Angel of Mercy

by Lurlene McDaniel

  “Mom and Dad hate me, Heather,” Amber said, her voice suddenly low and sad. “I’d give anything if you’d come home. Can you? Can you just leave Africa early and come home right away?”

  11

  "Amber, I can’t just pick up and leave. People are counting on me.”

  “But I need you,” Amber wailed. “Things are impossible around here.”

  “How impossible?”

  “Just yesterday, Dad took away my car keys.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s mean. And he hates me.”

  “Amber . . . ,” Heather said in her best tell-me-the-rest-of-the-story voice.

  “All right, so I’d gotten a parking ticket.”

  “And . . .?”

  “A speeding ticket too. But it wasn’t my fault. Marsha was driving my car, and she got stopped for speeding, not me. But Dad says it’s my responsibility because it’s my car.”

  Heather sighed. Would her sister ever grow up? “Well, you can’t make Dad change his mind once it’s made up, so you’ll just have to live with it.”

  “But school’s started and I can’t even drive to school! And he won’t let Dylan take me either.”

  “School’s already started?” Heather couldn’t believe it. It seemed as if only yesterday she’d set out on the Mercy Ship. She had less than three months left in Africa.

  “Hell-o,” Amber said, drawing out the two syllables. “It’s September. Don’t you have a calendar over there?”

  “Life’s a bit different over here. . . . So, tell me, how are you getting to school?”

  “The housekeeper’s taking me. Can you imagine the humiliation of getting out of our housekeeper’s car every day? I’m the joke of the senior class!”

  “I can’t change things for you, Amber. Even if I was stateside, I wouldn’t be at home. I’d be in college and I couldn’t come running home over every crisis.” She heard Amber sigh.

  “I know . . .but I can ask, can’t I? Oh, before I forget, Joanie stopped by last week. She’s on her way to college and wanted to make sure I told you she’d see you at Christmas.”

  “I appreciate the message. Listen, the line for the phone is growing, so I’ve got to go. But do yourself a favor and get Dylan out of there after we hang up. If Mom and Dad catch you, you’ll be grounded until Christmas.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Okay,” Amber said glumly. “But only because you asked me to. Before you hang up,” she added in a rush, “are you all right? Are you having fun?”

  There were a thousand things Heather wanted to say, but she was out of time. “Sure. Things are fine with me. Busy, but fine. I’m glad I came.”

  “How’s Ian? You still revved about him?”

  “Still revved,” Heather said. “Tell Mom and Dad I’ll write when I get to Lwereo. And take it easy on them, sis. They’re old, you know.”

  Amber laughed. Once they’d hung up, homesickness swept over Heather. Her friends were going off to college, just as she would have been doing if she’d been home. But she wasn’t home. She was where her dreams had taken her. She was in a world more different than even she had realized was possible. She loved her sister dearly, but Amber was a child—a petulant child who had no clue that two-thirds of the world did not have the luxury of a car. Or a home. Or food on the table every day.

  Heather slipped from the phone booth, back into the world she’d come so far to see.

  “Where are we going now?” Heather asked as she walked with Ian down a long, narrow sidewalk.

  She had waited for him to finish his call home, and then he’d taken her by the hand and said, “Come with me.”

  Now he said, “We’re going to the Delta. That’s where all the cabs in Kampala wait for their fares.”

  “You mean the cabs don’t come to the passengers?”

  “How can they? Few phones, remember? The cabs wait in this one area and so you come to the Delta and find the cab that’s headed out to where you want to go. When people want to come back into the city, they wait at special cab stops. The cab comes along eventually and picks them up. No buses here. Cabs and walking are the way people travel.”

  “They could ride their cows,” Heather muttered under her breath.

  The Delta was a half-block-wide dirt parking arena filled with minivans, the cabs of the city. Ugandans milled around, some hawking their services, others waiting patiently for their vans to fill so that they could be on their way. “No van moves until it’s packed,” Ian explained. “And each van holds fourteen to sixteen people.”

