Memoirs

an unconventional life

Chapter 1

My life is unpredictable at best. I was born in southern California to two wonderful parents in July of 1976. It was my sister's third birthday party, and my mom felt it was the big day for my delivery. I'm told my sister said, "My momma is having a baby brother for my birthday." I was her biggest third birthday present, I suppose, but time and circumstances have separated us since then.

Diamond Bar, CA is a pretty ordinary place to grow up, but I experienced some of my most unusual events in that suburban town fifty miles or so outside of Los Angeles. Seizures were my first of many run-ins with bad health. From ages two to four, roughly, I had grand mal seizures multiple times a day. I cannot imagine the agony my mother must have felt watching her only baby boy writhing with his tongue to the back of his mouth and his body convulsing. These were terrible times for her. The cause is almost comical looking back all these years ago. Sugar. That's right, I wrote the word "Sugar." I was allergic to sugar. The common practice of the day based upon the sage advice of Dr. Spock was to pour sugar in water and give it to your child. Something about aiding brain development so I have heard. Well it sent me into seized mental arrest repeatedly. Such were the wild and woolly seventies.

My mother did not have a college education. She didn't have the spirit of activism and the nature to challenge all authority that many of her peers possessed. She simply trusted Dr. Spock and learned a hard lesson about the wonders of seventies science. Another doctor came to her aid. Dr. Messenger in Yorba Linda, CA discovered the key to the mysterious trauma. Once I was weaned off all processed sugars, I was a normal child. At least I didn't have the seizures. This early episode in my life taught me a valuable lesson. Looking back I can see that it is not always wise to follow the conventional logic. Even if it is from a popular author like Dr. Spock who may have some great ideas about many things, but whose ideas do not work in my particular situation. Protest is a valuable quality at times. Especially when you lead an unconventional life.

Chapter 2

Following those early emotionally turbulent and mentally challenging days, I attended elementary school at Maple Hill Elementary School. I suppose these were some of the more common years of my life. I had the normal adventures of young children, playing on the hill across the street, making mud pies with my sister, pretending to be the Flintstones with our neighbor kids. I was always Barney for some reason. The next strange episode came somewhere in my eighth and ninth years. Believers Faith Center (BFC) was its name. It has left an indelible impression upon my mind. Many a night was spent laying on the floor of the church listening to indiscernible muttering uttered from people desperately hoping for the miracles that Pastor Bill professed would absolutely come to the "true believers." In the midst of strange babbling, adults falling down on the ground at the mere touch of Pastor Bill, and a bizarre unwillingness to admit the presence of illness, misfortune, hardship of any kind, a small church was enthralled with one man and his oratory prowess. As our commitment to BFC grew, I remember spending six to seven days a week meeting together with my new "brothers" and "sisters."

One night in particular stands out to me now. Anna attended the services faithfully with us. She was an elderly woman who needed rides to the church from time to time. In the midst of one of these usual nightly rides, we experienced our own miracle. As my father drove down a normal suburban street, something unexpected occurred. A small dog ran out in front of our car. All of our heads jerked forward as my father tried his best to avert the inevitable doom. Thump! "Oh, Jesus," we all cried. And then it happened. This poor little star struck dog that experienced the full weight of our little, passenger car rose up and walked gingerly back to its home. Anna was praying fervently for the dog. My parents stopped and talked to the owners. We all believed that the dog had been raised from most certain death.

This silly episode now symbolizes an important lesson to me as an adult with a son of my own. Faith is able to create miracles. Whether this dog was doomed and resurrected is immaterial. For all its faults, BFC illustrates a fundamental principle that we all yearn for. Faith is necessary. Faith is a pivotal element of life. How faith is experienced and what its products are entail a tremendous amount of debate from religious adherents of all persuasions. Faith motivates the greatest acts of self-sacrifice and the most heinous ones, too. Despite its sordid results, faith preserves a crucial element of humanity. Without faith there is no hope. There is simply cynicism and despair.

