There are times in life—perhaps when you’re bumping down a dusty eastern Ugandan road, or peering into a schoolroom made out of mud and sticks—when you feel quite far from home. But in order for these feelings to carry any weight, there must be a definition of “home.” If home is categorized as everything that is familiar—not necessarily only what one has grown up with—then perhaps, despite your initial inklings, Uganda really isn’t so far from home. You get to a point where you have bumped down more than a few dusty East African roads, and peered into more than a few mud-and-stick schoolrooms, and though they are so different from what you knew as a child, they are no longer completely foreign. When home is everything familiar, then suddenly the world world is at your feet, because there is familiarity to be found everywhere.

To a westerner arriving in a place such as Uganda, initial culture shock can be blinding, causing one to see only the foreign and strange. But if you are able to stay in a culture long enough for the shock to ebb, you can begin to adopt a different perspective. Where culture shock (or, let's face it, ignorance) may lead one to think that “poor” defines a person in a third-world country, taking the time to invest in building relationships will show you that these people do not exist simply to be pitied by westerners. No, they are, just like you may be, a teacher, a pastor, a small-business owner, an agriculturalist, and first and foremost, a child of God. And here, there is incredible familiarity, a sense of home even though it may initially seem foreign.  

In Uganda, we attended a church that meets, for the time being, in a primary school classroom (class Primary Two Blue, according to the chalkboard lettering). Sitting at a wooden school desk on a sweltering Sunday morning, thousands of miles from where I grew up, the pastor began to chant the same liturgy that I grew up with in a small Oklahoma church. The pastor chanted The Lord be with you and we responded and also with you, and cultural differences ebbed as I found myself subconsciously slipping into the familiar lilt of the liturgy. I thought, here I am at home.

Children peering into a building that serves as a church as American missionaries talk with local church leaders.

Eating a mango on a hot afternoon

Rev. Shauen Trump showing his boys the local flora and fauna.

Missionary kid life

Ugandan pastor Rev. Raymond Kaija showing Rev. Jonathan Clausing a cassava field. 

A worker on the construction site of the new Lutheran seminary near Jinja.

Holy Communion in a primary school classroom.

Rev. Raymond Kaija photographs the construction site of the seminary.

Sunset in Busia

When flying from Nairobi to Lodwar, Turkana, the landscape swiftly morphs from lush green hills to rocky, sandy desert. Hot air slaps you in the face as you deplane and head to the airport, scarcely more than a landing strip. After collecting my luggage and declining the offer of transportation from two young German men, I was picked up in an old Land Cruiser and ushered to the site of the clinic in the small village of Nataparkakono.

It had been two years since my last visit at a Mercy Medical Team, and it was a welcome change to be back without the riddling of culture shock. When I arrived, a thunderstorm storm began to roll in over the mountains and everyone smiled at me and thanked me for bringing the rain. As the first droplets began to fall and the wind whipped a beautiful chaos, the broad, dark faces of the patients standing in line split into wide smiles as they hurried to shelter. I ducked inside the calm of church-turned-clinic where American and Kenyan medical professionals worked side by side providing desperately needed health care to the inhabitants of this remote area. Their vitals already measured, the patients inside rested their heads on the cool of the cement walls, clutching their crumpled medical forms as they waited to be seen first by a doctor and then the pharmacists. Tirelessly, gently, the patients were cared for, free of charge, or taken to the local hospital for more advanced treatment.

Trying to be as invisible as possible, I crept around the site taking photographs. One of the volunteers in the pharmacy remarked how dignified one of the men looked, and I agreed. These people may lack monetary resources, but they are by no means without dignity or self-confidence. I consider myself blessed to have been allowed a small glimpse into their lives.

A patient waits to be seen by a doctor at the clinic

A group of women sit together outside as they wait to be seen 

A beautiful Turkana man

Patients reacting to the message being shared in the evangelism tent

Career missionary Sarah Kanoy hangs an IV bag in the window of the church as patients wait outside.

The view out of malaria testing tent

These women got a kick out of taking a picture of me while I was photographing them.

One of the Kenyan nurses in the eye clinic

Patients waiting in line to be registered

Dr. Jeff Pruitt from Ohio works with his Kenyan counterpart to treat a patient.

A Turkana woman who guessed she was around ninety years old.

A woman chasing children back to school

Children from the village left messages for us on the road

Career missionary Shara Cunningham talks to the children playing around the clinic site.

Shara comforting a woman receiving an IV line

A woman pauses from building a hut to listen to a pastor speak.

This man walked fifteen days to visit his family in the area and to come to the clinic.

Sarah speaks reassuringly to a little girl receiving IV fluids.

MMT volunteer Brian Lund records the weight of one of the patients.

