May 2000
The Georgia sun climbed higher in the morning sky. My squad had just finished up our first patrol in the first phase of Ranger School. Of the three leaders, one received a go. The other two got no-go’s.
I was one of the no-go’s. I was the team leader of the team in charge of land navigation. Anybody that knew me probably would have made good money on my no-go. Putting me in charge of land navigation was a little bit like putting a fish in charge of a footrace. Unfortunately, my number two wasn’t much better. We were lucky to stay in Georgia, much less get to our objective on time.
The three of us walked down a dirt road from the grading area back to our patrol base. I was telling a story about high school when one of my buddies found his grandpa’s hang glider in their garage. I checked about a book about hang gliding from the library and we were off. I was just about to the part where the hang glider flipped in the air and dropped Chet into a cactus patch when we got to the trail that led back to the patrol base.
One problem, the Ranger candidate who led the squad the night before didn’t turn down the path. The other team leader and I followed behind asking him what he was doing. He didn't answer, not wanting to tell us that he'd forgotten his rucksack on the ground before we established the patrol base. The other clueless member of our party and I got more and more confused. I didn’t know whether it was worse to leave a fellow Ranger candidate alone or follow him off into the middle of nowhere.
Before I came to the right conclusion, a truckload of Ranger School Instructors pulled up in a Humvee and made it very clear that both options were wrong.
Half an hour later, I dug my firing position and tried not to think about what the Company Commander was going to do to me and my two squad mates. It was going to be bad. The only question was how bad. In the peacetime Army, it didn’t get much worse than being an Infantry lieutenant that got kicked out Ranger School. Being forced to restart the phase was the better option, but still miserable.
I hacked the little shovel into the ground over and over again. My brain drifted through prayers. Ranger School could turn even the moderately religious towards piety, although the effects usually didn’t hold after the candidate’s first sighting of a woman or beer. I was tired and hungry. I couldn’t believe it could be over.
I asked God to show me something positive: something to carry me through the chain of command’s upcoming decision.
I was answered with an image of an old black woman standing in front of a dilapidated brick building. She had a broom. I could tell it was Africa. There was no sign of kids, but something told me it was an orphanage.
I felt my chin hit my chest and woke up. I went back to digging. Thoughts of the old woman and her orphanage had replaced the feelings of impending dread.
August 2006
I sat in the passenger seat of the SUV as Peter Francis Luswata drove through the streets of the small Ugandan town. I’d been in Africa for two days and I was about to get my first view of the Uganda Rural Fund’s (URF) projects in AIDS-ravaged countryside.
Peter was talking about how a priest had bought a building and turned it over to his sister to run an orphanage. URF provided some of the resources to help keep the orphanage going. I tried to listen, but my mind kept drifting to Mike.
I’d begun volunteering for URF as a tribute to Mike MacKinnon. I’d been friends with Mike since I was five and followed him to West Point. He died in October of 2005 when his Humvee was hit by an IED in Iraq. At his funeral someone from the unit said that they were delivering toys at the time of the ambush.
I was still to gimpy for the military, but somehow I’d fixated on the idea of working with AIDS orphans as a way to honor his sacrifice. An internet search led me to a home-grown Ugandan nonprofit that was desperate for volunteers.
I didn’t know if I was ready for the reality of that pledge. I got out of the SUV in front of an old brick building.
Peter was ahead of me. I heard him say, “This is Josephine. The house mother.”
I looked up and into the eyes of an old woman. She was the same one from the dream that I’d had in Ranger School six years before.
Josephine had tears in her eyes. She said, “I prayed that you would come and now you have.”
I wish that I could say that I turned into some powerful force for good in Uganda. I did what I could when I was there, but I haven’t been nearly as helpful as I’d hoped when I got back to the U.S. The one thing that I did do before I left was to hire Caroline, a twenty year old girl who grew up in the orphanage to help Josephine attend to the children.
It’s been four years since I left Uganda. I still sit on the URF board, but I'm not a stellar contributor. Each month, I send money for Caroline’s salary. It’s a meager sum and I’m embarrassed that I don’t give more. But from all the reports that I’ve gotten back of Caroline’s stellar work at the orphanage, I believe that the old woman’s prayers were answered.
If you’d like to see Josephine and her Nazareth Orphanage, here is a film clip. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WpTVTp2C-pc. The organization’s website is now http://www.ugandaruralfund.org/ not the one that is listed in the film.
URF is now in need of monthly donations for teachers’ salaries. At $150 a month, it’s a great opportunity to make a difference in a lot of incredible children’s lives. If you're interested in donating, you can find out more at
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