Social Work Internship

I wrote a piece for the Uganda Studies Program Social Work Department. It's just about my experiences at my internship and what I have learned from doing my internship abroad. 

           Over the last four months, I have been doing my social work practicum at a Compassion International site, Seeta Child Development Center. I can honestly say that my practicum was my favorite part of my experience in Uganda. Over the last few months, I learned a lot about social work, Uganda, and myself.

            I could have never imagined the learning experience I would gain from doing my internship abroad. Social Work is a very “Western” career. In the States, we have strict protocol as to how to do everything. We have a lot of theory and a lot of ideals. On a clinical level, we are very individualistic. We focus on the client at hand and attempt to know every detail of his or her life. One of the greatest challenges and best experiences was taking my American, higher education, book knowledge and theory, and applying to a situation on the other side of the world. Some things sound great on paper, but do not play out well due to the fact that the theory is tailored to a Western culture.

            One prominent aspect of Ugandan culture is community. This aspect is a bit interesting in a social work setting. One of my first “counseling” sessions with a child was with about three extra adults in the room. According to the social workers, this is normal. This is what the community does. Everyone knows everything about everyone else and the value of the advice increases with the number of people reiterating it. From my context, this is not what you do. “Counseling” is done in privacy, or in a group of people struggling with the same thing, not in a community setting. However, as I was immersed in the culture, I began to realize just how much community affected the lives of the children with whom I was working. In a conversation with a co-worker, I learned that a lot of the children are orphaned or abandoned. The extended family or the community will take in the children. It is a community and a familial duty. He was appalled at the idea of a foster care system, where strangers take in children.
            It was also interesting to see the similarities. Social work is still social work, no matter where you are on the globe. As my supervisor said, “Social Workers do everything. Everything is in the job description”. That could not have been said better. It seems as though social work agencies are always understaffed and underfunded; yet they still thrive and they still make a difference in their communities. I learned so much about the diversity and the flexibility of social work. I learned how it changes in culture. I learned how it functions on nothing. I saw dedication to hope, faith, and love in ways I have never seen before. I learned how the social work values, service, social justice, dignity and worth of a person, importance of human relationships, integrity, and competence can be universally applied, even when cultural norms are vastly different.

            

"I want to hold your hand"

Sometimes, even when you're 21, you might need someone to hold your hand in new situations. In Uganda, people hold hands as a way to be friends. It's a bit confusing, because lovers do not hold hands, it's a friendly thing... So discernment gets a little tricky. I experienced this phenomenon many times over my home stay in Mukono.

The first day I was with my family, my oldest sister took me to buy minutes for my phone. She held my hand the whole time. It seemed to be more of a precautionary measure rather than a friendly gesture. I really cannot blame her, though. If I had a foreigner in my care, I would probably exercise extra care as well. My independent spirit was slightly wounded because I know how to get to town and how to buy minutes for my phone. However, I went along as though I literally knew nothing. I knew that attempting to win would only be damaging to the relationship.

The next day I went to church with my host dad. He took me by the hand and walked me all the way to the front of the church and showed me to my seat. Then, I sat in that exact same spot for the next six and a half hours. Apparently, as I found out later, my family forgot me, or they lost me... even though I never moved. I don't actually know what happened, I just know I was forgotten at church for six and a half hours.

The next two weeks were quite interesting and quite humbling. I attempted to help cook the one day, and it took a lot of persuasion to convince my host mom to let me use a knife. As I cut up the cabbage, my host mom asked me if I had ever used a knife before. I said yes, I had, many, many times. I cooked and cleaned in the U.S. at my house and at school. My host dad, in great shock, looked at me and said, "WHAT!? We thought you have machines to do everything for you!" I was a bit shocked at this presumption and a little bit offended I was thought to be that helpless. Once again, I was humbled by the perceptions held of me. From day one, I was only allowed to rinse the dishes (No, I was not allowed to wash them) and cut up cabbage.

Never Again...

Outside of the concentration camps in Austria and Germany, there's a sign. On this sign, in many different languages, it simply says, "Never Again". After spending ten days in Rwanda, I wish that promise had been kept and the voice of justice and peace would have rung true.

