A Dance Called Gratitude

The worship space of Rwamagana Lutheran Church

Going to church in Rwanda is pretty much just like going to church in Minnesota.

... Just kidding. Church here isn’t exactly like what I grew up with.  There is spontaneous singing, impromptu dance parties, people standing to proclaim their testimonies of gratitude, and pastors that loudly shout their message without any need for a microphone.  In fact, some of the Rwandan worship traditions had to nudge this Norwegian Lutheran girl outside her worship comfort zone.  But in this grace-filled place I have learned to love these new ways to worship and I admire the faith of my brothers and sisters here.  For example, during Sunday worship we always have a time for testimonies.  Members of the church can get up front during the service and proclaim how God has been at work in their life.  (We don’t do this where I’m from.)  The first time this happened I was like, “Whoa dude! Aren’t you supposed to close your eyes and bow your head and just think your thanks to God?”  But as the weeks wore on, I began to marvel at their capacity for gratitude and what a wonderful gift it was to share this gratitude with others.  They were proclaiming things I often take for granted.  Some would stand to tell how a family member was sick but now had recovered.  Many of my students stood up to give thanks for doing well on a test that week.  Others would simply stand and tell how they were grateful to be alive another day.  To be alive and healthy, to have the ability to study and learn – what wonderful gifts indeed!  How often do I attribute my health to an efficient immune system or academic success to my own hard work?  But soli deo Gloria, man. To God be the glory.  That is one of the things I am learning every Sunday here in Rwanda.

Another thing I am learning is how to dance.  I like to think I’ve always had pretty sweet dance moves, but when it comes to church I have often opted for the moves of my Scandinavian elders – the “stand still and look pretty serious” move.  And there’s nothing wrong with this. I have worshiped fully and deeply this way.  I have been moved by the Holy Spirit in this stillness.  But here in Rwandan I get to bear witness to the liveliness of a congregation that lets the Holy Spirit move them literally.  The beat of the drum and the syncopation of the lilting Kinyarwanda verses alone are enough to get anyone up and off the pew – add the Holy Spirit to that and it’s a pretty good time.  (We have even broken out into a mid-service conga line on more than one occasion.)  

These sounds of worship are hard to contain within the walls of the churches.  When I walk to church, the streets are busier than any other time of the week.  Sunday mornings are the closest thing Rwamagana has to a rush hour.  The streets are full of men in suits and women in brightly colored dresses coming and going from church.  I can hear the drums or choirs of various churches as I pass.  And as I approach my church, I can usually hear it before I see it.  Our choir is smaller than most but their strong voices still echo under the tin roof and spill out onto the hillside.

Churchgoers wander into our worship space slowly as the choir sings.  The sign outside says that the service begins at 9:00 but, true to African time, the service usually gets going around 10:15.  Although my neighbors don’t seem to be in a rush to get to church, they are also never in a rush to leave.  Most services are two hours long at the very least and I have been to some that lasted six.  But no one seems to mind.  No one is anxious to get home and start their yard work or watch the big football game.  Sundays, here in Rwanda, are for church.

I must confess that I miss the worship experiences that I grew up with more deeply and intensely than I expected to.  Although I am learning to celebrate, give thanks, and worship in new ways; the worship that I grew up with will always be part of me and feed my soul in a way that nothing else can quite match.  But I am lucky because part of me is also being taken over by Rwanda, it’s people and it’s traditions.  And I get to take all that back with me (all the traditions, not all the people… although that would be fun.)  My faith and my capacity for worship will forever be stronger because of the mornings I have spent at Rwamagana Lutheran Church.  And my life will be perpetually blessed by these people who have an attitude of gratitude worthy of dance.

This video is not one of the full-fledged dance parties I 

was talking about but it still has a pretty sweet beat.

Remembering the Genocide

This week marked the 21^st anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda.  Throughout the week, schools  were closed and work hours cut short as the country paused to remember.  Before coming to Rwanda, I read books and watched films, trying to learn more about the country I would be moving too.  Most of the stories I came across told of the genocide.  And even before arriving, what struck me most was the resilience of this nation.  I tried to understand what it meant to live through one hundred days of killing, being on the run, hiding, watching neighbors kill neighbors, perhaps losing your entire family.  And I tried to understand how a person, let alone a nation of people, could move on after that.

After months in Rwanda, I still can’t understand or even relate to the stories of genocide.  But now the stories I hear hurt a little more.  Because the genocide is now more than a story.  It is now the tragedy that orphaned my friends and robbed them of their siblings.

The only Rwanda I know is beautiful, safe, peaceful, and full of life.  But, as the mass grave next to my house reminds me, the country still holds a deep scar, one that they have chosen to intentionally remember and learn from.  This week, I too have tried to remember but I believe that the stories of the genocide are not mine to tell.  So here are the words of a friend:

"As young boy sometimes I was too scared and weak to walk in the hills full of killers, this is in and during the aftermath of genocide. Sometimes I felt as if the sky hit me over the head. Other times, the earth became too narrow to accommodate me as if surrounded by the most dangerous wild beast. As result, as an orphan surrounded by widows and widowers; we are forced to have courage but not false one, the courage that must keep our loved ones alive.  Therefore, the 21st anniversary of 1994 Genocide to me is very important not only to remember my loved ones, but also a day to support  the most vulnerable survivors; widowers and widows, old ones and orphans who are still striving with the ways of the world, the circumstances in which we found ourselves in . It is not  on the anniversary  I remember,  I also remember those I loved in every single decision I make, in every single step I make and I have to cope with a precarious existence many of  survivors had been in, before and after 1994.

