I Never Want to Forget
People told me visiting a third-world country would be life-changing. They were right. I will never be the same.
I left home at 2 a.m. on Sunday, June 8th, and didn’t arrive at my hotel in Uganda until 10 p.m. on Tuesday, June 10th. Crossing the globe was hard, but the very next morning—standing in the red dust of Namabasa as hundreds of children ran toward us, singing and dancing—I knew every mile, every airport delay, every uncomfortable moment was completely worth it.
I never want to forget that moment.
It was a dream come true. For years, I’ve felt a mysterious connection to this little village in Uganda—so much so that I donated the proceeds of a book I wrote to support it. I didn’t know why I felt drawn to a place I’d never been, but on June 11th, I understood: God had already planted the seed of love in my heart long ago.
When our jeep pulled into the village with Bishop Abraham, I looked ahead and saw a river of children and women—singing, dancing, clapping, running toward us with joy painted across their faces. They wore the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen. They weren’t celebrating what we brought… they were celebrating us, just for showing up. I couldn’t stop the tears. The welcome was overwhelming. Women placed grass skirts on us, wrapped our necks with wreaths made of leaves, and led us down the road in song and dance all the way to the school.
It was one of the most joyful scenes I have ever witnessed—and it came from people who have so little, yet give so much.
One of the most special moments of the trip was meeting my sponsored child, Allivin Matibo. I’ve written to him for nine years. He just turned 14. When he saw me, he ran up and hugged me so tightly. He told me he recognized me from the photos I’ve sent and said he looks at them every night. He said, “I love you,” and thanked me over and over again for giving him the chance to go to school. I introduced him to others as my Ugandan son, and when I lost sight of him that afternoon, another child shouted, “Your Ugandan son is over there!” pointing through the crowd.
My heart.
We spent time at his home—one small clay structure with no door, no electricity, and no running water. His entire home could fit inside my closet. He lives with his grandmother and younger brother. And yet, it was spotless. Neat. Sacred. They use a nearby well to fetch water for everything—cooking, bathing, cleaning. There is one outhouse shared by several homes.
His grandmother hugged me like a long-lost daughter. She said, “Thank you for loving us.” I’ll never forget the depth in her voice. Though they had so little, they gave me gifts: bananas, eggs, passion fruit, a necklace, a dress, and yes—even a live chicken. I’d never held one before, so I just instinctively started petting it. Everyone laughed. It was a moment I’ll never forget.
Allivin showed me his room with such pride. He has a mattress—a gift of sponsorship. He told me he wants to be a doctor. And I made a silent promise right then: I will do everything in my power to make sure that dream becomes reality. Because a child with an education can change not just their future—but the future of their community. Change starts one child at a time.
The week was full of beautiful contradictions. So much joy amid hardship. So much beauty amid brokenness.
The sanitation system there is nonexistent. Garbage is thrown on the sides of the road. Goats are tied up to eat it. Most places had a hole in the ground for a toilet. Let’s just say I was grateful I’ve been working out my legs. Most days I tried to hold it for the hotel toilet—a luxury I will never take for granted again.
Speaking of things I won’t take for granted: running water, hot showers, trash pickup, electricity, soap, and toilets. God forgive me for ever complaining. I never want to forget the gratitude I feel now for the smallest things.
I saw God in that village—in the hands that held mine, in the babies who climbed into my lap and fell asleep during a poem about a mother’s love, in the little fingers playing with my hair as I sat in a church with no glass in the windows. I heard children whisper “Mzungu” and giggle, then wave and shout as we walked by. “Mzungu” means white person, but to them, it was a word of wonder and delight. I didn’t feel different—I felt seen.
I used to be a dance teacher. Thirty-eight years ago, I sold my studio, but this week, my cousin asked me to choreograph a dance to perform and teach to the children. I led the biggest dance class of my life—and those kids loved it. Later in the week, I saw children—some who couldn’t attend school and had only watched through the fence—doing the dance moves. It wrecked me. Even when they couldn’t participate, they found a way to be part of it. That kind of longing and joy for something so simple… it undid me.
One afternoon, I captured a photo of a little girl standing quietly outside the school gates. She wasn’t laughing or dancing like the others—she was simply watching. Upon returning home, I learned her story. Her name is Peace Nambozo. Her mother passed away in May, and with no parents left to pay for school, she can no longer attend. Still, she comes every day and stands outside the gate—longing to be part of what’s happening inside.
She broke my heart.
But today, she no longer has to stand outside the gate. Dan and I have sponsored her. We now also have a Ugandan daughter. Her name is Peace.
Moments like that remind me: the power of one can change everything.
We visited homes. We delivered food—bags of rice, flour, and beans—to the families of sponsored children. Mothers wept with gratitude. One told me she’d stretch that food to feed her family for weeks. I was covered in rice flour, and I didn’t care. I was covered in joy.
At a women’s conference, we handed out Bibles and bar soap. When the women received the soap, they danced, shouted, and cried. For bar soap. Let that sink in.
We ran a two-day medical clinic, weighing patients, checking blood pressure, and trying to meet the overwhelming needs of a village with no access to regular healthcare. One child told me he’d never seen what he looked like—there are no mirrors. I took his picture and showed him. His laughter was holy.
Each day I wore bracelets and gave them away—each one a token of encouragement, a reminder that they are seen, loved, and chosen by God. I gave my silver cross necklace to a special girl and told her she was special. The joy I received in return was infinitely greater.
One Saturday, I met Pastor Ben—my prayer partner from afar. We’ve prayed for each other for years, separated by continents but united in faith. June 14th marked the 9th anniversary of my dad’s death. Meeting Ben and his wife on that day was the most beautiful way to honor my father’s memory.
The last two days, I missed out on hiking to a waterfall, touring a coffee plantation, visiting the fresh water wells and giving the teachers their bonuses. I came down with strep throat and a high fever, but by God’s grace, I was well in time for our final day. As we said goodbye, the children sang and danced again. One teenage girl bravely took the microphone. Through tears, she thanked us for coming and for her sponsorship. “Now I have hope,” she said. “Now I can go to school every day.” When it was time to leave, she hugged me and wouldn’t let go. We both cried. It was the most human, most divine embrace I’ve ever experienced.
Driving the 11 hours to the airport, we stopped and saw baboons coming out of the jungle. We threw bananas out the window and they came to eat. Even that felt sacred, surreal, beautiful.
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So yes, people told me this trip would change me.
And they were right.
I came home with more than souvenirs. I came home with perspective. With a heart broken wide open. With the understanding that God’s unconditional love can reach across oceans and continents and find you in a red-clay village on the other side of the world.
I will never be the same.
If you've ever felt a nudge to sponsor a child, I hope you'll listen. For just $1 a day, you can change a life. Allivin’s life is changing because someone said yes. Mine changed because I said yes to him. You can learn more about sponsoring a child through my cousin Linda McKanna’s nonprofit at https://achildlives.wixsite.com/hope. She runs it entirely on her own, takes no salary, and pays her own way to Africa. Best of all, you’ll have a one-on-one relationship with your sponsored child – exchanging letters, sharing stories, and watching them grow.
The power of one can make all the difference.
I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
And I never want to forget.
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