  Heather wondered how Amber would manage under such conditions, then decided she probably wouldn’t. She hung close to Ian as he wove through the parked vans, asking a question or two in Swahili before moving on. Eventually he found the cab he was looking for, paid the driver, and ushered Heather inside. The space was cramped, but at least she had a window seat. Again she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “To the Nalongo Orphanage. I want you to meet Mother Harriet.”

  The ride to the western outskirts of the city was bumpy and accompanied by clouds of dust. By the time they reached their destination, they were the only two left in the van. Ian asked the driver to wait, and the man parked under a nearby tree and turned off his engine. Immediately quiet descended.

  “There it is,” Ian said. They walked toward a midsized brick building with a tin roof sitting in a large field, shut off by a metal fence. He opened the gate.

  “Can we do this?” she asked, half expecting guards to jump out.

  “The gate means little. It’s only a way to mark the property,” Ian told her. As they walked inside the fence, he added, “I met Mother Harriet when I was last here. She takes in street orphans, kids whose families have disappeared or been killed. I send her money to help out. Every little bit helps here.”

  They entered the building, and Heather stopped cold. The place was absolutely empty. She saw a dirt-smeared concrete floor and dirty, unpainted, peeling walls. Curtainless windows let in light, and a single bare bulb hung from a long cord in the center of the ceiling. She saw not one piece of furniture. “Have they moved?” she asked.

  “No. This is the home of twenty-five children. This is their main activity room.”

  “B-But where do they live? Where do they sleep?”

  “Their sleeping quarters are in the back. I’ll show you, but first let’s find Mother Harriet.”

  They found her in a small room off to one side, sitting behind a decrepit wooden desk piled with papers. She sprang up as they entered, a wide smile of recognition lighting her dark face. She was a tall woman, thin as a rail, and she wore a faded skirt and plaid top. Her hair was wrapped in a scarf.

  “Mr. McCollum!” she cried. “Habari.” She greeted him in Swahili. “How good to see my fine Scottish benefactor. Why did you not tell me you were coming? I would have kept the children here, instead of sending them off to school.”

  “Mzuri,” he answered, then said, “I did not know myself if there would be time to come by, so please excuse us dropping in unannounced.” He introduced Heather.

  “I will make us tea,” Mother Harriet said. “Look around, then hurry back. Oh, and please see the fine dining table I was able to buy with some of the money you sent.”

  She hurried off into another room, and Ian took Heather by the elbow. “This way,” he told her.

  On the other side of the empty main room, they walked into a smaller room. There an old table stood, its top scratched and marred. It was quite long and fairly wide. “Where are the chairs?” Heather asked.

  “I’m guessing that she couldn’t afford chairs too.”

  “You mean the kids stand to eat?”

  “Chairs are a luxury. It’s better to buy food than a place to sit. And the table’s used for many things besides eating. It was a good purchase.”

  “I—I can’t believe they have so little.” She thought of homeless shelters back home— she’d been in a few during her fund-raising effort
s. Even though the kids who lived in the shelters were often destitute, they still had a recreation room with TV and toys.

  “They have safety here. That’s the best gift of all.” Ian took her hand. “Come. There’s more.”

  He led her down a corridor with a series of doorways. She stopped at the first one and saw six wooden beds covered with thin, colorful woven blankets. “A dormitory?” she asked.

  “Yes. The kids are separated by age. The older ones stay here.”

  The walls were starkly bare, except for one window covered by aged striped curtains that fluttered in the faint breeze coming from outside. The window had no screen, so Heather knew there was no way to keep out mosquitoes—the main carriers of malaria and other diseases. Over one bed, someone had hung a tattered poster of Michael Jordan. Written on the walls surrounding the poster were threatening words about what would happen to anybody who touched it. On another bed, half stuffed beneath a thin pillow, she saw a ball of aluminum foil.

  “They don’t have much to call their own,” Ian explained, following her glance. “So what they do have, they guard.”

