...Like the First Morning

Every day, I take a train from a stop near my house to my job downtown. I get the idea from most of the people that come in the shop that taking a train is not the usual first choice of transportation. I'm not sure if it's because I just moved here, or if it's in my make up, but I love the train. In the small town I lived in until I was eight and where I afterwards returned weekly to visit my Dad, there is a train that does a thorough job of blocking traffic by crossing for long periods of time the one road out of town. It was often the cause of tardiness to school, or a late dinner. But, it became a familiarity, which like a habit, brings comfort and attraction.There was always a disappointment in the fact that there were solely freight trains running through.

When I work in the mornings, I leave my house at 5:15 a.m. to take the 5:30 a.m. train. I enjoy the 25 minutes it takes me to get into the busy city. I love the early morning walk a few blocks to work. I enjoy people watching and being still, listening to a Ferguson sermon, or reading. I love the fact that I ride the same track everyday. It's allows me to feel aquainted with this city, being able to look around- not just ahead, to recognize, to be familiar with a place, as if its mine. In studying the ride in, day after day, I have found my favorite part of the trip. About half-way through, the train crosses the Steel Bridge over the Willamette River. This is a beneficial height for viewing both sides of the city at any time of the day. However, there is a still to the early morning that takes up every bit of my mind. The train is loud over the tracks. Everyone is still waking up and quiet and usually alone, and the sun is rising. As soon as I get on the train in the morning, I try to find a seat facing the back because I know it will be facing the sunrise as I go over the bridge. It is to the right that the sun rises, and it is from that direction that the clouds turn a peculiar shade of pink many mornings. Even on the cloudiest mornings, it is from that direction that the light creeps up on the darkness. Every morning that I wake up, I feel a heaviness of anxiety on my chest and my mind. I keep thinking I will wake up one morning with it gone. Within the past few years, there have been only enough mornings free from this to count on a hand. So, rather than despising this heaviness, I have begun to find gladness in the fact that as sure as I wake with this, a little time remembering Christ...mostly knowing I'm remembered by Christ, steals the anxiety away, and turns it into another day's worth of restoration with God.

In light of this, I have felt such an assurance in this sunrise. I've felt many a quiet, lonely morning the Lord asking me to remember him as Creator, and to look around and see his way is faithfulness, steadiness, beauty, and return. The clouds that the light rises upon take on the the pink and orange, telling of the sun before it reaches the high skies I can see. Just by glancing to my right, I meet mercy. In contrast, out of the left side of the train is a building that still baffles me. I have no idea what company it belongs to. It is right on the water, high and and cement, and in front of it (because I assume they belong to it) is a stream of connected trailors that are on crooked-leg-like stilts, dirty and steel and haunting. They look like something out of a nightmare. They are as high as the building and they seem top heavy. There is a little ladder up the side that crooks back and forth with the legs, and I fret over the man who has to climb it, and wonder if they were built for a man to climb or solely as a fright of an eye sore. The other morning, as the train was heading up the bridge, they caught my eye with all of these thoughts crossing my mind. I could not take my eyes off of these skyscraping trailors. As I was heading down the bridge, I was still left trying to figure out this painful view. It was at this point that I decided to turn to the sunrise, but because the morning was so early, and I had descended from my usual look-out point, I could not see the sun. I knew it was there, and that it was on it's way out, and that the following morning I could look to the right of the train and see it as surely as it was there unseen by me that morning. But, it hurt me that I'd missed it. I rode the train in, thinking, "Isn't that just like me? Looking in on the dark and painful, when hope is right in front of my face? Seeing what is tragic and evokes an emotion that is cheap? Isn't that just my tendancy?" The truth is, it is. Still, I found grace in the fact that the sun rose that morning, not because I saw it, but because it is the sun.

I got off the train at my stop, and began walking the blocks to work. As i turned the corner, I was caught off guard by a high rise office building, covered with rectangular windows. In their height, the individual windows reflected a hundred times over the sunrise I had missed. And I thought to myself, "Isn't that just like the Lord? If it were up to me to judge myself, I would be waiting until morning, but instead the Lord restores all we have broken and all that is broken in us a hundred times over." My mind was not meant to imagine the depths of God's grace, but to live in it and rest in it and know it.

diving from planes.

