Deep South Sudan

I didn’t stay here for the sake of building a house.  I stayed in the hope of making this program into a family.  In the process of trying to create a family structure — an atmosphere of security and joy — for my kids, I happened to be involved in the construction of a building.  In the midst of putting together a state of beings that is difficult to fully assess (a sustained assembly of minds, hearts, and spirits), I oversaw the raising of a quantifiable, touchable, and very large piece of architecture.  Now these two marvelous inventions — family and shelter — have collided in one stunning day, and the result, as sentimental as it may sound, is this:  the building isn’t a building anymore — it’s a home.
Many of you helped to make this vision into a reality.  On behalf of the Cornerstone Kids, I want to say thank you. And don’t forget to stop by and see us if you ever find yourself making footprints in the deepest and loveliest (and sometimes hottest) corner of the earth. You have a home here after all!

Today you’re in a church.  Kids are singing with such live wire energy and joy that you feel the need to let them know that Jesus Christ hasn’t actually returned.  The last time you checked the heavens there wasn’t any symphonic, supernovanic glory going on.

So calm down, you crazy Christ junkies!

But as the praises roll on, as the kids keep calling for one more, one more, as the feet keep stomping and the hands keep clapping, you can’t deny that something is happening.  The curtains between us and other side of things – they rise.  How else to explain it?  You find yourself joining in the wild rumpus and singing loudly and executing a series of spur-of-the-moment interpretive dance moves.  What exactly are you attempting to translate with your God-awful white boy boogie?  What exactly are you trying to say?  It seems you’re doing the very best you can (with the body and voice you’ve been given) to articulate the fact that the Spirit is moving, at this very moment,  among the celebrants, reaching out and into them, and starting one fire after another.

Today we called our youth to a meeting in the church and brought out into the open issues of sex, dating (or courtship as they call it in this culture), and marriage.  We’ve discussed all of these subjects with them in the past, but we’ve never devoted a full day to talking about them.  The idea for the meeting has been in development for several months, and I’m grateful I got the chance to see the plan become a reality.  Pastor Juma’s gifts as a teacher were on full display as he spoke with wisdom, candor, and humor on topics that are hyper-relevant to teenagers growing up in a post-war border town that’s in the process of being hit by the first major waves of HIV/AIDS, the surging edge of what could become a perfect storm.

And what has brought about the current state of constant assault?

I’m no expert, but I can identify a handful of reasons for why sex has become such a perilous venture here in South Sudan.  The foremost reason, and the least popular one to dissect in our postmodern times, is the extraordinary failure of the sexual revolution, which has been (and continues to be) exported to the developing world via radio songs, pirated DVDs, and imitation fashion.  Now I can, from time to time, enjoy a gangstalicious hip hop track that’s unabashedly sensual, but I have the benefit of being able to separate fantasy from reality.  Most kids here, like their counterparts in the suburbs and ghettoes of the Western World, do not possess the ability to contemplate a song as a work of art (or a work of over-the-top silliness).  Most kids listen to a tune and hear in it the promise of a lifestyle.

Perhaps it’s painfully obvious what the music, the images, and the fashion is communicating, but I’ll repeat the message, because it’s being broadcast beyond the comfort zones and the Cadillacs, digitally transferred, distributed en mass, and dumped upon the parts of the world where running water is but a dream and most people shit in a hot stinking hole in the ground.  And the meaning behind the heavy beats, the exposed flesh, and the fringes of the dresses:  Have sex now – right now – and have it with as many different partners as your heart desires.  

Seen from another perspective, the sexual revolution has been a smashing success.

The present circumstances aren’t helped much by the near-sighted response to the rising number of AIDS victims (that response involving, among many other things, incongruous billboards for condoms beside a main street made of dirt).  Nor is the situation ameliorated by widespread polygamy and its attendant culture of unfaithfulness, nor the steady increase of men with disposable incomes combined with a parallel rise in the number of women who have been trapped into thinking they possess only one commodity.

Peace time has its own causalities, both in bodies and in the spirits that live inside those bodies.

The response to the dying and the dead is myopic because you don’t fight a revolution with only rubbers.  You fight it with a counter-strike that starts in the heart of an individual and spreads out from there.  From our deepest selves a revitalizing fire can be awakened.