Before we even left on this journey to Rwanda, we spent some time talking about it and we watched a documentary. During the video, it talked about the makings, the warning signs, the beginnings, the full on horror, and the current reconciliation projects. They also talked about the U.N. and the western nations which debated what "genocide" actually meant and if Rwanda was a genocide or something else. They debated while over 800,000 people lost their lives in a blood bath.  Just watching the documentary was enough to make my heart break.

Genocide is always ugly. It is always a representation of the darkness in the human heart. However, Rwanda was different. It was a genocide the effects every corner of the country. The killing was done by neighbors, childhood friends, and fellow church-goers. One of the most horrifying experience of my life was standing in a Church where over ten thousand people were murdered. The churches were thought to be a refuge, but those who worshiped together then killed each other in the same place.

I knew the story of Rwanda well. However, I had no idea what being here, in the building, walking through the mass grave, and hearing stories from those who lived through it would do to me. It literally changed my heart in ways I do not even understand yet.

I also was hit by the fact that this happened in my lifetime. Darfur happened in my life time. The LRA and child soldiers happened in my life time. This isn't ancient history. This is history for my generation, too. In the movie Hotel Rwanda, a news reporter got footage of the massacre. They ask him if he can get it out to the world and help them. He looks at them and says something to the effect of, I'm sorry, but the western world will see this on their tv's and say "oh, that's sad, and go back to eating their dinners."

I never want to be so desensitized that I can see such an injustice and simply go back to eating my dinner.

Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.
O, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; it is in dying that we are born again to eternal life.

To Africa, To Africa

The last time I wrote on this blog, I was headed home from Thailand. I had lived there for nine months and I figured my traveling days were over for the next few years... at least. But then, out of no where, I got an amazing opportunity. I have always wanted to go to Africa, but it didn't seem like it was going to happen anytime soon. However, God directed me once again to go overseas for a few months. Thankfully, I have wonderful traveling buddy and friend, Anna, and we are headed to Uganda tomorrow and I am excited to see what God has to teach me this time. We will be there for about 4 months. We also get to travel to Rwanda for about a week, Paris for 3 days, and London for 10 hours. Needless to say, it will be an experience.

This adventure is a study abroad program which offers a social work internship overseas. So, while I'm there, I will be interning and going to university. I'm guessing I will be doing many other things as well. If I've learned anything from travel, it's that expectations are completely unnecessary. The best way to enter a new culture is in a humble manner, ready to learn. Because, let's be real, until one actually experiences a specific culture, he or she cannot be an expert... Which can be really unnerving. So, Ugandan culture awaits me and I am very, very excited to learn new things and to be laughed at constantly (... That just goes with the territory).

So, here I go... Again. In life, we generally think that the more we do something, the easier it gets. I have officially arrived at the conclusion that leaving isn't one of those things. The more I go, the harder it becomes... But I have full confidence that this is where I should be going and this is what I should be doing. I'm praying for peace. I'm praying for trust. I'm praying for safety. I'm praying that we can be a vessel for the love of Jesus. I'm praying for good relationship once we meet the rest of the students. If anyone wants to join me in praying for these things, we would appreciate it.

I am most certain there will be many more posts to come! 

Coming to an End

“’Cause everything looks perfect from far away,
Come down now…”

I’ve been thinking about these lines the last couple of days. I thought about how perfect going back to the States seems or how perfect family time will be. I know without a doubt that nothing is perfect, and returning will not be a perfect process. However, it still looks oh so good… until I see what I’m leaving behind.

When I boarded the plane to Thailand, it was the last thing I wanted to do. I was nigh angry at God for making me do it. Somehow, I still got here and then struggled through months of language learning and culture shock. It’s been said that most countries take about 2 months to really adapt to, but Thailand takes 6. That is the truth. After about five to six months, this very strange place became my home. I’ve learned to love it here. I’ve learned to love the people. I’ve learned so many things about God and His plans. It’s crazy how perspective can change.