Today, I was reading and writing in a cafe that I've started spending a lot of my time in. This woman was sitting by me at the window bar, and she started talking to me. We began discussing how beautiful the sky was and how nice and quiet it was in here. Yet, as I told her about myself, somehow it became a conversation about life and fear. I told her about Rwanda and moving here to Portland, how I was afraid, how I was afraid for my family, but how I knew it was what God would have me do. I told her how in Rwanda, I was met with my three greatest tangible fears: heights, spiders, and blood. However, I conveyed to her how sweetly God had done so many beautiful reparations to fear-torn parts of my soul in the midst of these. After this, she began to talk to me about how she'd been struggling with fear in her life.

She told me recently that she went skydiving because it was something she'd always been afraid of and wanted to overcome. She said she just knew she had to do it. She wanted a physical representation of not being controlled by her fears.

She said she had 15 minutes of instructions, and the most important part was to spread your arms and expose your chest, as she put it "heart first." That is how it is best to fall, and what a succesful trip entails. After the instructions she had to fill out paperwork releasing her life in case of injury, or even death. She also had to sign away her son to a guardian, in the event of her death. She said she really had to think about these things. After she had signed herself away, she then had to wait four hours. Four hours of cyclical thinking. Should she go through with this or no? Then, when it became time for the jump, she was strapped in front of her guide. She said she'd thought she would be able to hide behind him. Not the case. When she finally jumped, she said she began scrambling. Finally she remembered what she was to be doing. She spread her arms, letting her whole body lay bare and she found it beautiful.

As she was saying this to me, I sat thinking, "Hmm. This is truth, isn't it?"

I started thinking about this past year, and some tendancies I have to think in terms of gains or losses. I remember, the very beginning of my faith, the acknowledgement that every part of who I'd been would change. I remember, trying to decide if it was worth it. All our lives before that had been "fight or flight." However, I think by the time I came to know I needed the Lord, I was unable to fly or fight. I was unable to do anything. It is poor thinking and theology when we now think we are able to do either or anything apart from him. I began thinking about all my fears, from the inside and from the world. I began to think about this God that is invisible. This God that promises love beyond sight, and I think about the way he is the one who changed me when I could not move, when I was dead in my fears.

I wish that fear was something that vanishes as soon as one decides to follow God. It's not, but it is something that loses its power and strength over it's captive. Lydi, the dear girl I was with in Rwanda, recently sent me a letter with a home-made sign that says "Perfect Love Casts Out All Fear." It is true. I've found so many times that instead of believing that, instead of knowing that the Lord is my safety, I cover my body with fear like it is some sort of shield. If anything, it only keeps away our understanding of Love. It is okay to go ahead with jumps, with dives, with all endeavors we are lead into that before seemed impossible. However, it is imperative that when the Lord calls us to do something, we not try to cover our bodies, we not try to swim in air as we would in water with our arms making a peaceful dive impossible. Instead, I want to be one that spreads my arms as wide as possible. There is something startlingly beautiful in spreading your arms in wide vulnerability to Love.

The lady said that when she stopped scrambling, she was able to see, and see more clearly the world than every before. And that she could rest and watch and be glad.

I don't know how many safe planes I am to jump from before I meet the Lord face to face, but I do know that I want to do so as many times as I'm allowed,, barechested, in order to see from his heights.

On returning to Pawleys Island, before the move out West.