In the course of the day, Pastor Juma unpacked all the messy questions.  Why are so many people in the town and in the world being infected with HIV?  Why are so many teens getting pregnant?  Why are so many youth choosing to marry instead of finish school?  And Juma gave answers to these questions, answers to why there is so much suffering and sickness.  And all the questions and all the answers were touched by the light radiating from Scripture.

A good portion of the youth wrote notes throughout the program and many of them asked rather brilliant questions.  (“How do I know if a boy is just a pretender?”  “The Bible says be fruitful and multiply, but you’re saying the first reason to marry is for companionship – why?”)  Obviously, they’d been waiting for this day for longer than we’d been planning it.  They wanted to hear what God had to say about the miserable state of human relationships, and to see a clear picture of his design for sex within the safe, yet expansive borders of marriage.  They wanted to see if there was more to the story than what the world seems so eager to display, to flaunt, to sell.  And I believe they got a glimpse of Jesus and a tantalizing overview of the love story he’s co-authoring with his father and implementing through his spirit – the story he’s writing to all of humanity.

Near the close of the day, a young member of the church stood up to share THE BEST TESTIMONY EVER.  Over half of the testimonies that I’ve experienced in the Sudanese church tend to meander about like cats looking for a nice spot of sun, to involve a large cast of unnecessary characters, and to leave you slightly puzzled as to what exactly happened.  Forgive me for stating the anecdotal truth.  But this testimony was exactly what everyone, including the testifier, needed to hear at that particular moment in time.  The testifier – a skinny guy with expressive hands – gave a brief history of the poor choices that he made in his courtship with a woman from the church.  My empathy was so acute it stung my eyes, because I’ve also made some extremely sub-par decisions in my relationships with the opposite sex.  The man went on to explain how he’s found himself in the midst of a kind of spiritual renaissance – how he’s begun to get some sense of the vastness and force of God’s love as demonstrated in the life of a certain Jew from Palestine.  After he finished THE BEST TESTIMONY EVER we all stood up to sing and worship and pray.

And we all felt like something had been lifted.  A cold weight, an atmosphere of guilt, an underlying impression of unworthiness – whatever it was, it was suddenly gone.

Ocira Richard’s fingertips gave lightening-fast dictation to the acoustic guitar on a series of increasingly beautiful tunes, while Aduno Rose sang lead vocals on each and every one of the pulsing and ecstatic love songs to God.

By the end of it I was intoxicated.  And I wasn’t the only one.

There was fire in the eyes of the youth, because the Spirit had strolled quietly, yet palpably into the middle of our gathering, reached into us, twisted a knob or two that we weren’t aware existed inside our chests, and finally put the flame of his lips to the gas rings around our irises and just whispered the word ignite.

Despite an honest effort to spike these dispatches with hope I think you might be getting the impression that Sudan and my own psyche are on some kind of downward spiral.  Well, I can’t speak for the entire nation, but the home where I live and serve – my little corner of Sudan – is still a stunningly bright place to be.  As for myself, I’m definitely not a poster boy for sunshine and bumblebees and fluffy clouds.  (On second thought, maybe I do accurately represent the essence of bumblebees.  But sunshine and fluffy clouds – ridiculous!)

The point I’m driving at is this:  my melancholic state of mind certainly doesn’t prevent Cornerstone from living up to it’s name.  I’m not the center of this home; Jesus is at the heart of all of this.  And so, in the interest of showing you the divine imprint on this home, I’d like to offer you a few excerpts from a recent newsletter.  And if reading isn’t your thing then just check out the photos!

In the “Home” Stretch!

In the first quarter of this year we’re continuing to run as fast as we can to finish the Cornerstone Kids’ new home.  We had hoped to see the kids in the building by the end of last year, but it wasn’t to be.  Nevertheless, we remain steadfast in our belief that God will shepherd this project through to its end, and we are setting our sights on opening the home within 2010.  The roofs have been completed and tiles have been fixed in the wings where the children will sleep.  Currently, the glass windows and the electrical wires are being installed in the kids’ rooms.  Please pray with us for the full completion of the home so that the children will finally be able to move out of their huts and into a much nicer and safer house.