"Probably the most terrible consequence of genocide as a young child was to be left out without any parental care, fighting for my own survival like separation with relatives, attending school or self education, clothing myself, self feeding, making some other tough decisions at early age and struggling with shelter. It is said that there is always strength from struggle, learning from both who were younger and older  than I was after 1994, gave me a reason why I was left to live for others.  

"One day, a teacher took a list from the shelf, ‘Hutu students, stand up.” She cleared her throat and said in a loud voice. I was so surprise and confused at the same time simply because it was the first time to hear such new vocabularies in our class. Few of us were confused, as my friend and neighbor Claude stood up I also follow and stood up. Immediately, the teacher forced me to sit down because I didn’t know where I belong. The class laughed at me and I felt so ridiculous in my class because of such ignorance.  The following days, I learnt to stand up at the right time with the right minority in the class. It was such shame to always stand up in a group of 5 few children in the class of 45 children. I kept on asking why teachers always divided us in such systematic and organized way. Living in that beautiful but divided classmates, standing up and list making became a chapter on the curriculum, and also  became a daily normal class routine.  The first year passed, the second, third and the fourth until it became a habit, the following year Genocide started.

"In my interest of Shakespeare’s language and accuracy of words, I am trying to find the right words to describe the hatred I saw and heard in the eyes of men. It was in the rainy season, the crops were flourishing both wild plants and crops were growing faster than ever, cows were enjoying the green pasture.  It was few days Wednesday early morning few days before Easter, it was my favorite daily schedule  to wake up earlier and gather outside and observe how uncle milked cows while cows chewing things.  That moment also was the end of my childhood, when my great aunt screamed in the God of Israel that we are all finished after hearing 6:00 am news on national radio that the plane was carrying the the country president was shot down.

"My great aunt sent me to my grandparent‘s friend. It was like three or four miles away from home. But to reach my grandparents’ Hutu friend was another Calvary. In the eyes of  the most dangerous wild beast on earth but in human form; they were hunting people with spears, machete, pointed sticks, small axes to name few in traditional arms. I started the journey around 8:00 am but it ended in the evening, after spending hours under the  bridge with tree trunks hiding from wild killers in human images chanting battle songs, attacking unarmed innocent children and women.

"By the time I reach my destination, I was welcomed by a courageous woman, fearless and exceeding wise in everything but in loving of humanity.  She gave me a big hug and I tried to narrate what I had been through, then she replied that was a sign of cowardice to attack an unarmed group of innocent people but she assured me that all those who are involving in killing will be too later to face the fury of God.  This unknown heroine in the village has never attended any formal school but she saved many lives. We spent more than two months in her house; we were about nine people separated in the rooms. I was located under her bed, surrounded by kitchens’ utensils.  Under the bed, the old woman's house became my providential escape.

"Finally, I am living in a communities side by side with those who exterminated our loved ones. The ones who witnessed their involvements in Genocide, their sentences are reduced in the traditional tribunal courts called “Gacaca”. At the beginning of all these tribunals, I used to believe that consequences for the guilty are too lenient for the crimes they committed. Half beliefs and half doubts if shame and remorse of guilty ever seized their hearts if they are never, many are oppressed at once with two sad infirmities, age and poverty.  To me as a survivor, its brave punishment of discontent men to see me alive, by the disappointment of their plots to finish all of us. Whatever condition in which they may be in, it cannot exceed the pain of  children born of rape, the old widows and widowers who still suffering the trauma, women and girls infected with HIV  and the orphans who gave up their childhood to act as parents  for the young ones."  - Shingiro

Shingiro is an English teacher at Rwamagana Lutheran School where I also work.  He was one of my first friends in Rwamagana and is one of the most optimistic, cheerful, and inquisitive people I know.

If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen

I couldn't stand it.  I had to get out of the kitchen.  I stood outside the kitchen, looking in from the outside.  It wasn't the heat.  The heat I could take.  It was the swirling, thick smoke from the damp wood that was heating our lunch.

I wandered into the school kitchen one morning and told them I wanted to learn to cook like a Rwandan.  Mama Shukuru smiled, handed me a chef’s hat, and brought me out back where Isaiah was already hard at work.  Isaiah told me I was chief chef for the day.  Thankfully, that wasn't really the case otherwise the student’s would still be waiting for Wednesday’s lunch.

Isaiah hard at work.

Me posing so it looks like I'm hard at work

Wednesday is a busy day in the kitchen at Rwamagana Lutheran School.  Our typical lunchtime spread rotates between rice and beans, Irish potatoes and beans, sweet potatoes and beans, boiled green bananas and beans, or posho and beans.  (I know this might sound like a monotonous diet, but I tell ya, a plate full of rice and beans done right really hits the spot.  Or bananas and beans in a warm ground nut sauce… Yum!)  On Wednesdays though, the kitchen prepares us a feast.

Posho, a porridge-like dough cooked of maize flour and water 

First, Isaiah put me to work peeling ibitoki (green bananas) which we would cook with onions, oil, and tomato paste until they become soft and delicious.  The hard, uncooked bananas ooze a sticky sap causing me to spend as much time washing my hands afterwards as I spent peeling them.  Next, it was time to slice the potatoes.  Isaiah handed me a knife and showed me how to slice them into thin wedges so that we could deep fry them like French fries.  Isaiah’s knife moved with speed and agility as he sliced potato after potato.  I hacked at the potatoes, trying to mimic him.