I have been wanting to write this blog for a couple of weeks now, and have been milling over it in my mind, but have lacked the time and perhaps the energy to commit to a computer for that long. I returned from Rwanda near the end of April and have been living at home in Pawleys Island with my family. I think the time in Rwanda sans electricity, internet, and telephones has made me remember what it was like to be someone who pays attention. Perhaps exactly what we crave when we are younger- things to occupy our minds- is exactly what stops our minds from being occupied. Let me rephrase that. Perhaps, certain responsibilities that we call luxuries (and are to an extent) occupy our minds in such a way as to put at a receiver's disadvantage. Their is little or no time for searching, and when we do find ourselves needing to search for something to the point of yearning, we resent it. There is a rapidity, there is a noise, there is a hiding from one's self made possible in this. Shyira, Rwanda is stripped of many luxuries, and consequently so was I when I lived there. And I am thankful. My desire in returning was to appreciate these luxuries as such, and not necessities. It was my hope in this way, they would continue to serve as little joys in life, but not distractions. I have to believe that the substance of joy is made of fibers stronger than mere happiness and that joy and luxury have little to do with one another. Sometimes, I think they exist in spite of one another...sometimes not.

On that note, somethings that have caught my attention and brought me joy since being in the United States and specifically in Pawleys Island again:

a. Visiting my Dad at the bakery, watching him as he bakes breads and cakes so enjoyably that sometimes his face gets a look of mischief, very much like a boy finding a way to do something that he knows must be wrong from the amount of happiness it brings him. I love seeing that. I love the creation, the rising, the baking, and the giving away. It is a good thing to see. I believe he loves each piece of bread that he sells, even if it is just a split-second sentiment. That must mean something.

b. I have enjoyed practising the art of running, or jogging, or walking. I like to run to the other Causeway on the island, while listening to a sermon of Sinclair Ferguson. I try to time it just right, so that I can have a specified time of sitting on a bench in front of the creek, and then run/walking back to my house. It serves a two fold purpose....1. it helps me not to concentrate on the fact that nothing about me is athletic, and that I am rebelling against natural instincts. 2. It seems remarkable to me to study God by listening, while looking at what he has created. It is beautiful to have a little explanation on the Lord that brings joy to my heart in understanding, while looking on a beauty that nothing in me comes close to understanding. It almost makes me lose my mind because I am in love with the way the Lord creates and overwhelmed by his intentionality, his plan, his rationality and the way I am unequipped at the time being to fully appreciate it for what it is, apart from its beauty. *Something, I have been thinking about in relation to this, is the detail and intricacy of creation. Little crabs can survive in hole-like tunnels in the creek mud. Fish swim in schools longer than cars that look like looming shadows under the dock until a slit between boards allows enough light to reflect each body. These are glimpses that we can see in the light, or on the surface, or when the water recedes. Amazing things happening that were not meant for my viewing pleasure (but that I do take pleasure in viewing when granted the allowance despite my limited abilities) haunt me into belief.

c. My Mom's cooking and quiet gardening. Her cooking is wonderful, with a very specified taste, that suits my palate -apart from her oatmeal:)- as well, if not better, than anything I've ever had. She uses lots of vegetables and herbs. Along the side of our house in Pawleys, past the outdoor shower, out of view unless searched after or suggested, is my mom's garden. She has not been self-applauding about this garden. In fact, most of the time it goes pretty unacknowledged. Instead, she fills our dishes with its benefits and we enjoy them. I've been interested in gardens since my return, and asked my mom to show me her garden. I had no idea that she had turned a fenced in area previously designated for Beau (our dog) into a beautiful fenced in garden, with vines growing up the sides, birdbaths, a table on stones laid into the ground, and a birdhouse. The inside was beautiful, but we spent the larger part of the time talking about the vegetables lining the outside, mostly peppers- green and banana. She explained to me how to best care for them and what their life and growth process looks like. When teaching me about peppers, she explained that before a pepper sprouts, a flower blooms. I haven't been able to get my mind past this idea. A flower blooms before the fruit. Here was a delicately beautiful flower blooming, and alongside a green pepper- a little lopsided, awkward. The flower was pretty, but the plant was a pepper plant. I thought about my mom's wonderful meals. The flower would not season them, although it would look pretty in a vase. I think my plans usually find their extent in the flower. I am afraid I would be satisfied to live a pretty and delicate life, unharmed, nice to regard, soft to the touch. This is a mistake that the Lord has been kind enough to continually and painfully prevent in his people. It is the pepper that is the fruit of the plant. I think most times, we feel that the ultimate parts of our lives are the beautiful parts, executed in graceful ease. It is just not so. How many parts of our lives have been flowers that come and go, with little to show but fleeting pleasure? I thank God that even as I long for such things, he would have times of seasoning for others in his own way. I am thankful that it is not just the lovely little parts of me that he uses. The parts that season most, I think, are the ones that have very little to offer until they are fully given over. It is used however the cooks sees fit. Not once have I ever eaten a whole pepper. Instead it is chopped so that it flavors the entire dish, not just parts. A flower is not a bad thing. We are made to have our flowers in vases beside our meals, to adorn and draw attention to the seasoned dish. However, it is foolish to think that we are made to feed others from such a distance, where our champion is our own beauty.