As I mentioned in the first chapter, my mother is a remarkable woman who largely accepts things as they are presented to her. Dr. Spock's sugar-water was the norm so that was good enough. This quality my mother possesses has its faults, but it is one of the greatest gifts a person can receive. Christ said that the one with faith like a child is blessed. I concur. Children accept life as it is presented.

As an adult I have realized the real challenge in life comes in discerning where our faith is placed. Pastor Bill had a powerful ability to persuade an audience that faith in his message would transform one's life. However, misguided he was, he genuinely believed that his God was able to do the impossible in every situation. His God would ward off all ill-will like a tribal deity who merely wanted one's chicken blood and required devotees to wear talismans or some other magical apparel. Although I have long forsaken the God of Pastor Bill, I have not forsaken God. At least, God has not forsaken me. The God I believe in transcends these petty promises of perpetual health, wealth and prosperity. He lets us experience hardship and loss for the greater good of character formation. But I'm probably getting ahead of myself. For now, I'll just leave it at resurrected dogs and a dear elderly woman.

Chapter 3

What brought our inevitable departure from BFC was life's predictability. My mother came from a very turbulent home. She was abused in every way imaginable. She married my father at age eighteen to escape her family life and have a new start. I admire her willingness to break the cycle of abuse. I can write this tale today because of her brave choice in 1972 to leave. My father is a genuinely devoted and dutiful family man. He would do anything for my family. He has done everything for my family. Because he had to be both father and mother to my sister and I during some terribly dark times.

My mother experienced the most unfortunate string of illnesses in the years leading up to my preteen and early teen ages. I remember many days coming home from school with my mom in bed, unable to get out of bed from the morning pains. The abuse had taken its toll all of those years prior. It manifested in illness from one organ to the next. Ovaries, uterus, gall bladder, tumors, appendix.... My mother's child like faith carried her through the dark night of the soul. She is a survivor and a cycle destroyer. She prevailed, just not in the way Pastor Bill promised. It wasn't through a simple babbling or falling under the power of his touch. It was through the cross of suffering. Through years of slow agony. Through sickness. The cycle was broken through bearing the consequences of generations of irresponsibility. My mother's father was sexually abused by neighbor girls when he was a young boy. And so began a life of sex addiction that he lived for the rest of his adult life. His lack of enlightenment and his perpetuation of the cycle of abuse manifested all these terrible years through my mother's sicknesses. The amazing thing is that she never held it against him. She was there at his death bed. She believed the best about her father. She forgave him, and thus the cycle was broken.

The key to this priceless episode in my life is that forgiveness releases both parties involved in any wrong. My mother freed her father through bearing the suffering that he inflicted. She is a healthier, freer woman today because she endured these horrible years. She is able to love her grandchildren without regret. She is receiving in these years what she could not physically do in my youth. There is a redemptive element to this suffering that is embodied by my valiant mother. She didn't lose anything by doing the right thing. She was able to be free to live and love her grandchildren by not passing the abuse on to me. I have no worries about my son being around his Nana. I rejoice in the love and health that is evident today. Those years of darkness and despair have lead to the rays of sunshine right now.

Chapter 4

I was able to grow up quicker than most in my age group. I remember vividly the conversation my father had with my sister and I about the circumstances. My father was doing triple duty. He was both father and mother and mechanic whose job required long tiresome days. He worked six days a week, fourteen or more hours a day at times. He worked. He worked. Oh, how he worked.

"It is time to pull our own weight," is what I discerned from that conversation. In no way was this intended to isolate me. In no way did my father mean any harm from this. But it made me grow up in an instant. I became a little man. I realized that I need not make any waves in order to prevent adding to our already turbulent stormy life. My friends became my family increasingly during my teen years.

