kind of sin, as if the children could help it. We had so much fun, though. The children ate up every bit of attention I could give, danced as close to me as they possibly could, and lavished me with love. We spun and laughed until we ached and had to collapse in the grass outside of where the reception was taking place. Those who had been shy at first ended up snuggled close at my side, petting my hair or kissing my hands. The smallest ones fell asleep in my lap, despite the blaring music from the wedding. Those who could speak English wanted to know all about me and thanked me unnecessarily for spending time with them. They were so happy; I can’t describe the new light in their eyes after all of our dancing.

  It’s that light.

  It’s that happiness.

  It’s that love.

  Darling Emily, a little girl from the orphanage, is snuggled against my chest fast asleep, and I can feel her heart beating against mine.

  It’s that beat.

  It’s that warmth.

  It’s that love.

  That love is the reason I just keep filling up my little eyedropper, keep filling it up and emptying my ocean one drop at a time. I’m not here to eliminate poverty, to eradicate disease, to put a stop to people abandoning babies. I’m just here to love.

  2

  IN THE CRUCIBLE OF CONTRADICTION

  October 6, 2007

  The classroom where I teach is between the animal feeding grounds and the pit latrines, so my classroom is constantly filled with the smell of waste, animal and human.

  The weather is stifling here. The moment I step out of my icy shower, I begin to sweat.

  I sleep under a mosquito net to avoid getting bitten by mosquitoes infected with malaria and other diseases, but I still can’t avoid ants and crickets in my bed.

  In my bathroom lives a rat the size of a house cat and there are a few bats in the shower. This morning I almost grilled a lizard in my toaster.

  Fred, my piki man, is almost always late, sometimes runs into cows, runs out of gas, or forgets to warn me of impending potholes.

  When it rains, the awful roads turn into muddy swamps, making it nearly impossible to go anywhere.

  For lunch and dinner we eat posho, which is corn flour boiled in water until it is thick and pasty. It tastes a little worse than Elmer’s glue.

  Sometimes, the children are so dirty they actually reek; it is impossible to touch them without becoming filthy.

  With the wind blowing red dust everywhere, it is impossible not to be filthy anyway.

  A rooster crows around five to wake me up each morning—that is, if I haven’t already been up all night with a sick baby or getting sick myself.

  And to you, these sound like complaints. They are not; this is me, rejoicing in the Lord, because you see . . .

  I love my tiny classroom. I love the hot sun on my face. I love my bed, cozy under my net after a long day. I love my home sweet home, all its creatures included. I love Fred, my piki man. I love my long walks home, day or night, rain or shine. I love the beating, cleansing Ugandan rain. I love my Ugandan meals, prepared with such love and generosity. I love to be hugged and touched and jumped on and cuddled by these precious children. I love the cool, dusty breeze in my hair. I love every African sunrise, the cool and calm of a new morning. I love each and every day, each and every moment that I spend in this beautiful country; I rejoice in each breath I take.

  If I had to summarize in one word my first weeks and months in Uganda, it would be contradiction. The physical environment of Uganda is one huge paradox: amazing, breathtaking beauty juxtaposed against immense poverty and desolation. My life—especially my emotions—hung in the balance between absolutely loving my new life in Uganda and battling severe loneliness. Not a single person around me understood anything about my life, my culture, or my background. Their frame of reference was so different from mine that even the most detailed explanation hardly helped them understand or relate. Most of the people around me didn’t speak my language, nor did I speak theirs. This communication vacuum left me feeling isolated and forced to work much harder to build meaningful relationships. In addition, everyone around me was either much older or much younger than I was; I had no peers. And for someone who had landed in Uganda fresh out of the American high school experience, where I’d had many good friends, the absence of people my age caused me to feel even more alone.

  During my early days here, I was learning so much—everything from how to eat foods I’d never seen before to how to communicate through hand signals and facial expressions with people whose language I did not know. My horizons were being expanded in the most amazing ways; my perspectives were changing every day; and my faith was being challenged and stretched. All of this was so exciting to me. I didn’t want to admit that, in the midst of such a wonderful and invigorating experience, I sometimes felt tangible pangs of loneliness when I thought about how many miles away I was from the people I loved. I spent many hours curled up in a ball on my lumpy twin bed, sweltering, often in the dark, and crying—partly because I was overwhelmed and feeling inadequate and partly because I missed my family or my boyfriend. Sometimes, I cried because I was simply exhausted.

  Even though I cried often, there were four words I absolutely did not want to hear from anyone at home, especially those who had questions and misgivings about my being in Uganda: “I told you so.” I didn’t want anyone to know that I sometimes longed for my familiar home while I reveled in the newness of a country so unlike anywhere I’d ever been, that I missed my old friends terribly even as I was making wonderful new ones. I d
idn’t want to tell friends and family that I could dance and sing and play with children all day long yet collapse in tears at night in the privacy of my small room. I could praise God with all my joyful heart and then later pour out my heart to Him with frustration and weeping when no one could hear.

  The contradiction comes when I realize that all these experiences and emotions were real. The happiness that gave me chill bumps was as deep as my loneliness. My sense of certainty about being exactly where God wanted me was solid, but just as firm was the fact that I wondered at times what on earth I was doing here. The frustration that threatened to overtake me on some occasions was just as deep and true as the unbounded joy I felt at other times. I loved my new life; I truly loved it. But compared to the life I had been living, it was hard.

  There were many moments when the only way I could keep going was to try my best not to look back but to look only forward, relying on God’s perfect plan. Like so many other things, this wasn’t always easy, but it was the key to conquering the mountains of difficulty that arose on the landscape of my life.

  Despite the obstacles, I felt a surprising level of comfort living in Uganda most of the time. I felt I was born to be there, and in many ways, living there seemed more natural than living in my native country. I had the unexplainable feeling, a settled knowing, that I was where I was made to be. I knew deep in my soul that I was home.

  Ugandan culture was so foreign to my own and I was scolded many times for things that seemed innocent before I understood what was expected of me: walking into a house with my shoes on or feeding leftover food to the dogs was considered rude and unacceptable in this new culture. On one particularly frustrating occasion, I showed up for lunch with dirty hands and was chastised for that; then I arrived slightly late for lunch with the same people the next day because I took time to wash my hands, and the hostess yelled at me for that.