These things have been swimming in my mind. They have meant very much to me.

This Side of the Congo

A few weeks ago, Katie, Miriam, Fiona, Johnnie, and I took a weekend trip to Gisenyi. It is a three hour trip from Shyira and the route goes something like this. To begin, we loaded up backpacks early Friday morning, and walked down the trail from Shyira to Vunga. There had been lots of rain recently and rocks had become steep slides and there was mud where there had previously been sand. (Because of the frequent afternoon showers here, the path changes appearance from one walk to the next. Unfortunately, the roads we drive on are even more affected by weather and travel.) My booksack and gravity teamed up on me, and I slipped several times on the walk down.

Once we arrived in Vunga, we saw the bus to Ruhengheri was about to leave. We ran up to it, and realized that it was full. Let me further explain what I mean by full. Yes, the seats were completely taken. In addition, there were already approximately 25 people standing in the aisle. They told us we could come up, too. We thought there was no possible way we could squeeze in for this hour ride, but we decided to try. We all climbed through the door located right in the middle of the bus on the passenger side. Katie and I stood right in front of the door, which never closes. Although, at first the open door concerned me a little, as we rode on, it was a fresh air luxury. A few things happened on the bus, worth noting. 1. Every time we saw someone at a stop, we picked them up. I would estimate about 20 more people joined us. One man was hanging out the door for the trip. The term “personal space” has absolutely no credibility in this situation. 2. A creepy guy stood behind Katie and me, and would occasionally lean his head in between our shoulders, and whisper “Ooh La La.” Until, finally, he touched my shoulder and I said “Don’t do that again.” 3. To top off this, Katie and I hear Miriam, who had been pushed about five people behind us, say, “I will punch you in the face. I’m serious- I will beat you up.” Apparently, some guys had asked if a poor girl like her needed protection in a country like this, that they would be her intimate protection. (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned before the two sides of Miri- Side a. “Mama Miri”- if anything happens to you or you need comfort, this is who you want. Side b. “Headmistress Miri”- if someone is forward with you in a bus packed like sardines, you know she will accomplish every warning she makes about punching someone in the face.) Katie and I looked at each other and started laughing. The funny thing is she did not remember saying it. Katie and I asked her about it, and she didn’t remember. Miri knows how to take care of business, but she doesn’t take it home with her.

We switched buses in Ruhengheri and travelled two hours to Gisenyi. This bus was more like an enlarged mini-van and it was actually a comparably nice ride. I sat by a guy who spoke very good English and he informed me of the history of the towns we passed through. He pointed out the schools, different vegetables growing, a tea company, and the army camps. We arrived around one and checked into the Presbyterian Guest House in Gisenyi, which was really nice and only 3,000 francs a night! Our room was right by an outdoor cafeteria that served great food. That afternoon, we went down to a nice hotel right on Lake Kivu that looks across to the volcanoes in the Congo. It was beautiful, and we went swimming (despite a few warnings against methane in the water and possible parasites.) It was wonderful! The mountains were gorgeous, and the water felt so refreshing. I haven’t been completely submerged in water for too long. It needed to happen. Also, I convinced Katie to waterski. She’s a pro. Afterwards, we went to a restaurant, which we hadn’t done in months. Although, everything was amazing, it felt uncomfortable. The waiter at the hotel told us George Clooney liked to come there, but I was staring at the jungles of the Congo just across this lake.