This is where Vineyard takes on so much meaning. As a metaphor, I find it amazingly ironic that my next major connection to church was through a Vineyard. I was planted in a community that seemed to have all that I could want. It was a small church youth group where I could escape my home life. Pastor Tim would be the next figure that I would learn a valuable lesson from. He was tending the Vineyard youth group and I felt very secure in his care. I was dead wrong. I never knew how painful it could be to experience a let down.

Surely Tim wouldn't harm us. We were his kids. We were his Vineyard.

I remember a phone call from my dear friend Marc. "Mike, Tim's in jail." "What!?" "He has been arrested and charged with molesting kids in the youth group and in his baseball team."

The local papers ran with this scandal. Pastor Tim, a child molester. Pain. Violation. Despair. My world crumbled after three years of youth group commitment. Tim considered me a leader. I was a senior and I was one of the lucky ones who eluded his perverse grasp. I was miraculously protected from awful violation. I thank God to this day for his protection over my life. I knew many of my dear friends who were not so lucky. Their lives have never been the same. Vineyard. What an ironic term.

The lesson here is probably one of the most pivotal since it pertains to relationships. Friendships are among the most potent forces in life. They are able to build up and they are able to destroy. I chose a community that I had no idea was going to create one of the deepest wounds I would experience to date. Be careful what vineyard you are planted in. I chose a vineyard with a rotten farmer. I chose a vineyard with a farmer who sought the vine selfishly and violated the harvest for his sick and perverse gain.

Despite my parents’ warnings, I chose Vineyard. I will never forget this lesson. Choose friends carefully. Things may not be what they seem. So continues my unconventional life.

Chapter 5

Depression sunk in deep following my senior summer disillusioning encounter with Pastor Tim. My parents moved at this time and I was in no place to live on my own in the adult world as an eighteen year old spun out, confused, despairing soul. I tagged along with them, and this was one of the greatest decisions I made. I really didn't have much of a choice, but I consented to go. I hoped for a fresh start. Surely after two bad church experiences, I'd find a church that I could believe in. Couldn't I?

Saving Grace. Another metaphor that produced sordid results. I remember the worship services on Thursday nights. Lights low. Guitars strumming. A corporate melody of hurting young high school and college students. Broken families, broken hearts, broken youth. We needed to get away those nights and just sing and talk and be. Saving Grace started off as the balm my soul needed most. It was a saving grace to be a part of a group that appeared to have all that Vineyard didn't. Pastor Trent was a younger, single man whose kinship in age made me trust him more. Surely one of my closer peers wouldn't ever do something like Pastor Tim. At least I was right this time. Trent was faithful to a fault. He grew up in this church. It was his greatest passion. It defined him and he defined it.

Saving Grace would be a haven for me during my college years. Junior college can present a lot of challenging ideas to a fundamentalist like I. Evolution. How can that be true? The Bible says it was like this. Surely God knows since He alone was there in the beginning. Such were my days bouncing between the "secular" college world and the "sacred" community of Saving Grace. The idealism of youth is so laughable now looking back, but this was how I envisioned it. This was my paradigm. Things were black and white. Things were right and wrong. I traveled everywhere with my Bible. It defined my approach to daily life. I needed it if I felt tempted to look at a young woman I was naturally attracted to or to avert my mind from the "worldly" conversations around me.

I see now that I wanted to escape. I had hoped for a Utopian existence akin to Pastor Bill's claims. I had yearned for a place where life was concrete - where health, wealth and prosperity were granted to the elect. My mother's sicknesses had taken their toll on me and I lapsed in this time. Thank God that BFC was no longer or I might have ventured back into that wild place.

