November Already? Let's Talk Gratitude

 I can't believe it's November already. It feels like it was only January yesterday.

This year, November arrived with the clocks going back, which for me translates to less daylight. That's not particularly fun, especially as the temperatures begin to dip around this time. Thankfully, we still have the beauty of fall to enjoy. If you don't have to sweep them up, the colorful leaves make for some breathtaking scenery. God is truly a master artist because, until I experienced autumn, I had no idea there were so many variations of the color orange.

As I looked at the date today, besides wondering where all the time had gone, I was reminded that this month we celebrate Thanksgiving. Almost as if on cue, my friend Halima shared today's devotion with me. It included Colossians 3:15:

"Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful."

The writer emphasized that a grateful heart not only honors God for past blessings but also positions us to receive greater testimonies of His goodness. That thought immediately brought to mind a tradition I have shared with a few friends over the last five years.

Every November, we take time each day to pause and reflect on something we are grateful for. It's a simple practice, but it has become one of my favorite traditions. Some prompts are lighthearted: Who are you most grateful for in your life right now? Others focus on life's comforts: What comfort are you thankful for today? And some invite deeper reflection: What memory are you especially grateful for?

I am also grateful for Halima's faithfulness in sharing devotions with me throughout this year. The message she sent today inspired me, once again, to create a 30-day gratitude calendar as a way of encouraging others to cultivate thankfulness.

In many ways, I am thankful that moving to this part of the world introduced me to Thanksgiving. Celebrated on the last Thursday of November, it is a time when families gather together, share meals, and reflect on their blessings. Whatever other meanings and conversations may surround the holiday, I have chosen to dedicate this month to gratitude. It is an opportunity to intentionally pause, acknowledge God's goodness, and share that gratitude with others.

Because when we slow down long enough to notice the gifts around us, when we pause and smell the coffee, we often discover that life is beautiful and that there is so much to be thankful for.

As the days grow shorter and the trees slowly let go of their leaves, I hope this month reminds us to hold a little more tightly to gratitude. Not because life is perfect, but because even in the ordinary, God's goodness is everywhere. Sometimes all we need to do is pause long enough to notice it.

Halloween, Pumpkins, and Mini Graveyards

 

Halloween is approaching and, ever so timely, one of the icebreakers in a recent work meeting was: What are your Halloween traditions? Do you dress up? What's the best costume you've ever seen?

Without even thinking, I immediately answered that Halloween is very foreign to me.

I then proceeded to tell the team about the best costume I've ever seen.

A friend of mine once dressed up as the song It's Raining Men.

Now, on any given day, she is dressed to kill, so she already had a head start. But for this particular costume, she showed up looking like a million dollars, carrying a yellow umbrella covered with cutouts of attractive men hanging from every corner.

I was absolutely blown away by the creativity.

And yes, before anyone asks, I wholeheartedly approved of the men she had selected for her umbrella parade.

The costume was clever, funny, and surprisingly low effort.

In fact, it made me think we shouldn't reserve dress-up fun for Halloween alone. Why not have costume parties any time people feel like it?

Anyway, back to Halloween being foreign to me.

Until I moved to America, I had never encountered the full Halloween experience. The costumes, the decorations, trick-or-treating, haunted houses, horror movie marathons, pumpkin carving, and entire neighborhoods transforming into what can only be described as temporary horror sets.

The costume part I understand.

People get creative. They become their favorite celebrities, movie characters, historical figures, or come up with brilliant ideas like my It's Raining Men friend.

What I struggle to understand is the decorating.

For the life of me, I cannot fathom why someone would spend good money turning their front yard into a mini graveyard.

And I have seen it all.

A few years ago, I was driving behind a car carrying an enormous illuminated skeleton in the back. Another house near me proudly displays a giant skeleton so tall it looks like it's monitoring traffic. It stands there year after year, waving cheerfully at pedestrians as if it has somehow become an unofficial member of the neighborhood association.

Maybe it's because, for me, death has never been something to celebrate.