  “But a foil ball?” Heather asked incredulously. “How can that be valuable to a kid?”

  “It’s all that’s his,” Ian said. “You have to understand that before coming here, they lived on the streets, begging or stealing food. Possessions, things a child can call his, are valuable indeed.”

  She wanted to slip something under every pillow, but she had brought nothing of value with her. No candy, very little money, and a bottle of water.

  Next Ian took her outside, and Heather was glad to feel the warmth of the sun. The dormitory had depressed her and left her feeling cold.

  “Over here is the garden,” he said, walking her out to a large patch of cultivated land. She recognized rows of corn and cabbages. “They grow what food they can. Mother Harriet scrounges for the rest.”

  “How?”

  “She begs local businesses. She writes letters to church groups in Europe and America. She’s inventive and hard to refuse. But she’s got a big job. It’s not easy feeding twenty-five mouths two meals a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”

  “She said they were in school. Where do they go to school?”

  “They hold classes at a church in town with volunteers as teachers. They walk there and back every day. It’s about ten kilometers—six miles.”

  “A long walk for a child,” Heather said. She looked off into the distance and saw bedding— sheets and blankets—lying on the ground. “What’s that?”

  “It’s an alternative to doing the laundry. Every few days, the children spread their sleeping things outside to catch the sun and kill the creepy crawlers in their pallets.”

  “Bugs? Ugh—don’t they ever wash their clothes? How do they keep stuff clean?”

  “They have no washing machines, you know. No running water, either. Water must be hand-carried up the hill from a pumping station almost a half mile away. When they do wash clothes, they boil water in pots and throw in the clothes with lye soap to get them clean. Then they hang them in the sun to dry.” He grinned. “Our ancestors did the same thing. Unless, of course, they had servants to do the work.”

  She felt her cheeks flush as she realized that she had sounded judgmental. She must seem like a pampered princess to him. In truth, she could not dispute the impression. She did live a life of privilege. “You make me feel guilty.”

  “Heather, lass, you’re curious. It’s fine to ask questions. And you can’t help where God saw fit to give you birth. He has blessed you, and it’s nothing to feel shame for.” His tone was kind, gentle. He pointed to a large metal tank on wooden stilts. “Recognize that?”

  She’d seen one in Kenya. “It catches rainwater.”

  “Right. Good until the dry season comes, then it’s down the hill for water.”

  A call from the building made them turn to Mother Harriet waving them inside. “Tea’s ready!”

  Back in her office, a wooden tray had been set with three cups and a china teapot. There was also a small plate holding three peeled, hardboiled eggs. “Eat. Our hens laid these just this morning,” Mother Harriet said proudly.

  Heather nibbled on her egg, feeling guilty, thinking that this was one less egg an orphan would get to eat. But she knew better than to refuse. Dr. Henry had told them in one of his sessions aboard the ship how insulting it was to refuse African hospitality. She sipped her tea from the chipped china cup and said, “Thank you. It’s delicious.”

  The woman beamed at her. Then she turned to Ian and outlined her efforts to raise money. Heather listened, amazed—not by her efforts, but by the refusals she spoke of and the indifference to all Mother Harriet was trying to do to help children survive. Didn’t the government care? Couldn’t she get help from politicians? Heather wanted to ask a hundred questions but didn’t. Ian was closing the conversation and standing. It was time to leave.

  He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a wallet. “Take this,” he said, and handed Mother Harriet a stack of folded money.

  “Bless you,” Mother Harriet said. “This will help us buy food. And I will be taking the youngest ones into the clinic for shots and medicine next week. The medicine is free, but they are too young to walk so far. Now I can take them by taxi.”

  She shook hands with Ian, and he and Heather walked to the van. The driver folded the newspaper he’d been reading and opened the door. Once they were on their way, Heather asked the questions she’d kept to herself before.

  “The government is overloaded,” Ian answered. “Almost half of the Ugandan population is under fifteen years old. The country is awash in orphans. Only a handful get taken into places like Mother Harriet’s.”