That night, we came back home, exhausted and went to sleep….sort of. I had trouble falling asleep because of all the talking in the canteen outside our door. Finally, it began to die down, and there were a few scattered voices, and I drifted off until “The Thong Song” began blaring. I lost it, completely. Katie’s bed was right beside mine, and I said, “Katie, are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear ‘The Thong Song?’”

“Yes.”

“I can’t take this anymore.” And I climbed out of my bed, threw on something decent, and walked out the door around midnight, to set straight whoever had woken me from my sleep in the Presbyterian Guest House, in the middle of Africa with “The Thong Song!” However, when I shut my bedroom door behind me, I found three men staring up at me, watching the Sisco music video on a phone, and realized, “It’s midnight, in the middle of Africa, and I’m about to lecture three grown men?” So, instead I said, “Excuse me, sir. I’m trying to sleep. Could you please turn your music down?” Embarrassed, they politely apologized, and I quickly excused myself. It is may be the most ridiculous part of my whole trip here.
The next day, it was really rainy. There was a river of mud running down the right side of the main road, and people had to use little bridges to cross into stores. We went to the market, and explored Gisenyi. That afternoon we went out to this little hotel on the water, and we had dinner, and came back to the restaurant at our hotel, ordered coffee, and played a German board game Johnnie and Fiona brought. It was so fun.

However, that night, I couldn’t go to sleep. It was one of the most miserable nights I’ve had in my life. I prayed, I kicked my sheets off, and pulled them back on, I listened to hymns on my ipod. I couldn’t get the DRC out of my head. It was too close. The weight of it found me in my bed. I couldn’t piece together this place. My mind found no consolation in logic or reason. I felt like a person that stares at the sun until they are blind. It was such an exhaustion of heart and mind that it rejected sleep. I stayed in bed wrestling with thoughts of, “Why not me over there?” “Can things like this really happen, if I can’t fathom them?” “Where is the justice and protection in this world?” “When will suffering stop?”

Finally, my mind came to one relief. Sometimes, the only consolation in this world, is Christ himself. Sometimes, that is absolutely it. I cannot imagine what is going on over there, or the evil that is pouring through the veins of some people over there, and the pain pouring through others. The problem is I cannot understand their suffering. My heart has been introduced to heartbreaking things, but this physical suffering- what do I know of it? It is in this crippling concern that the promise of Christ is so illuminated and worthy. That in this world we will have troubles, but he has overcome the world. My heart breaking for the women being repeatedly raped in the Congo, for the awful murders and abuses, for the appalling violence unimaginable to me- it doesn’t stop it. What’s more my conception of what kind of healing must occur under the skin and in the minds of these people is minute. However, my comfort for them and for my own mind in this situation is this: Christ knows. He knows their pain, and he has known the pain of vicious death and abandonment and forsakenness. He is a full of sympathy, and absolutely does not leave us where we are. I don’t understand so many things about suffering on this earth, but I know God hates evil. I know every time someone is hurt, the pain shoots through him in a way I can’t conceive.

That night, the thought of heaven felt like the weight of the good Lord’s hand on my long-winded heart, and it stilled me, and I slept. My rest was found in his love for others. I think these people understand something of the glory of heaven that we usually have only after we get there. A longing that is in our own souls, but too usually too overshadowed by sexy pastimes, finds its relief in Christ’s heaven. Things will be made whole. Every wound will be sought out and healed. I want to bear the burden of others in such a way that makes me further seek out and trust a sufficient burden bearer for all the needs I cannot meet in and of myself.

a match on a hill.

The past week, I’ve been pretty sick and I have felt a bit useless and cooped up in doors. I had to miss the bible study Wednesday, and although we rescheduled for Friday, I found out Peace, my translator, couldn’t make it. So, I began a walk down to the school to tell my girls we would have to postpone again. It was wonderful timing, because as it turns out, when I arrived, all of the girls were getting water before a soccer game they were to play at the school. They’d told me about it Monday and I’d forgotten. So, it was actually perfect.