As I think about leaving this home to return to another one, I have to remember once again, that home is not here on this earth. I sometimes wonder at why I attach to “home” so quickly. I think it’s because I’m human and essentially, I’m going through some sort of separation anxiety and so I want what I just can’t quite have. Anyway, I’m just reminded that these places are made by the people that are in them and no matter what, I will be missing someone for the rest of my life. My prayer is that all I know and love will not be missed in Heaven someday.

Spiritual Reflections of a Recovering Bulimic

The entirety of my worth and acceptance has been based on a number on the scales and the number on the tag of my jeans. I’ve spent literal years of life hating on me. After two and half years of counseling, I still find it to be a battle I fight every day. I will fight it till I die; or so I’m told. It’s an odd battle. It’s an important battle. I mean, how do you actually win a battle against yourself? That’s what it is. It’s a battle I fight against me for health-emotional, mental, and physical. I guess it’s the same for most who deal with eating disorders. It’s a question of what is the most hated: Ones own person, the body one is forced to reside, or the state of living in which one is.  It’s really just all a quest for contentment. However, contentment is a foreign concept because all actions become based on that hatred for oneself that are harboring within and the desire to just be different from who one is. Contentment becomes a fairy tale idea.

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t self-conscious of my weight or body type. Seven of my short twenty years of life have been spent in obsession over weight and looks. I can honestly say that I’ve never been content with the body God gave me. I very clearly remember the day I realized my five foot, nine inch, athletic body could never possible fit into a size two and my bones alone weighed more than my goal weight.  I was devastated.

So recently I’ve been reading a book called Ruthless Trust by Brennan Manning. In the second chapter, he talks about gratitude. Pointedly, he says that a grateful heart is a trusting heart. A grateful heart realizes the goodness of God’s nature. It knows the character of a God who works all things together for its good. The grateful heart trusts the true nature of God to care for it. It sees beyond itself and thanks God in reverence for the gifts He’s chosen to bestow upon it.

I immediately thought about my constant discontent and all my inward grumbles about my body. Then I thought about the many people I’ve seen here in Thailand. I could see in my head the pictures of the man who literally slithered on his stomach down the side walk. I thought about the man with a dent in the side of his skull the size of a softball. I thought of the lady whose skin looked melted off her face. I thought about all the men, woman, and children I’ve seen missing arms and/or legs. I thought of those who are deaf and blind. I thought of those who have had terrible things of such done to them and those who were born with these different disabilities. They all long to have what I have: A healthy body.

I spent a few minutes processing the pictures and praying. I found myself in a reverent gratitude toward the God who has made me thus. How could I ever have the audacity to complain about my body? I am healthy. I can walk. I can run. I ride my bike every morning to school. I can speak. I can hear. I can think. My body functions perfectly. The things I can see as “problematic” or a “nitch”, or “unfair” are too miniscule to even acknowledge. I sat in the presence of my God in silence. I was utterly ashamed  of my discontent. Yet somehow, in that moment, my shame wasn’t condemning. I found that I was loved and accepted and I was grateful to God beyond a place of spoken word.

What’s the fairness in all this? How was it decided that I was born to my working-class family in the U.S.A., while someone else was born to a starving family in the slums? I was cared for and loved upon. I learned to know and love Jesus. Then I see so many people without hope or love. I see children without a home or family. I guess these are things that I will never understand, or at least not until I get to Heaven. I’m not really concerned with the answer. I mean really, how concerned is God with fairness? He sent his perfect son to earth to die so I can have a relationship with Him. Really, how does that one work in the fairness scale? I realize that I can’t figure this out, nor do I want to. In fact, my only part in this is to thank God for His beautiful gift of life and be aware of the blessings He’s lavished so generously on me.

I can no longer look in the mirror and detest all I see. I can only look on in humbleness and reverent gratitude toward the God who “hath made me thus.”