Or perhaps it's because I didn't grow up with Halloween and don't fully understand its history.

Whatever the reason, all the skeletons, tombstones, ghosts, and fake corpses leave me feeling more disturbed than festive.

The pumpkins, however, get a pass.

I actually love the pumpkins.

Although, to be honest, I'm still not entirely sure whether pumpkins belong to Halloween, fall/autumn in general, or some marketing team that successfully convinced us they belong to everything between September and Thanksgiving.

As I was thinking about Halloween decorations, I remembered a young man I once worked with.

He had developmental disabilities and lived independently with support services. He was a genuinely lovely person and one of those clients who could make an ordinary day unexpectedly fun. We spent many days out in the community, attending activities and enjoying simple adventures.

What most people wouldn't know from meeting him was that he struggled significantly with mental health challenges and was frequently on suicide watch.

His favorite holiday was Halloween.

Not just during October.

All year.

His home looked like Halloween had permanently moved in.

Skeletons. Skulls. Graveyard-themed decorations.

January through December.

And almost every evening, his preferred way to relax was to watch horror movies.

I don't pretend to know exactly what contributed to his mental health struggles, but I often wondered about the environment surrounding him.

There were days that began wonderfully and ended in crisis. Days that ended with emergency interventions and hospital visits.

And I couldn't help questioning the impact of constantly being surrounded by images of death, fear, and darkness.

Perhaps there was no connection at all.

But it certainly made me think.

Which brings me back to that work icebreaker.

Am I missing something?

Is there a side of Halloween I'm not appreciating because I didn't grow up with it?

Or is it perfectly reasonable to enjoy the creativity, admire the costumes, appreciate the pumpkins, and still be completely baffled by the collective enthusiasm for turning perfectly lovely homes into graveyards?

Maybe one day someone will explain it to me.

Until then, I'll happily keep the pumpkins, admire the creative costumes, and remain suspicious of any holiday that encourages people to spend hundreds of dollars making their yard look haunted.

You Should Have Lived Well

 

Did you live well? I’ve been asking myself that question ever since August 6th. I remember when our father crossed 78, he told me he couldn’t believe he had outlived both his fathers. And now here I am, trying to make sense of the fact that you left the world at just 30. People say life begins at 30, but yours ended. Maybe it’s because you had to grow up faster than most. At 16, you were already the man of the house. I was always impressed by how you carried that responsibility, how you stepped into it without complaint. Only now do I realize how heavy it must have been, how much pain you carried quietly, shielding the details from those around you the same way I tend to do.

The few updates you shared made me believe you were doing well, that everything was under control. Your humor, that sharp, unexpected humor that reminded me so much of our father always convinced me you were okay. By the time I learned you were in real pain, there was nothing left for me to do but pray. And pray I did. Only the answer was not the one I hoped for.

The hardest part has been carrying on as though life is normal while wrestling with guilt. Could I have done more? Should I have actively looked out and done more? And the guilt that cuts the deepest is knowing I never once shared the gift of salvation with you, the very thing that keeps me going, the anchor of my life. I regret that deeply. But in that regret, I’ve decided: I will not waste another moment. I will share the love of Jesus and His redeeming grace with the people I love. It isn’t easy ,I don’t know why but I never want to lose someone again and feel like I should have done better.

No one has ever returned from the world of the dead to tell us what it is like. So, all I can do is imagine. I imagine a reunion with those who went before you. I imagine our father seeing you and saying, borrowing the words of scripture, “Well done, my beloved son. You don’t have to endure the pain anymore. You can rest now.”

And to answer my question — yes, I think you lived well. You took in stride what the world gave you. You never looked like the weight you were carrying. As I nurse this loss, I will celebrate your short life. My memories take me back to the first time I saw you  a happy baby who grew into a wonderful man the Lord called home far too early.

You should have lived well, and you did. I only wish you had lived longer.

Volunteering for FIFA: The Joy, the Chaos, and My Very Confused "Why"

 

When I learned Seattle had been selected as one of the host cities for the FIFA Club World Cup, I was ecstatic.

