Impressions of Kampala: streets seething with young men, cars, taxis packed with people, prostitutes giving me the come-and-get-it nod, motorbikes and traffic police, beggars crawling on deformed legs, and mothers carrying their babies on their backs. Walking from the Jesuit residence to the center of town, I passed a traffic jam and hundreds of sidewalk merchants selling old Sunday magazine sections of the Monitor and the New Vision (the English language Ugandan newspapers), worn out frayed books, peanuts, bananas, pineapple slices, handkerchiefs, watchbands, Bibles, pens, and cheap socks. Giant garbage eating storks were flying around, pterodactyl-like, coming to rest on the top of building and trees, where they casually took in the scene below, like they were meditating. I walked by security people standing and sitting vigil in front of banks, money-exchange places, markets, jewelry stores – in a word, any place that has money. They cradled automatic rifles and sawed-off shotguns and exhibited cold and unimpressed faces. Huge waves of noise and people and activity constantly broke over me as I cautiously made my gawking way down the street.

I was nearly clobbered by two cars. In Uganda, cars drive on the left side, and rarely do you have the luxury of pedestrian crosswalks. Or stoplights. I looked the wrong way, stepped out into the street, bounced backwards to avoid a honking truck, and then was almost run down by a taxi coming fast from the other direction.

I struggle emotionally off and on, and I spend too much of my time concerned about the future and living in the glory of the past, asking God to assist me in seizing these new moments in my life and to help me see that here, in this new land, God will give me new gifts; here I will learn deeper trust and new ways to use my talents.