Another Monday Morning

Another Monday morning had arrived, as it always does in every country; even in Thailand.  This particular Monday was a wee bit different than the past. Yes, I still had to be up at 6 a.m. and biking through CRAZY traffic by 7:40 to be at the temple school, ready to teach at 8:30. Teaching second graders English is never an easy task. However, it seems more daunting when one cannot even communicate with the children in the first place. Somehow, all of these things have become the norm. The difference, this morning, took place in the fact that I was sick with a head cold, my voice was barely audible, and my head ache felt as though it was caused by cymbals clanging at a great force into either side of my skull. Just another Monday, right?
                I arrived to school early- very early. I decided to take a few of my many extra minutes to stop and chat with the teacher in the Special Needs class. She, of course, was greatly concerned over my head cold and asked if I should go to the Hospital. This is all very normal in Thai culture. I told her that I was fine, it was only a head cold and I could just sleep it off. No need to go to the hospital. She asked if I would be coming to her class today, and I told her, yes, I would. It was Monday and that’s all part of the routine.
                After the second grade class on Monday, I go to the Special Needs class to help out and play with the children for about two hours. The classroom in which this class resides is quite literally a cage. It is outside, apart from all the other classes. It has a tin roof and something resembling chicken caging wire, only a sturdier, for walls. The door is a metal gate complete with padlock. All the Special Needs children are here; no matter their age, ability level, or by what the name of their specialty happens to be. These children are considered unimportant and shameful in Thai culture. It is assumed someone did something to deserve this child.  Culturally, this is where they “should be”.
                As I left the second grade class which was quite out of hand, and thought of the cage and chaos awaiting me, I contemplated just skipping out. I had already talked to the teacher. She knew I wasn’t feeling very well. I could just tell her I was still feeling bad and needed to go rest. She would understand. I decided that maybe I would just go for one hour and then leave. One hour seemed possibly doable.
                I entered the cage-like classroom, only to be greeted with the sight of a fifteen year-old boy completely bottomless. He was missing not only his pants, but also his underwear as well. Apparently, he had just wet his pants and taking off his britches was the best way to inform the teachers he needed changed. A few of the teachers got right to changing him and all the teachers were horrified that I the foreign teacher had seen all this transpire. I decided that no more attention needed drawn to this commotion, and attempted to distract the other children.
                Thankfully, I had grown up in a home where mentally disabled people were present. My mom worked by caring for people in our home. I had been around special needs my entire life and I have been shown a supernatural love for all people, no matter who they are, by my moms example. Because of this, a fifteen year-old, half-naked boy was of no surprise, given the circumstances.
                I talked with a Down syndrome boy and taught a very bright little girl some English. Before I knew it, it was time for lunch. The teacher asked if I would like to eat lunch with the class and I agreed (I was profoundly amazed that two hours were passing by so fast). I have no idea what we ate, as I was never one to enjoy school lunches and I find Thai school lunches inedible some days. After the meal, I told them it was time for me to go home and I said my goodbyes. The teacher came over to say “thank you” and then, she said, “I want to put a blessing on you. That you be blessed all your days because you come here.” My thought was, “Someone with such a bad attitude as I did when I got here, should not ever be blessed.”  Instead, I said thank you and took the opportunity to ask her if she wanted me to pray for her in anyway. She said yes, for her family. She knew I was a Christian and still was just fine with me offering up prayers for her and her family to a foreign God. However, she told me her son is a faithful mediator and he will be praying for me as well.
                Then something I found to be highly unexpected happened. She took my hand, looked me in the eye, and said,

“I love you like my daughter. I see you here and you are so far away from your family and I see that they must miss you very much. You are young and so far away from your mother and your father. I think they miss you. You are alone and without your family. I love you like my daughter and I think of you as a part of my family. I tell them about you and you are a part of our family here.”She darted off and wrote down something on a little green piece of paper. She brought it over to me and told me,              “If you are ever in trouble, day or night, you can call me. 24 hours a day you can call and I will come and get you. No problem. You can just call and I will come and take care of you. Do not think, just call if you need me. I love you like my daughter.”
              I was so taken aback by the honest and open love given me. My experience was that Thai people are generally ready and willing to help out, but to opening say “I love you” is a different story.  The only emotion really acceptable to show is joy. Yet, here in front of me, was an elderly Thai lady, welcoming me into her family. Needless to say, I was immeasurably blessed.
              As I rode my bike home, I cried. I realized that I was so close to missing out on this blessing. I have no explanation of why I even felt a desire to be involved with this class, or why I ever agreed. However, I did and I found that God has plans; plans bigger than me or mine. Here, all I have is to be.