Growing up in Uganda, the World Cup was the event. Every four years the world seemed to pause. Flags everywhere. Dreams everywhere. Stories everywhere. One universal language: cheering for whoever managed to get the ball into the net.

So, when the tournament came to my backyard, I wanted to be part of it. Not just as a spectator, but as someone helping make the magic happen.

Then I saw the ticket prices.

An arm, a leg, and possibly a kidney.

Volunteering suddenly seemed like the perfect solution.

The Long Road to Becoming a Volunteer

The application process was anything but glamorous. There was paperwork, an in-person interview, multiple trips to Seattle for training and uniform pickup, and one memorable day that ended with a $40 parking ticket after what I thought would be a quick stop.

Before the matches even began, though, something else was bothering me.

I'd hoped the tournament would be a celebration where fans and players from every corner of the world could participate freely. Instead, stories about visa problems kept surfacing.

Swiss striker Embolo joined his team late after his visa was reviewed. An Iraqi player was detained for hours upon arrival. Iranian team members faced visa denials and restrictions that meant some could only enter on match days.

I volunteered the day Iran played. After my shift, I learned the players had to leave the country immediately after the match. Anyone who has traveled internationally knows how exhausting that is. After playing 90 minutes of elite football, they were heading straight back to the airport.

That didn't feel like the spirit of the game.

Match Day Reality

Our volunteer shifts started five hours before kickoff.

Coming from Tacoma meant catching a 6 a.m. bus to make it to the stadium by 7 for a noon match. Thankfully, FIFA provided us with an ORCA transit card, which saved my wallet.

I was assigned to the pre-ceremony team, which meant carrying and rolling out the giant FIFA flag before the national anthems.

Walking onto the pitch was incredible.

Unfortunately, the excitement lasted about ten minutes.

Once the ceremony ended, volunteers were sent home because FIFA's policy is clear: volunteering does not include access to the matches.

Standing around for hours before those ten glorious minutes gave me plenty of time to rethink my "why."

Most of us had signed up because we genuinely loved football. Secretly, many of us also hoped we'd get to experience the biggest sporting event in the world from the inside.

Instead, there were long shifts, strict rules, and some truly puzzling decisions. My favorite was learning during one of the training sessions that each volunteer was entitled to just one bottle of water. Water. At an all-day outdoor event sponsored by  the makers of Dasani bottled water.

That one nearly took me out.

Walking off the field after using eight hours of paid time off for ten minutes on the pitch left me wondering if I'd misunderstood the assignment.

Finding My Way Back

Thankfully, I wasn't doing it alone.

One of my friends ended up on the same volunteer team. After the first match, I unloaded all my frustrations onto her. As a sports fanatic, She listened... and looked completely unbothered.

It honestly felt like I was speaking Mandarin.

She was simply thrilled to be there, and nothing I said was going to change that.

Slowly, her attitude rubbed off on me.

I challenged myself to return to one of my favorite mantras: count the blessings.

By the final match in Seattle on July 6, I found myself doing exactly that.

I appreciated the wonderful people I met, the surprisingly effective upper-body workout from rolling giant flags, and the privilege of standing on a FIFA pitch, even if only briefly.

Then, after our final shift, I asked if she was going to the volunteer appreciation party.

Without missing a beat, she said:

"Bus ride hustle, sandwiches, burning Kasana, treating us like kids, freebies... I'm tired. Sitting there watching women's soccer isn't bad, but I'm not wasting my Sunday doing that."

I burst out laughing and teased her wondering what had happened to enthusiasm of the MVP volunteer..

Then it hit me, the thank you party had come a little too late because more than the freebies like a beach towel, the real prize would have been to be a spectator of at least one  FIFA tournament.

My Final Reflection

Would I volunteer again?

Probably not.

The long shifts, expensive commute, limited access, and overall volunteer experience left a lot to be desired. I also couldn't ignore how many fans were priced out of attending, or how visa issues kept people from fully participating in what should have been a global celebration.