Peeling ibitoke

Isaiah brought me into the small shack where fires were already going heating a giant cauldron of ginger tea and boiling water for rice.  I tried to slice and dice my way through a pile of onions and carrots that would be tossed into various dishes.  The smoke swirled thicker and thicker as lunch time neared.  It didn't seem to bother Isaiah but it caused me to spend most of my time standing by the door just watching him slice, dice, and stir our noontime meal.

Finally, it was time to serve the fruits of our labor.  (Or I should probably say the fruits of Isaiah’s labor.)  The students and staff were amused to see me donned in my chef’s hat and delivering their lunch.

The final dish - Rice, meat, ibitoke, beans, chips, and salad

Now, they told me, I am one step closer to becoming Rwandan.

Ordinary

Give yourself fully to the adventure of today. - Jesus Calling by Sarah Young

When I stepped off the plane six months ago, I felt upside down.  I pictured my friends and family back in America standing on the opposite side of the planet.  I was literally upside down in relation to them.  During the first few months it was exciting and exhausting to be in this new position, viewing the world from a different vantage point.  Everything I did – buying groceries at the market, walking to school, going to church – it all felt like an adventure.  I would end the day amazed by all that I was experiencing but utterly exhausted by all the new things that I was having to wrap my mind around.

But at some point, midst all the adventure, everything became normal.  I had hoped this would happen.  I don’t think I could handle feeling so out of place and overwhelmed for an entire year.  The normalcy means I’ve made friends, that my house feels like home, and that this culture is leaving its mark on me.  I’m learning how to speak, eat, walk, sing, and dance like a Rwandan.  I’ve even been given a Kinyarwanda name!  You can call me Kabanyana.

The downside of beginning to fit in? It makes it harder to blog.  The blank word document stares back at me a little more harshly.  The moments of ordinary days are often more beautiful than the interludes of edge-of-your-seat adventure… But it’s easy to forget that the ordinary is a story worth telling.  So here’s a snapshot of my new ordinary:

6:00 AM – I wake up to the jingle of my cell phone’s alarm clock.  That is, if I am not woken earlier by my night watchman outside my window singing along to Kinyarwanda gospel music on the radio or to the sound of the utterly ungraceful crows who land with a thud on our tin roof and the nail-on-chalkboard sound of their claws as they try to find their balance on the roof’s steep peak.

6:10 AM – I hit snooze a few more times… Or slip on my shoes for an early morning run.  Despite my efforts to sneak out unnoticed, it’s not uncommon for me to end my run with a dozen school children in tow.  I’ve even had an old man in a suit and a young woman in heels join me for a jaunt.

7:45 AM – After breakfast and a cold shower, I head to school.  All the bicycle taxi drivers in my neighborhood know where I want to go: “Sarah, tugende?” they ask.  “Yego,” I answer as I hop on the back.  It makes for a pleasant commute – unless, of course, it has recently rained and I’m wearing a skirt.  Then I must hold on for dear life as I balance on the back side-saddle while my driver carefully navigates the pits and puddles of the muddy dirt path.

8:00 AM – I arrive at Rwamagana Lutheran School as the first bell rings.  Most of my day is spent in the new laboratory doing cool science with our biology and chemistry classes.  I’m learning what a challenging and rewarding job it is to teach.  The class periods seem to fluctuate between blank stares and enthusiastic questions.

4:00 PM – The final bell rings and I walk home.  I’m beginning to embrace the African pace of life as I saunter home slowly, stopping to greet all those who call out to me.

Monday Evenings – Monday evenings I have been giving guitar lessons to a couple boys who lead music at their churches.  They learn the new chords quickly and I fear will soon be better than their teacher.

Wednesday Evenings – My roommate Becca and I head to Bible study.  Last fall a few of us started coming together once a week.  Since then our group continues to grow.  Most of us are new to Rwamagana, coming from all over the world.  We come from Korea, Rwanda, America, Uganda, and India.  We are Catholic, Pentecostal, Lutheran, Methodist, and Presbyterian.  We range in age from 19 to 55.  The diversity of this group always makes for rich discussions.  Valerie, an American missionary in our group, has started a bakery to create jobs for single mothers.  We gather at her shop when we meet, always welcomed by the inviting smell of fresh bread, and sharing      delicious food as we try to make sense of the Word.

Fridays Evenings – I join some friends at the nursing and midwife school for some basketball.  After years of warming the benches of the Minnesota State High School League, it’s nice to find a nation that appreciates my basketball skills.

10:00 PM – I crawl into bed, tuck my mosquito net around me, and whisper “Thank you.”

Classrooms and Labs!

Classrooms and labs, loud boiling test tubes, sing to the Lord a new song!

Athlete and band, loud cheering people, sing to the Lord a new song! 

He has done marvelous things.  I, too, will praise Him with a new song!

- "Earth and All Stars" by St. Olaf Cantorei

In the mornings, as the evening’s fog lifts itself from the hills, the streets of Rwamagana are filled with hundreds of children once again.  Uniform clad and notebooks in hand, they chat excitedly with their friends and shout “Good morning! How are you?” as I pass.  But who am I looking for? I’m looking for the ones in the crisp white shirts, sharp khaki pants, and green neckties.  They are mine.  And I am theirs.  Rwamagana Lutheran School feels as it should once again.  The dormitories are full and campus is no longer quiet. 