Gaining Speed and Success in the Drive for Academic Excellence

One of Fulaa’s big priorities is making sure the Cornerstone Kids are able to achieve success in their academic pursuits.  In 2009 we saw some huge progress in the kids performance, which is exemplified by the results of two of our children, Daniel Atwali in Primary 1 (1^st Grade) and Mono Alex in Senior 6 (12^th Grade).  Daniel was the top performer in his class, receiving nearly perfect scores in all his final exams.  [I realize you might be saying to yourself, “Shouldn’t that kid be in 4^th or 5^th Grade?” And yes, he should.  But there was a war here in the South for two decades, and it’s taking a little bit of time for the people and the nation and the education system to recover.  So I say let’s celebrate what is being achieved despite all the damage left from the longest civil conflict in Africa’s recent history.  And now I’ll get down off my soapbox and allow you to continue with the good news.]    

Alex received what are termed “first grade results,” scoring a combined 22 points in his subjects.  The most points that a student can possibly receive are 25, so Alex was 3 points shy of a perfect performance.  In other words, he knocked it out of the park!  The results were so good that Alex is now in line to receive a government scholarship to continue his studies at a university.  He plans on pursuing a degree in electrical engineering later this year, but in the meantime he’s acting as a volunteer tutor at a local school as well as organizing after school math classes for his younger brothers and sisters at Cornerstone.

Shared Pain and Shared Joy:  The Story of Lagu and Vicky

James Lagu (17) and Vicky Atto (15) have been members of the Cornerstone Family since 2006.  Though they don’t possess the same last name, they are brother and sister.  (It’s common for parents in Sudan to not give their family name to their children.)  While they don’t have a shared name, they do have a shared history, which is composed of both pain and joy, defeat and victory, radical change and divine recovery.

Veronica Auma, the mother of Lagu and Vicky, contracted a disease that was never properly diagnosed and she passed away in extreme anguish.  Gabriel Okello, the father, is an alcoholic and never took much interest in caring for his kids.  When he learned of his wife’s death Gabriel quickly abandoned all parental responsibility, leaving his sister-in-law, Regina, in charge of bringing up the kids.  Due to her commitment to her immediate family and her inability to find steady employment, Regina faced difficulties in bringing up Lagu and Vicky.  Both children were physically and spiritually malnourished when representatives from Cornerstone discovered them.  After taking a careful look at the children, the leaders of the home chose to accept them into the family of Cornerstone.

James and Vicky are flourishing in the Christ-centered environment that is Cornerstone.  Occasionally they can be reserved in their demeanor, which is probably due to the hardship that they experienced early in their lives.  However, most of the time you’ll find them laughing and joking with their sisters and brothers and acting in way that shows that Jesus is in the process of healing the deep, emotional wounds that could’ve destroyed their spirits.  Both James and Vicky desire to one day serve in the medical field, James as a doctor and Vicky as a nurse.  In response to the way the Lord has graciously provided for their lives, they want to dedicate themselves to helping others who are in need.

I.

There’s been some upheaval in my heart, which is my excuse for not writing.  I made some plans in America, but after a month in Sudan I chose to set them on fire.  In the recesses of my palms they burned slowly.  I’ve never seen anything take so long to turn to cinders.  After the fire itself died the residue floated up into the air and blended with the ashes of the fields.  Eventually I couldn’t distinguish the remnants of my thoughts from the remnants of the flesh of the land.

This was meant to be.        

This is the dry season.  This is the time to watch fires skinning the horizons at night and to feel, in the observation of the trajectory of flames, a bleak kinship to the man in The Road, even though he’s a work of fiction.  I feel an affinity for the character because the pain by which he was formed is authentic.  It’s as real as it gets.

II.

You wake up in this season and find ashes have come to rest on your sandals, your books, your shaving kit, and the clothes you’re wearing today.  The wind brings these unwanted decorations in through the windows.  The wind brings in all sorts of things that fly and drift in the dark.  In the afternoon you find a small bat sleeping upside down in one of the upper corners of your room.  You talk to him.  You tell him he doesn’t have to leave, at least not right now.  You tell him you know it’s still daytime and you tell him you know the sunlight would probably make him go insane.  The bat opens his mouth and seems to tremble.  From his tightly shut eyelids to his rodent lips to his folded wings – the passage of a shudder.

You tell him not to cry.  Just don’t start crying.  Seriously.  Don’t get hysterical.  I mean you don’t have to leave right now.  Later.  When it’s night time.  Then you can go.  If you start crying right now I might start crying, too.  Just find someplace else to sleep tonight, OK?  You can’t sleep here anymore.  You can’t.  I won’t let you.  So listen to me, because I don’t want to have to kill you.  The bat closes it’s mouth and adjusts it’s tiny feet and seems to understand and accept your heartfelt advice. 