There were moments when it felt like football had become more about business than belonging.

But life has taught me that we don't get to choose every experience. We do get to choose what we take from it.

I'm choosing to remember the friendships, the laughter, the giant flag, the once-in-a-lifetime experience of stepping onto that field, and the reminder that gratitude is sometimes a choice we have to make intentionally.

So yes, I'm retiring my FIFA volunteer badge.

But I'm keeping the blessings.

 

You’ve Come Too Far to Undersell Yourself

 

There’s a feeling I don’t quite have a name for, that moment when you know you’ve outgrown a place, but comfort convinces you to stay. That has been me at my job for the last two years. The political climate didn’t help, so I chose to keep my head down, count my blessings, and make it work.

But today, that old urge to apply for jobs came back. Loudly.

If you’re an immigrant, you know the script. Many of us run to the health sector, tier one, tier two, entry-level roles that feel “safe” because they’re more accepting of people like us. I’ve done my share of that. My resume even reads Communication and Human Services Specialist because, honestly, I can talk my way into a human services job faster than I can explain my actual skill set to someone who doesn’t understand immigrant experience.

But when I pause, really pause and tell the truth, the core of who I am is a communicator. Writing, editing, storytelling, connecting people and ideas. That’s the work that lights me up.

And when I look back, I see the pattern clearly. Even in the most unexpected roles, I found my way back to communication. When I worked as a direct support professional for adults with developmental disabilities, I would stop in the middle of the day to write about the small, beautiful moments of their lives for our organization’s newsletter. It wasn’t in my job description, but it was in my DNA.

That took resilience. And wit. And a quiet insistence that my voice or in this case, my written words deserved to be at the table.

Now, as I gather the courage to apply for the communications roles I actually want, I’m realizing something important: I have always moved toward work involving communication, coordination, advocacy, systems, and people. That’s not accidental. That’s alignment.

And I’m praying and reminding myself that ‘I have got it ‘ and  that this time, alignment meets opportunity.

To anyone who feels like they’re in the same place, especially fellow immigrants, I want to say this: Sometimes you need to step back and look at how far you’ve come. Don’t undersell your experience. All of it counts. The good, the bad, the confusing, the “I can’t believe I survived that” seasons. Every job you took while rebuilding your life in a new country is evidence of adaptability, grit, and brilliance.

We are not meant to only survive here. Even after we finally find stability like I have, we’re allowed to keep reaching for the work we truly want. We can  and have it to rebuild our credibility and confidence inside a hiring culture that often doesn’t know what to do with us.

And if you need company on that journey, my debut book Sojourning in America is right there with you. A reminder that your story is valid, your voice is needed, and you’ve got this.

The Journey After the Journey: Life After Publishing

 

When I published my first book last November, I couldn’t wait to get back to my life and reclaim some “me time.” I had big plans mostly involving catching up on Matlock like the world hadn’t moved on without me. But it didn’t take long to realize that publishing the book was the easy part. Nobody warned me that marketing would feel like a second full‑time job, one that requires sociability (this one hoho), consistency, and a level of digital stamina I simply do not possess.

Everyone suddenly had advice.
“Use social media!”
“Do videos!”
“People want to see your face!”

Meanwhile, I am the kind that thrives in the background, minding my business, and avoiding cameras unless I’m curating personal moments. I enjoy watching other people’s videos, but I do not want a camera in my face, nor do I enjoy hearing my own voice played back to me. Still, I took some of the advice with a grain of salt and a prayer. I dusted off Facebook, opened an Instagram account, and discovered Substack, which has been surprisingly wholesome.

Back in the day, Twitter (or X, depending on who you ask) used to be my go‑to, but after a certain somebody took over… well, that’s a story for another day. So yes, I’ve been using my big three Facebook, Instagram, and Substack to mention the book. I’m still not sure which one works best. Some days I’m posting, texting, smiling, and pretending I know what “engagement strategy” means. But honestly, word of mouth and the occasional WhatsApp status have been the easiest and most effective.