After a three month holiday, last Monday marked the start of the new school year across Rwanda.  And excuse my cheesiness as I allude to the rather situationally appropriate hymn above, but we are most certainly “singing a new song” this year at Rwamagana Lutheran School.   Our song this year will include labs and loud boiling test tubes, many new students, and our first class of graduating seniors.  The notes of this year’s song started falling in place long before our first day of school.  When I arrived last September, the construction of our school’s laboratory was well underway.  Slowly, it began looking more and more lab-like as it acquired black boards, desks, sinks, and a fume hood.  Then all of our new science equipment arrived; it was like Christmas morning for a scientist.  We got calorimeters and galvanometers and periscopes and resistors.  We got beakers and flasks and test tubes and burners.  As the school’s laboratory assistant, my time had come.  I got to work labeling, sorting, and inventorying.  I arranged the furniture and then rearranged it again, trying to get the perfect scientific feng shui.

Once everything was just so, our visitors arrived.  (And by this, I mean we were actually still frantically trying to get everything in place and our visitors graciously chipped in to help with our last minute dusting, sweeping, and scrubbing.)  These American visitors had made the journey to Rwamagana for the dedication of our newest buildings, including the laboratory, a cafeteria, and a dormitory.  Among these guests of honor were both the donors of our laboratory building and all of our science equipment.  Community members and students returned to campus to celebrate the dedication.

I knew it was going to be a memorable day marking the beginning of something exciting at our school but when the day came it struck me as something deeper than that.  The morning was filled with worship, prayer, and speeches.  Choirs and a traditional dance troupe performed.  When the donors spoke, telling of their connection to the school and their hopes for its future, I was taken with emotion in a way that I hadn't expected.  I was overwhelmed with gratitude for these gifts that our school had been given.

As the school year begins and I work with the science teachers to create a more hands-on science curriculum, I hope to get more kids hooked on science.  But as much as I would love to uncover some untapped affinity for genetics or stoichiometry or anatomy, the reality of this lab means so much more than preparing future doctors or engineers.  This lab and the equipment that fills it tell our students that we believe in them.  It sends the message that they are worth it and that they can be whatever they want to be, whether that is a physicist or novelist.  And that’s a song worth singing.

The grand opening of the lab with the bishop of the 

Lutheran Church of Rwanda and the mayor of Rwamagana.

The periodic table, drawn by one of our students, 

was the finishing touch to the chemistry lab.

Traditional Rwandan dancers really got the celebration going.

Ester, one of our students, leading her church's 

choir at the dedication service.

Ignace, another student, inscribes the initials of the 

three wise men above the door, a tradition dating 

back to the middle ages.

The school's founder, Robin, and I show off some of the new equipment.

Three of our teacher's preparing lessons during teaching workshops.

If you would like to learn more about the excitement at Rwamagana Lutheran School, visit RwandaSchoolProject.org or visit the school's Facebook page.

There's No Place Like... Burundi for the Holidays

Lake Tanganyika, Bujumbura, Burundi

The past few weeks have been filled with small adventures and holiday celebrations.  I continue to be amazed at the beauty of this land, the hospitality of my neighbors, and the support of my friends.  It's hard to be away from home during the holidays.  There have been some hard days as I have been both sick and homesick at times.  But as 2014 drew to a close, I couldn't help but marvel at the blessings the year has brought and I look forward to what this coming year will bring.  So I wish you umwaka mushya mwiza (a good new year) as they say here.  And I hope you enjoy some more snapshots from Rwanda... and Burundi.

A few weeks before Christmas I had the chance to visit my friend and fellow YAGM, Luke, and his host father, Pastor Martin, at his home in the village of Rukira.  Getting myself there was an adventure in itself.  After two buses and a motorcycle ride I ended up at Pastor Marta's church, NOT Pastor Martin's church. (Something was lost in translation.)  But with the gracious guidance of Pastor Marta and the people of the Pentecostal church, I was soon on the back of another motorcycle bound for Luke and Pastor Martin.  Luke teaches English to a jubilant bunch of preschoolers who absolutely adore him.  It was fun to see them show off the English songs and rhymes he has taught them.

Luke's kiddos

Their favorite activity? Chasing Luke

Christmas reunited me once again with my YAGM family in Kigali.  The Lutheran church in Kigali offers regular English services and they invited the six of us and our country coordinator, Pastor Kate, to lead the English services on Christmas.  It was such a treat to sing our favorite familiar carols together and to share some of our Christmas traditions with the people at church.  The best part of the night (and one of my favorite Christmas traditions) was the lighting of candles and singing "Silent Night." It was a holy night indeed!

At Christmas Eve service in Kigali

With a few days of a free time on our hands between Christmas and New Years, the six of decided to explore one of our neighboring countries.  We headed south to Burundi's capital city of Bujumbura and spent a day swimming at Lake Tanganyika.  It was fun to see the different kind of hustle and bustle of another African country.  The people where impressed when we spoke Kinyrwanda as it is very similar to their native language, Kirundi. They would exclaim, "Oh, you speak Kirundi!" And we would answer with a confident, "Yego! Yes!"

The water was great but beware of hippos.

Sunset over Lake Tanganyika

New Year's in Rwanda is celebrated with worship.  My landlord and his family invited me to share in their celebration.  We ate brochettes (sticks of grilled goat meat), ibitoke (cooked green bananas), and fresh papaya.  In the morning we joined hundreds of others at the Catholic church for New Year's Day mass.

The Catholic church in Rwamagana

Now things are falling back into their normal routine as the holidays draw to a close.  (Although most days my "normal routine" still doesn't feel at all normal or routine.)  I enjoyed seeing familiar faces again at church this morning.  I am beginning to learn the songs well enough that I find myself singing them the rest of the day.  As I write this, I can hear through my open window that the little boy next door has the same hymn stuck in his head as I do!