III.   

I’m not saying things are bad.  It isn’t the apocalypse after all!  So what if I’m talking to a bat.  People talk to their dogs all the time; I talk to a bat.  Perfectly normal everyday stuff. 

There’s always enough food on the table and there’s a wealth of joy and singing within the church.  There are sky blue tiles covering the hallways of the children’s new home and soon there will be glass windows filling up the empty spaces in the walls.  There are five new sisters and one new brother and each one of them is a blessing.  In less than a week I found myself forgetting that they hadn’t always been here, that we hadn’t always had a Sharon, a Judith, a Dorothy, a Joyce, a Michelle, and a Drichi Emmanuel.    

IV.

Most of the new kids have thick eyebrows that express both their shared heritage and their shared loss.  The person who gave them those eyebrows isn’t alive anymore. 

Apart from the concise and lovely and tragic narrative written in their brows, each brother and each sister has a smile like a perfect couplet.  When they stand together you might see their mouths – one after the other or in unison – alight with happiness.  A series of verses on their faces, each one similar, yet distinct.  The way it’s meant to be.  A way a family remains a family even in the wake of death. 

     I’ve been back in the States since the first of the month.  I went into hibernate mode in Kansas for about two weeks (morning coffee in the afternoon, happy/sad ventures into the land of junk food, limitless, brain-liquefying access to tv and internet, penetrating questions of self-worth and existence resulting from a casual investigation into the lives of my parents’ numerous pets), then I emerged from my zombirific condition and traveled to Colorado to be a part of Seth and Sarah’s wedding and to see my sister’s new baby, Mason Patrick Black.  The Day of the Knot was extraordinary for at least five reasons: 1) Seth and Sarah’s handwritten vows brought me – and many others in attendance – to tears; 2) The weather could legitimately be described as heaven sent; 3) At the reception I got the chance to catch up with a handful of our most esteemed visitors to Sudan while enjoying a plate of outrageously tasty Indian food; 4) Near dusk two of the guests stood up in the pavilion and executed an electrifying rendition of “Business Time” by Flight of the Conchords; and 5) I succeeded in not getting drunk.  However, the real revelation in Colorado wasn’t the wedding, the mountain vistas that still captivate prairie folk like me, or the medical marijuana (not that I tried it or anything).  The real eye-opener is Mason Patrick Black.  He’s my new BFF and I told him so and he replied, “Gwaagoo!” after which I’m almost certain he farted. 

      I haven’t experienced a full-on American Autumn since I lived in the Delta.   I saw pieces of it in and around Portland, Maine back in ‘07 before hastening my return to Africa, but nothing quite as uncut and cinematic as this.  Showers for days then sudden and glorious sunshine, the trees all dolled up in their changing fashions and the perfume of wet and burning leaves.  The boastful and gaudy approach of Halloween, the quickening night, the panoply of heartfelt sentiments and images that aren’t any more mature than the ones I might have composed for a high school writing assignment.  A return to innocence perhaps?  No, innocence will have to wait till death.  Coming home tends to necessitate a kind of capitulation to the mercurial nature of reality, which (surprise, surprise) doesn’t remain static while I’m off in another reality.  We’re all part of the same fabric, but it certainly doesn’t feel that way in Sudan.  It feels like the 18^th century with a few anachronisms peppering the scene – radios, cell phones, motorbikes, and toothpaste.  Or it feels like a ruined future.  Interstates and Wal-Marts got vaporized long ago and replaced by goat paths and mud huts.  Luckily, you can still get your hands on some tech-relics from that mythical age of monstrous consumerism.  Not everything was destroyed.  You can SMS your friends, so what else do you really need, right?     

     Arrival in the land of the free – the Best of the Best in Authentic Reality since 1776 – usually demands I empty my pockets of any presuppositions, then submit to the process of accepting the strangely everyday things along with the transformed and broken ones.  And this time I’ve found there’s more damage at home than ever before.  Collapsing marriages within my family, an early and bittersweet Halloween party for my youngest cousins, and no idea when I’ll see them again.  No ideas at all from the guy who doesn’t live here anymore.

      I’ll be around until the end of November.  There’s extensive and exciting paperwork before me (summaries and reports that I couldn’t pull together in the midst of my sixty children) and there’s a grad school application waiting to be written. 

     Contact me if you get the chance.  I’d loved to hear from you (and I might even send you an immediate, unsudanerated reply)!