  Heather’s heart ached. She felt overwhelmed by what she’d seen that afternoon, impotent. She turned to Ian. “Why did you bring me here?”

  He clasped his hand over hers and looked deep into her eyes. “We’re going to Lwereo tomorrow, to the Kasana Children’s Home. It’s run by missionaries, with a thought for feeding both body and soul. They do things differently, and to my way of thinking, they do things better. I want you to judge for yourself, lass. I want you to see the children as I see them. Not through the eyes of men, but through the eyes of God.”

  12

  The city of Lwereo was little more than a bump in the road. A few buildings, a town square, a soccer field—all clumped together within short walking distance of a village of thatched huts set back in the countryside. A turnoff onto a rutted dirt trail eventually brought the vans into a clearing. On one side was the Kasana mission hospital, on the other a gate with a sign: Children’s Home.

  Two young boys waved and opened the gate, and the vans drove through, stopping in an open area between several thatch-roofed buildings and a cinder-block ranch-style house. A young couple, surrounded by three blond boys, greeted Dr. Henry’s group with hugs and smiles. The woman held a baby.

  “I’m Paul Warring,” the brown-haired man said. “And this is my wife, Jodene, and our sons, Kevin, eight, Dennis, six, and Samuel, four. The baby”—Jodene waggled the baby’s arm at the group—“is our eight-month-old daughter, Amie. Welcome.”

  Heather had not expected to see so young a couple here in the African bush. Paul was tall and trim, his wife petite and dainty, with shoulder-length blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. The three boys kept jockeying for a position closest to their father’s side, until Samuel fell and began to wail.

  “Stop it, boys,” Paul admonished. “We have guests. Who will show them to their rooms while I take Dr. Henry and Mr. Hoover inside for tea?”

  The boys jumped up and down, begging for the job. Minutes later, Heather and the other girls were following Dennis into a dormitory-style building, where they found a living room furnished with a sofa and two chairs, and a small kitchen table and chairs. There were also two bedrooms, each with two beds.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Ingrid. “This is wonderful! I thought we’d be pi
tching our tents again.”

  “Look,” Cynthia announced with a grin, “indoor plumbing.”

  Heather was equally pleased. They had all been expecting communal latrines like the ones they’d had in Kenya.

  She went out for her bags and saw Ian sorting through the pile for his. “I didn’t expect the place to be this nice,” she told him.

  “Yes, they’ve made some improvements since I was here last.”

  “And the Warrings . . .well, I thought they’d be old. And they’re Americans, aren’t they?”

  Ian laughed. “They’re from your North Dakota.”

  “Out west,” she told him. “Wonder how they ended up in Uganda?”

  “We’re having a meeting in an hour. Why don’t you ask them?” He tapped the end of her nose playfully. “See you there, lass.”

  The meeting was held under one of the thatched pavilions while the smell of grilling chicken wafted through the evening air. The kitchen was really a separate small hut set away from the other buildings but close to the house. The chickens cooked over open coals, watched carefully by a couple of Ugandan kids—residents of the home, Heather learned. Several enormous cast-iron pots filled with beans and corn sat atop a cement-and-brick stove, fueled by wood and charcoal.

  “Before we eat,” Paul began once everyone had sat down on long wooden benches, “I want to thank each of you for coming so far, for giving up months of your real lives, to help out. I first came here on a mission trip when I was twenty-two, and returning to Uganda was a dream of mine for years.

  “I’m a contractor by trade, and when I learned what my church organization planned to do over here, well, I begged Jodene to pull up stakes and come with me.” He patted his wife’s shoulder. “Thankfully, she agreed. That was three years ago. Jodene and I are the current overseers of the children’s home, and we plan to remain here two more years.

  “You see, Uganda is a country finally at peace after years of a military regime that killed over one million citizens before it was toppled. Thousands of people, mostly children, were left homeless and parentless. And it’s these children we’re hoping to help.”