Faith requires a recognition that this life includes paradoxes. Life is almost entirely gray. Faith can be placed in a multitude of objects. These are the crucial choices we make in our various journeys. There rarely are one right and one wrong option presented in a given situation. Most of our choices result in varying degrees of pleasure or pain. Utopia entails this easy path of black and white choices. If there is a Utopian existence of this kind, I have learned that I would rather live life as it is now. I have learned to embrace the gray. I love paradoxes. I love that character is built by these choices. I love that we have been given a will to choose the most awful things we shouldn't. Because it means we are loved. We are trusted. God has given us his seal of approval to be individuals. We do not have to conform and live conventional "by the letter" existences. We can interpret how the Bible says what it says. We can be exactly whomever we are created to be. Unique. Marred. Foolish at times. Genuine. That's it. Genuine.

Chapter 6

If my college years weren't confusing enough, I managed to muck things up even more by visiting my recently married missionary sister in Malawi during a summer break. With only one semester remaining, I figured that I would see the world a bit before graduating. Taking the opportunity to enjoy my last days of relative ease before the stresses of post-college career choices emerged. Little did I know, that journey would change my life and open my world-view to the possibilities of life overseas. Among other wonderful times with my sister and brother-in-law, I traveled from Lilongwe, Malawi to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania on a twenty-six hour bus ride through some of the most amazing country side that I have ever seen.

One of the greatest opportunities that I had during this time was to visit a Masai tribe that was settled in Tanzania. The  majority of Masai were in the northern Tanzania/southern Kenya border region, but a group broke away for some reason and decided to settle closer to Dar es Salaam. My brother-in-law's brother was a missionary in Tanzania and he had an invitation to visit this isolated group of cow herders. Getting into the bush was a challenge, but I never would have imagined how powerful it would be to see a remote group of people who were so different, so "primitive" in their technologies. Could this really be the way some people lived? Did people in the 1990s really herd cattle and live off of their milk and meat? I remember vividly seeing one of the men wearing a Chicago Bulls hat with his traditional Masai cloth wrap. It was such a hilarious sight - two worlds colliding. I could just imagine Air Jordan laughing at his team's popularity among cattle herders in Tanzania. I actually think the bull was what he really appreciated, not  Michael. This and many small adventures in both Malawi and Tanzania sealed the deal that I officially loved traveling.

Upon returning back to the States and finishing my senior semester of college, I faced a life changing decision. Saving Grace was presented with an opportunity to team up with a missionary work in Sudan to minister among Sudanese refugees living in Uganda. If I was serious about it, I would be given another chance to return to Africa - this time Uganda, a new country for me. I recall sitting in my professor's office asking a hard question about the options before me. Should I take the more conventional path a history major would and go to graduate school, or should I take the unknown, darkened path of a missionary life in Uganda. Professor McNutt was a missionary child in Africa and he had first hand knowledge of both experiences. After spending his childhood in Africa, he eventually got into teaching and was a professor of Political Science at my university. I remember his advice vividly to this day. He told me that university would always be there, but Africa might not be. He was right.

A new chapter would be presented to me. A refugee life in Uganda. A life among Sudanese. A life with God only knows what kind of adventures.

Chapter 7

This four-year span of my life has been central to my nagging uncertainties about my place on this earth and my purpose for living. I write this knowing that some of my coworkers, friends and peers will read, wondering what it was like to be a missionary in the Kiryandongo Refugee Settlement. Words cannot easily describe how much this was another life on another continent that has almost no connection to the States. I will try to be succinct and honest.

Sudanese refugees are some of the most amazing, frustrating, challenging, beautiful, preposterous mixed bag of traits in a community of people. I love them and there were times I had a hard time liking them. Being a father now as I write these words, I feel very much like I feel with my son. I love him with all of my soul. I would do anything for him, but he can push my buttons like few others. He knows me and he knows just how to rev me up and melt my heart. This is much like the wonderful refugee community in Kiryandongo. I am in no way implying that the many friends I made in the Settlement were my "children," but being a young, inexperienced missionary in a very foreign rural context was much like learning how to navigate the lifelong relationship with my son.