Three months after publishing, rather than obsess over analytics, I decided to let the numbers speak for themselves. I have to hand it to Amazon, their brand recognition makes people comfortable, and for self‑publishers, their print‑on‑demand system is a blessing. The royalties won’t make me quit my day job, but I’m genuinely grateful for the 65 orders that have come through Amazon so far, with 27 in November alone when I published (thank you friends and family).

I also ordered author copies and have sold a good number through direct sales. Shoutout to my friend Diana, who has taken me to two vending events where I sold 10 copies and to my people who sell the book on my behalf and to those who have carried this book all the way to Uganda, proudly shoving it into the hands of everyone in their circles. What love!

I’ve also pushed myself out of my comfort zone and approached people when the moment felt right. One such moment was at a church event. After the service, I approached an acquaintance, someone I know will grow into a friend, and handed her a copy with the promise she’d pay me the $20 whenever she was ready. Almost a week later, I got a Cash App notification. She didn’t send $20. She sent $30, with the note: “for excellent book.” When I texted to clarify the price, she simply said it was worth $30.

Moments like that remind me that this little project has a life of its own carried by community, kindness, and people who believe in the story more loudly than I ever could. Even when I’m worn out from filling my timeline with sojourning moments, even when the yields feel small by industry standards, the wins have been big in their own gentle way.

And if Sojourning in America has found its way into your hands, or if you’ve shared it with someone on their own journey, thank you. If you’ve been meaning to get a copy or pass one along, consider this your gentle nudge and my heartfelt gratitude for helping this story keep moving.

Seriously though… when does one stop marketing a book?

 

The Super Bowl: America’s Most Faithful Gathering

 

Football season is wrapping up with the grand finale this Sunday, and Seattle is buzzing. Our very own Seahawks are heading to the Super Bowl to face the New England Patriots on February 8 at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, California.

Super Bowl Sunday is basically a national holiday here. Over 100 million people tune in every year. It’s the second-largest food consumption day after Thanksgiving. And Americans will wager more than $15 million on a single game which is wild, considering I still can’t figure out why they stop the clock every 12 seconds.

But I’ve learned this:
The Super Bowl is less about football and more about community

People gather with friends, wear their team jerseys, and serve food that should come with a warning label. Even the commercials get their own fan base. It’s a whole cultural moment.

Meanwhile, as an immigrant…

Football, real football is soccer. I have tried, truly tried, to understand this American version but between the helmets, the tackling, and the endless timeouts, I remain a respectful outsider.

Still, I admire the passion.

During my brief spell in Boston, Fridays at work looked like a uniform inspection. Everyone even the people who normally avoided eye contact suddenly became friendly. A simple “Go Pats!” could thaw the iciest coworker. It was like watching community form in real time.

Then I moved to Seattle in 2015, and it was déjà vu. On Sundays, the whole city was dressed in blue and green. Church services felt… expedited. People were ready to sprint to their TVs. I kept seeing jerseys with the number 12 and wondered if everyone had accidentally bought the same one. Turns out the fans are the “12th player.” I think this is genuinely sweet.

My ongoing confusion (and reluctant fandom)

Over the years, coworkers have huddled during football season, passionately explaining plays I still don’t understand. The game feels rough, long, and slightly chaotic to me. I’ve never attended a Super Bowl party and now that I think about it, I’ve also never been invited to one. But that’s a different story!

Still, in the spirit of the place that has become home, I own some Seahawks gear. I love the way this game brings people together, how loyalty survives both heartbreak and victory, and how a city can move in unison for something bigger than itself.

So even though I won’t be watching the game, I’ll be cheering on and for the love of dear Washington state with all limbs crossed hoping the Seahawks bring the trophy home.

A Sojourner’s Reflection

Moments like this remind me why I wrote my debut book Sojourning in America. I may not fully understand the game, but I understand belonging. I understand watching a community rally around something they love. I understand the beauty of being shaped by a place even when you still feel like you’re learning its language.

And maybe that’s the real Super Bowl story for me not the touchdowns, but the togetherness.