Children gathering to watch backflips in the courtyard

It takes a long time to get to Villa de Sena, Mozambique. If, like me, you live in the United States, you have to first get to Africa. This is no easy trek—in my case, traveling to Nairobi is a laborious 30-hour journey by plane, train, and automobile. From Nairobi, you spend another day airborne until you reach Beira, Mozambique. From Beira, it is a slow, arduous 12-hour train ride until the screeching halt of brakes signals that you have finally, finally arrived in Sena. 

You might step off the train into the dust of central Mozambique without any real idea of what to expect. After all, the only things you have been given beforehand are plane and train tickets, a few brief emails advising what to pack, and instructions to photograph the trip. When you arrive in Sena, it is dark, night having fallen five hours prior, and forty seminarians and pastors greet you with singing and dancing. You shake each of their calloused hands afterwards, one by one, and it is not until the next morning that the layers of mystery slowly begin to peel back.

First, you are warned not to get too close to the Zambezi river because it is home to crocodiles, hippos, and other unseemly snaking and slithering things. With a significant look, you’re told that it's not uncommon for people to disappear while fishing or gathering water. You gulp and nod. It seems they have already figured out you're prone to wandering. You also quickly realize that the water in your bathroom is cold river water, but you are thankful that there is at least a shower head. The language barrier then presents itself broad and vast, and your first order of business is to learn the Portuguese word for "thank you" (it’s obrigado). It might set in then how far away from home you are—think of how long it took to travel here!—but somehow you don’t mind.

Later, as you get to know the people of this remote place, more of the shroud of mystery will be lifted. You are here with the LCMS as a photographer to capture the rapidly growing Lutheran community in Mozambique, and you never cease to be surprised by the people you meet through your lens. Seeing the astounding spread of Lutheranism in Mozambique, you can't help but be reminded of the early church as it is recorded in the New Testament. You read through Acts on a quiet night and swear it is describing the present. In this small area in Mozambique, there have been 21 new churches planted in the past year (each filled to capacity), divided between only eight pastors. So hungry are the locals to hear and be nurtured in the Gospel, the stories almost don’t sound real: two young men bicycling forty kilometers just to meet with a pastor after stumbling across a Lutheran congregation; twenty-one men, women, and children walking 14 hours in order to meet visiting pastors and missionaries (that is, us); truck drivers so impressed by an ordination service they'd attended that they rushed back to their village to start their own congregation.

All these people you'll meet and stories you'll hear will remind you that while yes, poverty is real, it is somehow not the main focus. On this trip, there are no building of orphanages or painting of churches or poverty porn, but instead the warmest fellowship with strong, young, passionate brothers and sisters in Christ. They are generous and enterprising, resourceful and smart. If you go to Villa de Sena in central Mozambique, you'll without a doubt be humbled, but you'll also be astonished by how much you learn from these strong, hard-working, resilient, welcoming, joyful people. You'll be surprised by the camaraderie and love you'll feel, even though you can barely communicate through language. And at the end of it all, you’ll realize that, cultural differences aside, there's no mystery to any country when you’re being surrounded by the body of Christ.

A young boy looks into the church building of St. Matthews Lutheran Church in Kapesseni.  

The main street in Sena

The most stunning young woman in Mutarara

Young and old, women everywhere carried at least one baby or toddler on their back at all times.

We visited this church in 3 de Fevereiro late in the afternoon and the light was nothing like I've ever seen. Here, mothers and their babies are illuminated as they listen to a message being given.

These two young ladies posed on their own for a portrait when they saw my camera.

This congregation is still saving up for a church building, so in the meantime, they meet for services in the open air.

Rev. Shauen Trump baptizes a child during a service in São Paulo Lutheran Church in Sena. Fifty-nine people were baptized all together that day.

A local pastor addresses his congregation in Chemba.

Members of a congregation are so excited to see us that they meet us on the road, then run singing alongside the truck until we reach the church.

Music in central Mozambican churches consists simply of drums, shakers, and the human voice.

Yours truly receiving a chicken and a squash from the congregation in Muanda, Mozambique.

Two young boys collect the offering during a service at São Paulo Lutheran Church in Sena.

Most of the congregants are young women and children. Here, they are saying goodbye as we head to our next congregation.

A baby moments before she is baptized.

Standing room only at the back of a church building in 3 de Fevereiro.

Taking Stock: A type of year-in-review, three weeks late. As per everyone's January tradition, I was streamlining my digital footprint and ran across a handful of photographs I'd never had the opportunity to share. (Many of them, admittedly, are from roadtrips taken in June and August, or, five of the best weeks of my life.) Looking at the images individually evoked memories I'd nearly forgotten, and it was the loveliest exercise to get those reminiscings on "paper."