I have never had friendships in the States that would parallel my friendships there. They were more intense for sure. Talking with Sudanese refugees reveals how much Americans do not realize what we have as a nation. The infrastructure, the education, the resources, the opportunity, the advantages, the wealth, the health . . . these things Sudanese refugees could only dream of. Their world of extreme poverty, disease, conflict, unsettling wars, potential famines, infant mortality - the list goes on and on - make one wonder how they live, how they believe. But I want to put it down for all to read. Sudanese refugees are alive, active, faith-filled, wonderful souls. They get what life is about. They see what matters most. Family. Friendship. Faith. Life. A bar of soap. A warm cup of tea. They get it. Oh, that we would have the mind of Sudanese refugees. We would be more content. We would savor all the millions of blessings that we take for granted so easily. We would sing.

And yet, these are the very characteristics that I remember most vividly about them. They could sing all night long in their grass thatched roof churches. They could rejoice and give the warmest welcome I have ever felt. They could cry and wail when one of their children, men, women, elderly passed away. I have never seen the depths of life and death as when I lived among the Sudanese.

Simply put, I will never be the same after living among the Sudanese Refugees in those formative young adult years of my life. I am so grateful to have had the opportunity. For those years, they were my teachers, my mentors, my friends, my coworkers, my passion. Now as I write years later, I still have a sense of wonder about what I should have, could have, must have done better, differently, more. How could I have loved, gave, shared, reached out more? I do not know. All I can say is, "Thank you, Kiryandongo." I will never forget you and I hope that you will remember me for what little I may have contributed to your well-being.

Chapter 8

It is difficult to state what I learned in Kiryandongo, as you may have noticed in the previous chapter. I am appreciative. I feel the best way is to list what the Sudanese way of life entails so that somehow you may read what a wonderful life it is. I do not exalt the impoverished life. I revel in the worldview that propels refugees to continue in the face of such adversity. I admire their passionate souls.

1  God is good, all the time. All the time, God is good.

2  Community is essential. No one can live alone. That is hell on earth.

3  Family, clan, tribe. In this order.

4  Children do not always live to adulthood. Take advantage of the precious time you have with any baby or toddler you may encounter.

5  Enjoy life today. There is no guarantee that tomorrow will come.

6  Live, sing, experience life to the fullest, now.

7  Salt and soap are the two essentials.

8  Seasons are different. Life should consist of sowing, waiting for rain, harvesting, celebrating, and sowing again.

9  Church should be a place of dancing and shouting. No holding back. Yeyeyeyeyyeye was the favorite cheer of the women in the Sunday services when you made a good point.

10 A dollar is enough to live on for a day - when you are a farmer in a refugee settlement. In other words, be frugal.

11 Always be hospitable. If you have one last meal, share it.

Chapter 9

It was close to midnight, or at least it felt that way. We were getting ready for bed and thinking our lives were proceeding as usual - at least as usual as a Sudanese Refugee Settlement could be. Lights were getting low. Pajamas on. Time to rest. Our guards were watching outside if there was any risk or threats.

We had experienced a crime wave in the Settlement. The Catholic sisters had been robbed a few times. It was amazing to think that people would take advantage of these wonderful saints who gave to the community with their whole lives. Our director was concerned that we may be targeted as well, so we agreed to have one armed guard to scare off anyone who may try to enter our property unlawfully. Robbery couldn't happen to us, could it?

Just as things were settled in for the night, a distinct sound rang through the dark night air. Ratattattat, Rattatatat, Rataattatt. We were under attack! AK47 shots were fired close by. Who is it? Where are the women and children? What should we do?

"Mike are you there" called Rob on the radio. "Yeah." "We're being robbed!" "Are the girls okay?" "I'll take Heidi, Katy, Christian and Hannah and run." "Okay, I'll check Jill and Shayna." "Be careful."

"We'll talk in a bit"

I was furious. Whether I lived or died, I did not care. I wanted those people off of our property. How could they violate us like this? Don't they know we are here to help this community?