Some of our choir members

And in case you were wondering what my favorite snack is here in Rwanda - because I'm sure that is exactly what you were all wondering - I thought I better include a picture of that too.  There is nothing better than a cold glass of ikivuguto (a fermented, yogurty milk drink), chapati (a fried flat bread), and fresh mangoes.  Birayoshye! Delicious!  

A Christmas Gift

We have been to enough Christmas pageants and seen enough nativity scenes to picture that first Christmas.  We know that the child born that night grew into a man that started a radical movement.  He broke norms and shattered stereotypes.  The new way He chose to live was spunky and truthful enough that others joined Him.  They continued to live in this new way even after Jesus left them.  They weren’t sure what they were doing at times.  They learned from and leaned on each other.  They became what we in English call the church or in Kinyarwanda itorero.  

For some, the idea of the church might make them cringe and perhaps for good reason.  We (the church) have excluded and loved conditionally.  We have let our mission get clouded by politics and petty drama.  Throughout history the church has been as messy and messed up as the people that make it up.  This has caused some to turn away thinking that their faith was better off on their own or perhaps putting aside their faith altogether.

Yet I am thankful for this gift Jesus left behind for us.  And I don’t say this blindly.  I see the problems and the ugliness of my church, churches in America, churches in Rwanda, and probably every other church out there.  But this year I have been welcomed into a new church.  Being an outsider has given me new perspective about what it means to be a church and why it’s important to struggle through and celebrate faith together.  I have seen a little boy bring his siblings to church each Sunday, telling me that after his sister died this was the place he felt happy again.  I have seen this church collect a second offering for a woman who wasn’t a member of the church but who couldn’t pay her children’s school fees.  I have experienced the much needed welcome and invitations to lunch that are needed when one is far from home.

I have also found myself missing my church at home, the congregations of both my hometown and my college campus.  This too has brought perspective.  I enjoy Sundays here in Rwanda.  I love the energy of the African songs and fellowship after church.  In the singing and dancing and clapping I still find the sense of peace that can only be found on the Sabbath.  But worshiping in a foreign language leaves something to be desired.  I miss worshiping with other in songs I know, reflecting on scripture in words I understand, and reciting the liturgy I grew up with.  I feel these gaps that church has usually filled in my faith and I now have to try to fill them in new ways.

Faith, as I am learning more and more, is communal.  God is overpoweringly capable on His end of the relationship.  But our end?  Not so much.  Thankfully Jesus left us with a church, comrades on this journey called faith.  We mess up a lot yet God keeps filling in our gaps and using us to fill up the gaps in others.  And that, my friends, is a pretty sweet Christmas gift.

Myself and a fellow church-goer 

Fun Fact:  The word “itorero” in Kinyarwanda refers to the people that make up the church.  The word for the building that is the church is “urusengero.”  Cool distinction, huh?

Celebrating Life

I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.  - Psalm 27:13

The email said, “Come all to celebrate life and express thanks to God for life and the earth he/she has given us.”  It was an email from Pastor John, one of the local pastors, inviting my fellow YAGMs and I for a weekend of camping.  After two months of adventure and struggle in our various homes throughout Rwanda, nothing sounded better to me than some time with these dear friends.

John’s land sits overlooking Rusumo Falls which churns the silt-laden waters of the Kagera River into a milky brown.  The river cuts through the land to divide Rwanda and Tanzania.  Everywhere I turned I found a view worth a picture.  Even the door-less outhouse had a mountaintop view.  Now, during the rainy season, the hills of Rwanda pulse with an emerald green color that the American Midwest only sees in jewel-toned story books.  The clouds hang low making this land seem as if it has been tucked just a little extra close to heaven.  Don’t be fooled though, the equatorial sun reaches between the heavy clouds to burn any pale neck in reach.

Shortly after arriving, we were greeted by the hill’s native inhabitants.  The curious baboons snuck shyly through the trees, proceeding with more confidence once we began tossing bananas their way.  (This in hindsight may not have been the best decision because the baboons had difficulty differentiating between the bananas we brought for them and the bananas we were saving for our breakfast.)  Once the baboons grew tired of us, John brought us over to see the goats.  A young boy led a bull goat by a rope.  John chuckled as he told us that he knew we were probably not accustomed to being presented with our dinner while it was still alive.  He explained that in Rwanda it is customary to present the animal to one’s guest before it was slaughtered.  So we greeted our goat and thanked him for his sacrifice.  Hours later we shared a delicious meal around the fire.

The next morning we helped John plant some trees.  John has planted well over 40,000 trees on this land.  He has worked hard to make this little corner of the world a place of life-giving celebration.  He does this by planting trees and bringing friends together for fellowship.  He does this with decided intentionality because not that long ago these hills and the river winding through it carried death and bitter sorrow.

During the 1994 genocide, when over one million people were killed in one hundred days, five hundred thousand people fled across the Rusumo Falls Bridge to Tanzania.  As the exodus took place on the bridge above, thousands of dead bodies tumbled down the falls below.  Brutal killings were taking place across the entire country.  Bodies were thrown into streams and rivers.  With most of Rwanda’s rivers flowing into the Kagera, many bodies collected at these falls.  When the conflict subsided, no one wanted to purchase the land that had witnessed such horrors.  Some thought John crazy for buying it.  But John saw the hope and life that the land still held.  

