Ready. Set. Go!

The details that made this trip possible — plane tickets, visas, housing — look mundane on paper. Necessary, yes. But they don’t tell the real story of how God met the process.

Landing in Uganda was not a one-person event. It has been shaped by many decisions, many prayers, and small steps taken when I couldn’t see very far ahead.

When I boarded the first flight, there wasn’t a dramatic sense of arrival. Nothing in me said, “I’ve made it.” My internal dialogue was much simpler:

Am I really doing this? What is this going to be like? Am I sure about this?

To that last question, the answer was quiet but firm:

No.

I am not ready. But who is?

When I arrived in Dubai, I had only minutes to get to Gate A6 — across what felt like a mall disguised as an airport, down escalators, through crowds and being directed to a secondary security point. Getting on the next flight felt like a mild version of Russian roulette. If I stopped for water or used the restroom, was there a chance I could miss boarding? Yes. That risk felt high.

At the gate, we were ushered onto an overly packed bus that would shuttle us out to the tarmac. One by one, we dismounted, climbed the stairs, and boarded slowly. The airline staff greeted each passenger with patience and grace, and I was reminded that even chaos can be orderly when handled well.

Landing in Entebbe brought its own bustle — customs, baggage claim, security scans — all before stepping into a large open room lined with booths for currency exchange, taxis, resort stays, and very temptingly, coffee.

When I finally walked outside, there was a sign that read “Tiffany.”

Relief.

I introduced myself to the driver and followed her to the car that would carry me away to The Hive, an expat hotel, where I would stay for the evening. The next morning I met with a new driver, who took me to Jinja!

Traffic in Uganda is like no other, to put it simply, it’s playing chicken for your soul.

Boda bodas (motorcycles) slip between cars, buses, and trucks like flashes of light, sending anyone not raised here into a kind of traffic whiplash. Twice on the drive to Jinja, I physically flinched as we nearly kissed the rear tire of what can only be described as death traps on wheels.

My driver — who maneuvered through traffic like a confident 007 — began casually mentioning the death toll statistics of boda drivers as if sharing an interesting local fact. I don’t think he realized that in my mind I was thinking:

I’m going to have to ride one of those to the market. And to work.

Had he known that, he may have spared me some of the more vivid details about how often riders skid across pavement after squeezing between larger vehicles.

Eventually, we arrived. I was shown across the grounds of 30 Wilson and led to my room. That’s where I finally took a deep breath.

Forty-eight hours. Multiple airports. No lost luggage. No missed connections. Drivers who clearly knew what they were doing — even if I questioned how close we needed to get to the boda bodas.

Grace of all graces. It really did feel like Papa’s favor was with me.

Soon after, I met Clare. We had good conversation, a little laughter, and then moved into the practical things — foreign exchange, Airtel (to purchase an eSIM), the market. All small details that quietly say: you’re here now.

Starting Tuesday — Monday is a holiday — I’ll step into Imprint hope, experiencing their daily, and a new season will begin.

And somewhere in there, I will absolutely be on the back of one of those boda bodas. The same ones whose accident statistics were generously shared with me on day one. I’ll be wearing a helmet.