I walked in the dark night, no shoes on, just a t-shirt and some jeans, to confront our attackers. We had been trained before we left for Uganda that if ever attacked never show fear. Take control of the situation. The weak and cowardly will be attacked, maimed or killed first in a hostage situation. I soberly applied what I had learned.

I walked up to the tin roofed building. A kick to my back and I stumbled in the lit room.

"What do you want?" I asked the small Ugandan man in front of me. He held a kitchen knife. I saw two men with automatic weapons on the perimeter around me. One was ransacking Jill's room and one was keeping watch on the porch in front.

"What do you want? Don't you know who we are? We are missionaries. We are here doing God's work. Do you fear God?"

These questions that I posed to the men who could attack me at any time were ones that rattle in my mind now as I write. How could I do such a heroic thing? How could I confront armed men? For anyone who has known me before, I will tell you once and for all in print. I was so angry. I was so full of hatred that I did not care what happened to me that night. In one moment all the latent anger that compelled me into a reckless lifestyle boiled over. All of my anger at my mother's many illnesses, all of the pain of rejection I felt from Pastor Bill's cult, all of the hatred I had stored up from the experience with Tim at Vineyard. . . all my life boiled over. I had seen the truth in that moment.

Thank God we were all spared something even more terrible. Two of our guards were shot that night. We all rushed and gathered our things together hastily trying to flee and get medical attention to both men. The closest hospital was hours away by car. We did not know what to do, but all we could do was leave and tell the few people who we met on the road what happened.

Half way through the long packed car ride a distinct smell entered our vehicle. A smell that we all knew was death. As we sang hymns, Christian talked with our guard and assured him he could go to heaven if he believed. He was a Catholic and he said he was ready to be with Jesus. The scent of death is something no one should ever have to smell. It is an annunciation that life has exited a human body. A soul has departed.

That night will stay with me for the rest of my life. I will never be the same. That night it came to me, "I am an angry, self-destructive man, who needs some serious help." I realized that I had wanted to die. I wanted it to be me that night in the car with the pungent smell. I now needed to find a reason to live.

Chapter 10

The robbery is permanently emblazoned in my mind. Writing about it makes me remember so vividly the stench of death, the stiffened body we lifted out of our car, the anger, the rage - especially the rage.

My mission now was to find a sense of justice for the deceased, for us, for me. I returned to Kiryandongo a few days after the robbery. I was the only one who we agreed should risk the stay there. The married ladies were terrified at the thought of returning, which is completely understandable. I, however, being the only single man, had little to leave behind if they returned to finish us off. Thoughts, fears and anger raced through my consciousness.

The community had only heard we were robbed and there was no real sense of clarity about whether we would be seen again. Rumors started that we left for America. I knew that we had to make our presence known. The refugees in Kiryandongo had experienced what we had - only worse. They were attacked, raped, tortured, even burned. How could we desert them? We were becoming like them. Fellow sufferers in a foreign land. The potential to bond was greater than ever. God forbid we lose this opportunity.

Approaching the Settlement as I was driving I remember considering this as my last stay on Earth. I would have returned to finish the deal. Surely they are coming back for the kill. I had a death wish and I felt completely at peace with this realization. It is only now as I write later that I realize how much danger I placed myself in during those first few nights. So what made me do it?

The most amazing embrace waited eagerly for me. Just me, but it would have extended to all of us if we were there. Africa Inland Church was the source of this warmth. A group of key members were huddled together in prayer waiting. Just waiting and praying for us. What I later learned was that a vigil had taken place from the morning after the robbery to the time I returned. Chills run through me now as I write this. They waited for us, for me, for some sign that we were going to stay with them. A line of people embraced me one by one as I represented the victimized and they the consolers.

This is what Kiryandongo is all about. Fellow sufferers embracing the harshness of life together. What makes it so special is not the pain, not the death, not the fear, not the anger. The embrace is what life is about. Living together in the midst of these terrible injustices. Living together. I was beginning to see what it was that I really needed to live for. Who I needed to live for. Kiryandongo.