Everyone Kuvumba Now!

So I crashed a wedding last weekend.  I ended up being in the wedding.  And I may or may not have almost gotten married... 

Let me start from the beginning:  Last week I spent a few days in Rwanda’s capital city, Kigali, to attend the Global Leadership Summit, a faith-based leadership conference.  Because I was in town, I thought I would go visit my Kinyarwanda teacher, Peter.  When I called, he told me he was going to a wedding.  Seeing it as his responsibility to have me practice my Kinyarwanda skills and introduce me to more Rwandan culture, Peter invited me to tag along.  Normally, my Midwest American upbringing would have caused me to hesitate, not wanting to intrude on someone’s special day.  Luckily, I am in Rwanda where people are not only expected but invited to crash a wedding.  They even have a word for that: kuvumba, which translates to “to take food or drink when not invited to a party.”  And the people that do the kuvumba-ing are called abavumbyi.  Rwandans don’t worry about the number of places to sit or the number of meals to prepare, rather they truly believe “the more, the merrier.”

Upon arriving at the wedding, a friend of the bride took me by the arm and helped me don the traditional dress.  Now, I must confess I still don’t really understand the entire marriage ceremony here in Rwanda.  It can take several days and there are many parts.  The day I attended was the gusaba and gukwa, the negotiation and presentation of dowry.  Traditionally, the dowry was always cows.  In rural areas this is still true.  In fact, during my first week in Rwanda, a man offered my father forty cows if I would marry his son.  I did kindly decline, mostly on the grounds that my dad would have no idea what to do with that many cows.  (I think the day a man does come seeking my hand in marriage, he is going to have better luck offering a dowry more suited to my father's tastes, such a water-skies or Snickers Blizzards.)

There was no exchanging of cows at this wedding.  Instead they exchanged beer, wine, and other gifts.  If you speak Kinyarwanda, the negotiating is fun to watch.  The uncles or fathers of the families banter back and forth, exchanging jokes and friendly teasing as they decide the dowry price.  The father of the bride will eventually concede to giving up his daughter.  Often though, as a joke, he will bring out the wrong daughter.  Then the banter will continue until the groom wins the bride he is after.  At this wedding, however, someone thought it would be hilarious if instead of bringing out the bride, they bring out a tall American girl who clearly looks nothing like the bride-to-be.

So before the ceremony began, Peter pulled me into the back room where the wedding party was waiting.  And at just the right moment, someone escorted me out to the negotiating families and the bride’s family presented me to the father of the groom.  Everyone had a good laugh and I enjoyed playing along.  Thankfully, the groom’s family kept negotiating for the bride they wanted. 

What if they would have settled with me?

That would have made for an awkward phone call home to Mom and Dad.

My "father" about to present me to the groom's family

Presenting gifts to the couple

The bride (center) with her new husband

Celebrating the couple with a traditional dance troupe 

Meet Mose

If I made a list of all the blessings I have been witness to here in Rwanda, Mose would most certainly be on that list.  And if my life were a movie, he would definitely be played by Morgan Freeman.  I would like to introduce you to Mose.  His real name is Bonaventure but here in Rwanda “Mose” is a title of respect for older men, so that’s what we call him.  He is our night guard.  In the quiet, banana-tree-filled town that I live in, having a night guard for your compound is just a common part of the culture.  So every evening Mose arrives to keep watch over our house.  But this is not why I am so fond of him; it is his patience, kindness, and comic relief he brings that has made our house feel like home.

On the days that I come home from school late, I am always greeted by Mose’s big smile and his friendly “Mwiriwe, Sarah!”  He speaks very little English but I have found that he makes for an excellent Kinyarwanda teacher.   He waits patiently as I struggle to find the right words and corrects me when I don’t say something quite right.  He speaks slowly so that I can understand and isn’t afraid to animatedly pantomime when I don’t (often bringing with it some good laughs).  A conversation with him is a good way to turn around a long day.  He helps us in our garden and gives us advice as we begin our amateur attempts to grow things.  He chases away little kids who make a game of ringing the bell at our gate.  And lately, he has been our rescuer from the critters who try to make a home with us…

As I stood over the sink washing my face before bed, out of the corner of my eye I saw something flop to the ground.  I turned and saw a big black bat lying on the ground.  My first instinct was to scream, alerting my roommate that we had company.  My second instinct was to make my mammalogy professor proud and indentify the genus and species of the bat.  I succeeded at the former but failed at the latter.  My roommate came running to my rescue.  What does she do? She runs and gets her camera so that our bat wrangling fiasco could be properly documented.  So what do I do? I grab the closest thing to me: the book of devotions sitting on our coffee table.  So there we were, shrieking and laughing and waving around the Word of God to scare the bat out of our house.  Then enters Mose to our rescue.  He looks at us and chuckles.  “Mfite bat! Mfite bat!” I exclaim. “Agacurama,” he corrects.  “Mfite agacurama! (I have a bat!) Mfite agacurama!” I clarify.  Mose then walks across the room and calmly picks up the bat before turning to Becca for a picture.  What a guy!

I Am Muzungu

"I am responsible for the house which I did not build but in which I live."  - Dorothee Soelle

As I continued up the dirt path, I came upon a little girl, dust-covered and adorable.  Her eyes lit up when she saw me.  She broke into song.  She pranced around, clapping her hands, singing “Muzungu, muzungu, muzungu!”  Had it been another day, I would have slowed to talk to her.  I would have tried to ask her name or how old she was.  But today I just forced a smile and said hi.  She followed me down the path a ways, continuing her enthusiastic song, her innocent excitement almost contagious.  But today, I was just trying to hold back tears.