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March 13th, 2015, Drumheller, Alberta

I'm with Jacob in Calgary this weekend and we've driven out to the Albertan badlands on an unseasonably warm Friday. His arm is slung casually over the steering wheel and everything feels new and exciting. The wind blows loud through the open windows and Slow Black River sets the scene. That night we find ourselves in a town of 33 people at the Last Chance Saloon, or, the only establishment with any sign of life. The waitress shares loud banter with every table, all of which hold people she seems to know. I keep forgetting I'm in a different country and then I notice an difference in accent or mannerism and I'm surprised all over again.

June 7th, 2015, Big Sur, California

Last night there was nary an empty campsite to be found, so we picked a side road and followed the windy pavement in search of a secluded spot to pitch the tent. About three miles up, we suddenly broke through the dense blanket of night fog. The thick mist was spread below us like a second ocean, framed by shadowy mountains and the starriest velvet sky. I pinched myself at the sight and exclaimed to Jacob that it felt like we'd just entered Peter Pan's Neverland. Now it's a bright morning and as we descend the mountain, a tiniest touch of the fog remains. It seems it wasn't a dream after all. We eat yogurt and granola and California strawberries that taste like candy.

June 10th, 2015, Bodega Bay, California

We left San Francisco this morning and I took the opportunity to play this song as we drove down Van Ness. Now we're sixty miles north of the Golden Gate and the afternoon is waning. Jacob pulls off Highway 1 and we get out of the Jeep to take in the blue waters and the tiny surfers bobbing in the waves. We agree that we'll camp here tonight. We seek out the campground host for firewood, who also offers (mostly unsolicited) advice on camping in California. I put on leggings under my jeans and pull on another sweater and scarf. Jacob teases me for getting cold so easily. We wade through grass dunes to the beach, which is eerily misty and quiet save for the wind. I realize that it's been a year since I left for Kenya.

June 12th, 2015, Sunset Bay State Park, Oregon

Jacob and I set up our tent in a lush corner of the campground, and then go out to find dinner. When we return, the sun is setting over the aptly-named Sunset Bay. Racing against the clock, we run a half mile across a cliff in search of a better view. It's something of a dream: getting up there all out of breath, golden light filtering through the trees, the sea crashing and churning below. Jacob lifts me onto his shoulders so I can better photograph the salty spray.

July 16th, 2015, Tulsa, Oklahoma

I'm living downtown in a 15th-floor studio apartment this week. Looking down at the city, everything seems so quiet and orderly. In the evening heat, as I walk Sadie the dog around the block, I pretend I am in New York City. I continue my metropolitan fantasies as I ride the elevator back up to the loft.

August 8th, 2015, Santa Barbara, California

It's a Saturday morning in Santa Barbara and we've managed to come during the annual Spanish fiesta. We find a Trader Joe's and buy supplies for a picnic on the beach, and certain members of the family are embarrassed by Dad's loud proclamations that we're from Oklahoma. The sandy beaches are warm and I watch my siblings splash in the Pacific for the first time. I can't believe I'm back in California again.

August 15th, 2015, Zion National Park

Jacob shakes me awake at the first sign of dawn. I groan and roll over, then begrudgingly get out of my sleeping bag after a quiet pep talk ("you're going to regret missing the sunrise!"). Outside the air is crisp and sweet and the rocks that surround us are beginning to glow. He's right, I would have regretted missing the sunrise. In pre-coffee silence, Jeremiah, Jacob, and I set off on the trail. When we reach the top of the canyon thirty minutes later, the cliffs are saturated with color. We meet a lone hiker at the top, a man recently retired who travels the States with his wife. We never find out his name, so we name him George.

August 16th, 2015, Grand Canyon National Park

It's a Sunday and we hike to a secluded spot with a view of the canyon. Dad holds up the hymnal and we all sing together, and we even have Holy Communion in the sanctuary of nature. Later we go on a drive to different view points of the canyon and it's beautiful but somehow hard to grasp. The sunset tonight is all dusty shades of pink and orange as it slides along the rocky cliffs.

August 17th, 2015, Monument Valley

The air blows soft and hot and we're looking down into the valley that is home to so many western movies. If I didn't know better, I'd think we were in Europe--I hear more German than English from other tourists. I sit on a ledge and let my feet dangle over the edge towards the rocky desert. Goosebumps rise on my arms despite the heat and Jacob wraps his arms around me. It's our last night on the road together and I'm wistful.

September 5th, 2015, Banff National Park

It's prime bear country here, a fact I won't tell my mother until I'm back safe and sound. The fog hangs damp and thick and it only adds to the mystique. A tour bus pulls up at Peyto Lake at the same time that we do, and we opt to wait for them to leave before we get out of the car. I messily peel a tangelo in the passenger seat while the drizzle turns to the snow.

September 25th, 2015, Tulsa, Oklahoma

It is my sister Mariam's 12th birthday, and I am freshly 19. The two of us go out for chai and shopping and the sunshine is still so warm. She has changed this past year, become more friend than sister. We make a pact to live close by when we are grown with our own families, or at least get together as often as we can. I feel like myself.