Chapter 11

The days after my return to Kiryandongo were so intense and so awkward. My fuse was very, very short. I yelled more than I had in a long time. I felt like a time bomb was ticking. Each day the passion for revenge burned hotter.

And then something amazing happened. In the midst of driving to police stations, submitting written statements, organizing for the funeral of our recently deceased guard, I received the justice I was desperately longing for. There was a suspect apprehended and taken to the District jail!

However, there was a catch. I now would have the opportunity to identify one of the men and ensure that the pursuit and capture of all involved would follow. This was no crime scene drama where I was behind a mirrored glass and there was a lineup of shady characters who have no idea about my identity. No, this was an old west style, face to face meeting with my attacker. Crazy? Absolutely. I had faced death once already and my self-destructive tendencies were in full effect. As I talked with the police chief and he informed me the suspect had been handled a little roughly, I had the opportunity to participate in the justice that I yearned for. Revenge never felt so good.

Sure enough the suspect's jaw had been struck and I immediately identified him. I walked the line and touched him on his shoulder. Sure enough I was correct. The first link in this crime drama was connected and in no time the other suspects were apprehended. The men who had wrongfully entered our homes and killed our guard were no longer a threat to us. We could now rest in peace. Or so I thought.

The problem was that this still did not quiet the rage inside. I thought that sticking it to the men themselves would do something to make me feel different inside. Wrong. The rage burned continually. I did not merely want justice, I wanted blood. I wanted them to feel the violation I had felt. I look back now years later and see how my ensuing illness was directly connected to this post traumatic stress disorder. It would cause my departure from Kiryandongo. It would alter my life radically. But that is for another chapter.

Chapter 12

If you would have asked me how this season of my life would end, I would not have had a clue, since my departure to the mission field was very open-ended. For the Sudanese refugees, I can only imagine, their hopes to have a persistent missionary presence intensified their concerns each time I experienced bouts of malaria and other illnesses. I just imagined that it was part of missionary life in Africa to be sick. That was the way of heroes like David Livingston, right?

One day in particular changed everything. Dr. Shadrach was our on site doctor who worked in the clinic and provided personal medical care when we really needed it. This day I had a unique sensation of chest pain. Could it be fatigue or some residual effect of a random sickness? I wasn't really sure, so I asked him if this sounded strange.

Within minutes, I was flat on my back with my shirt off, laying on a bed and watching him examine me with his stethoscope. Tapping,listening, mulling over the sound of my erratic heartbeat.

Michael, something is not right. You should go to Kampala and have a chest examination. This is serious. In a moment, just like the fateful night of the robbery, everything changed. Kiryandongo took a serious shift and I felt the seasons change immediately before my eyes. I have been sick; I am sick.

Questions swirled in my mind. My natural impulse tended to minimize the severity of the situation. I'll be okay. I'll be able to stay in Kiryandongo. This is just a fluke.

So the beginning of the end commenced. Chest examinations, ECGs, cardiologist appointments. Kampala offered the best of diagnoses that I could desire. I was born with a rare heart condition which onset later in my life. The pieces of my youth were slowly fitting together with the new knowledge I received.

That's why I was generally less athletic and slower than the other kids. I really did have a setback that was more than just a lack of will or athleticism that all my friends just naturally had.

With each doctor visit and each test result, I realized that a very, very difficult choice presented itself. I would need surgery and I needed to position myself well.

Risk the chances of getting malaria and further damaging my weakened heart or go back to the States for a second opinion and see what lies ahead.

Phone calls to family, my pastor, friends and I heard the intense concern from them all that I needed to take extra precaution with my fragile heart.

The one thing I needed was a sense of release from the community I had grown to love, risked my life to serve, and longed to live in. Would Kiryandongo understand?