Earlier on my walk home, an old woman crossed the road to greet me.  I smiled, shaking her hand, rambling off all the greetings I knew.  Then she started asking me for money.  My Kinyarwanda vocabulary is still small but I know the words for money and hunger.  I pretended not to understand.  She pointed to her stomach and to her mouth.  I understood.  I understood perfectly.  She began to get frustrated with me.  I wanted to be anywhere but there.  I really wished I couldn't understand her.  She became angry and I walked away.

That day wasn’t really all that different from other days.  I am often greeted with excitement and I am often asked for money.  Here in Rwanda, to those who don’t know me by name, I am muzungu.  White person.  Or more literally translated: rich person.  For the most part, I appreciate the attention.  In fact, I need the attention.  I have moved 8,000 miles away from my family and friends, so I long for relationships with those in my new community.  I need my neighbors to reach out to me, to recognize me as new, and welcome me.  And they do.  They call out muzungu in warm welcome.  And I am so grateful for the warm handshakes and the friendly, inquisitive Kinyarwanda conversation.  These interactions are often the highlight of my day.

But that day I was tired.  And when the old woman became angry, something inside me cracked.  First, I wanted to cry out of the selfish desire to just fit in.  I wanted to pass through the crowded soccer field without everyone staring.  I wanted to be greeted only as Sarah and not as muzungu.  I wanted to immerse myself in this culture and not from the outside.

But what hurt the most was the frustration I felt towards the systems that have created the separation between the old woman and I.  I wanted to sit down on the side of the road and cry.  I wanted the old woman to sit down and cry with me.  I was angry at the world for creating a system where my new neighbors could look at the color of my skin and correctly assume that I had more money than they did.  I thought back to a conversation I had had with a small congregation near Uganda.  We were discussing community organizing and development.  A woman asked my fellow YAGMs and I how our country became so rich.  She asked this without any bitterness but simply out of the desire to empower her country and better the future of her children.  I wanted to tell her that it was just that way when I was born and that I had nothing to do with my country’s wealth.  I had as little to do with the establishment of my country's wealth as this young mother with her country’s lack of wealth.  But she wasn’t going to passively accept that her country is poor, nor should I passively accept that my country is wealthy.  This dichotomy was not our doing yet bridging the gap is her right and my responsibility.

But what do I do? In the old woman’s anger, did she recognize that my country’s wealth existed at the expense of her country’s poverty? Should I have reached in my pocket and handed the old woman a few coins?  Or would that have only supported our separation as beggar and benefactor?  Instead of satisfying her immediate need for a few coins, is there I way I can get rid of her need for good?  Is there something better I can do? 

The Discipline of Letting Go

One day a disciple came to his master and asked, “Master, what can I do to become enlightened?”  The master replied, “As much as you can do to make the sun rise.”  Confused, the disciple replied, “Then of what use are all these disciplines?”  The Master said, “So that when the sun begins to rise, you do not miss it.” 

         –Spiritual Literacy by Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat

When I said yes to this call to go to Rwanda, I knew that the year would be less planned and much more uncertain than I had a remained in Minnesota.  But I was okay with that.  I was more at peace with this unknown call than the predictability of my own plans.  I found certainty in the call if not in the experiences that would fill it.  But now, here in Rwanda, I have found that each day I have to again reconcile with the unknown.  Because although I tried to come without my own agenda, I have found it hard to not have some kind of expectations about what may days will look like; how I should be feeling; and how, when, and with whom I will form relationships.

Much of my life up to this point has been very planned, scheduled, and structured.  During college, my weeks were full of scheduled classes, meetings, extracurriculars, and work.  I would make plans with friends for the weekend and mentally map out when I would fit in homework, a run, and a few extra hours of sleep.  Here in Rwanda, I am slowly learning the discipline of giving up control.

I have been in my new home here in Rwamagana for less than two weeks.  Just settling in and still unsure of how to spend my time, I didn't have any plans for my weekend.  So when school got out Friday afternoon, I headed home for what I thought was going to be a quiet few days.  However, on my way I came across a group of little girls practicing a traditional dance.  There were people drumming and clapping along.  These little girls in their dusty school uniforms, probably no older than ten years old, danced with such grace and confidence to the pulsing drum.  Thankful for nowhere to be, I stayed and watched.

When the dancing stopped, I began towards home again and soon my cell phone rang.  It was one of the local Lutheran pastors who I had not yet met, announcing that he would like to come visit... like right now.  Well, I thought, now is my time to practice some of the African hospitality I had been learning.  When he arrived, I offered him tea.  It was nearing dinner time and I knew I should offer him something to eat.  My roommate Becca and I looked in our pantry.  It was pretty empty because we had planned to go to the market the next morning.  We had some rice, half a cabbage, and an eggplant.  Becca graciously cooked what we had.  We ate with our guest and talked about his new congregation.  After a few bites of our quickly thrown together meal, he suggested that he come back on Monday with his sister and she would teach us how to cook like Rwandans.  I smiled and said that would be nice.

Saturday Becca and I wandered around a craft expo that was in town for the weekend and then joined our students for a game of basketball.  A friend texted us and said he would come over that night and teach us how to make chapatti (a fried Indian flat bread).  I sent him a text back: Yes, that would be great.

Sunday morning I ventured off on my own to the local Lutheran congregation for worship.  My students sat by me and invited me to stay for lunch afterwards.  “Yes,” I told them, “I would love to.”  On my way home my phone buzzed again, this time a text from another friend asking me if I would like to go out for dinner.  “Sounds great,” I replied.

My weekend did not go as planned.  And I am so grateful for that.  I am slowly learning how to let go of my expectations, my need to plan, and my desire to be in control.  The experiences and enlightenment that this year will bring cannot be planned.  Letting go is easier said than done.  But if we don’t stop trying to be in control, we might miss the sunrise.  Or a beautiful display of dancing.  Or a dinner guest.  Or a game of basketball.  Or chapatti…

... I had planned to sit down and blog earlier today.  But my computer was dead.  And the power was out again.  My instinct was to be frustrated but then I sat back and smiled.  Yes, Lord, I’ll let go.

Museums, Cows, and Kinyarwanda

On Wednesday morning Lars, Emily, Luke, Jake, Ryan, and I will depart for various placement sites throughout the country.  We have spent the last three weeks together in Kigali.  Our fearless leader and country coordinator, Kate, has been guiding us as we learn more about the culture, the language, and how God is at work here.  Here are some of the highlights of the past few weeks:

The Kigali Memorial Museum provided powerful and humbling insight into the country’s past.  It is hard to imagine a genocide taking place in a country that today is so full of life and optimism.  We met a few youth that were part of a campaign to collect one million messages of hope in remembrance of the genocide that took place twenty years ago.

We took an excursion to Kigali’s second largest city, Huye, where we visited a couple of Rwanda’s national museums.  We toured a replica of a traditional home of a Rwandan king.

Cows are an important part of Rwandan culture.  Traditionally symbols of wealth and beauty, cows were decorated for weddings and celebrations.  These cows at the museum were “the royal breed” of the past kings.  They looked rather majestic with their long horns.  The cows must have felt pretty special too because they even had their own royal cow singer to keep them happy.  Here's a picture of the cows being serenaded.  I think one of them is smiling. 

One of our new friends, Frank, taught us how to dance like a cow (which is much more elegant than it sounds) with arms spread wide to mimic the giant horns.

Saturday morning, we joined the youth at the church to help clean the church grounds.  Afterwards, they shared Fantas with us and showed us some of their dance moves.

Uyu ni umwarimu wacu, Peter.  Yigisha Ikinyarwanda.   This is our teacher, Peter.  He teaches Kinyarwanda.  Much of our past few weeks have been spent trying to learn the language.  Kinyarwanda has proved to be a difficult language but everyone seems eager to help us learn:  A man on the bus taught me how to count.  The guest house staff helps us practice; the conversations getting a little longer each day.

When we were learning basic greetings and conversation starters, Peter taught us how to say we are working as partners of the Lutheran Church.  So next time I'm making small talk and someone asks me what I do, all I have to say is, "Nkora k' urusengero rw' Abaruteri nk' umufatanyabikorwa."  Try saying that fives times fast.

Radical Hospitality

We have been waiting for you.

Those words sounded so good to the six strangers who showed up at the Kigali Lutheran Parish Sunday morning.  Lars, Luke, Ryan, Emily, Jake, and I should have felt out of place.  We didn’t look like everyone else.  We didn’t speak like everyone else.  We were far from home.  But we didn’t feel out of place.  “We have been waiting for you,” said one of the men of the congregation as he shook my hand.

The congregation didn’t let us sit alone.  They sat in between us so we would have someone to translate.  The bishop spoke in Kinyarwanda.  He told the congregation to welcome the “big, strong” visitors. (We are arguably the tallest bunch of YAGMs to be deployed.)  “They are tall but they are young,” the bishop continued.  He told the congregation that we had left our parents, so now they needed to be our parents.  He told the youth that many of us had left behind brothers and sisters, so now they needed to be our brothers and sisters.  Looking at us he said,”We will be your parents, your pastors, your bishop.” As he continued his sermon, he talked about unity.  He shared his excitement about building this relationship between the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America and the Lutheran Church of Rwanda.   He addressed the six of us directly and urged us to work hard so that our time here would be a testimony to the future of this relationship.  When he finished, he invited us to the front to introduce ourselves.  He had the congregation turn to us with open arms, as if in a hug.

After church we had lunch with the youth of the congregation.  (In Rwanda, when they say youth, they mean people in their twenties.)  We were overwhelmed by their hospitality.  They were eager to help us learn Kinyarwanda.  They gave us their cell phone numbers in case we ever needed help.  They tried to provide us with the insight to their culture that you can’t learn about in books.  We talked about college, about the careers we want, about what we like to do for fun.  I was amazed by the ownership these peers of mine took in not only their church but also their country as a whole.  After we ate, one of the girls stood up to offer us an official welcome from the youth group.  “We love you,” she said, “We already love you.”  She said she hopes we will become like twin sisters and twin brothers.  Smiling, she pointed to me and said, “You are my twin sister.”

This is an exciting time for the Lutheran Church of Rwanda.  It’s still a relatively small church and less than twenty years old.  It’s roots are in Tanzania, Rwanda’s neighbor to the east. Many Rwandans were refugees in Tanzania during the genocide in 1994 and the violence prior to that.  When the refugees returned to Rwanda in the mid-1990’s, they brought Lutheranism with them.  What’s cool about the history of the Lutheran Church of Rwanda is that it was not founded by foreign missionaries but by Rwandans. 

Welcoming foreign missionaries is new to them. 

Being a missionary is new to me.

This is gonna be cool.

ELCA and LCR youth.

My twin sister and I.  See the resemblance?