The school is set on a hill, with different parts of the school at different elevations. The soccer game was in a depressed area, with a hill on one side and a drop off on the other. When I walked up to the watering place with Lydia as my translator, sweet Angelique told me that they were about to play, and asked if I was coming. The rest of the girls walked down with me to the edge of the hill overlooking the field, and Lydia returned home. My friend Clementine’s son, Albert, pulled up a bench for me, and I sat down. It wobbled under the weight of my body and I wondered if it would hold up. Then, four more children sat down and it steadied. It seems that some things are less stable without pressure. My girls climbed down to the field and I was surrounded by boys and girls watching me watch my girls.

I couldn’t get over these girls. They seemed so sure of themselves. These girls treated each other with the kind of affectionate informality one rarely sees outside of siblings. Everyone in Shyira has short hair, probably only about an inch in length. Most of my girls have shaved heads. They had on pants, they hardly have any attributes that look like women yet, and there is no hair to create the impression of a girl. But somehow, they were brilliantly feminine. They were the sort of feminine feminists shoot for, and can’t help but miss. These girls were feminine just because they were. It was how they were born. They ran like little boys, and cut their hair like little boys, but there was no mistaking these girls. They were beautiful and free and didn’t even know it, and so retained every bit of unassuming wealth. I am in full admiration and love for them.

For a better view, I moved and sat on the side of the hill, and let my feet rest on a stump jutting out. Children came and sat by me, as closely as possible. Then, children pressed against my back and on my sides. There were so many little hands touching me at different points that I was completely unable to match them with a face. However, three girls sat to my right arm against arm, and didn’t move for the rest of the match. Most of the children began pointing and laughing, saying, “Muzungu,” which means white person. I said, “Oya Muzungu. Nitwa Emily.” (Meaning: Not Muzungu. My name is Emily.) After that, most of the children started saying, “Emwhirlee.” Or something of the like. It is so sweet. I don’t know that I’ve ever loved hearing my name said more than the way these children say it. It makes me glad my mom chose this name, and it makes me wish she could hear them say it. It amazes me that the Lord always knew my name would be spoken through those lips, and he always knew it would bring me a joy that is so deeply entangled in his plans and his blessings that I can’t describe it.

The children and I sat there for an hour watching the game. I cheered and laughed, although most of the time the kids didn’t…except maybe at me. The girls in my study would look up on the hill and see me, their fierce and serious face of competition turning into a quick eyebrow lift and smile. This may be my favorite characteristic of Rwandan culture, an affirmative lift of the eyebrows. It’s a swift and loaded acknowledgement. I realize I’ve begun to do it back, and it surprises them. Little understandings mean much when you only know a few words of one another’s language. It is strange that we have talked so deeply about scripture through Peace’s translations. Yet, we fumble over our words when we try to really speak to one another. The eyebrow raise is a relief to my tongue and lips, which rarely accomplish any task set before them here.

The girls sitting beside me had feet stretched down in green plastic sandals, or maybe they are rubbers, that are very common to most children in this village. Here, gaps between toes and arches fill with dirt, sand, mud, probably droppings, and natural perspiration, which creates a sweet, stinking smell. Then, there are the unwashed armpits that are voicing themselves. These smells – theirs and mine-combined and we were people, hot in the sun, glad to be near each other.

The sun began to burn my chest. One little girl sitting beside me reached up and pressed the sunburn. Then, realizing it turned white upon pressure, her little jaw dropped. She looked at me and I laughed and pressed it again. She laughed, and kept pressing it. I pressed her arm wondering if it would change, but it didn’t and we kept laughing. Then, she took my arm and placed it beside hers, and started touching its hair. Then, she touched my fingernails. It was the least offensive and most joyful inspection I’ve ever received in my life. In the meantime, a little girl pulled fly away hairs out of my face, and some boy behind picked off bugs that had landed on my neck.

Some of the children said, “Good morning,” to me. I would say “Oya, good evening.” The hill seats looked directly across to the sun going down behind the mountains across a valley. With my left hand, I tried to create mountain peaks out of knuckles. With my right hand, I formed a circle for the sun. I tried to show it’s rising and falling for the times of day. They ended up telling me the words for mountain and sun in Kinyarwanda and I made up a song with only those two words. I would sing it in a tune, and they would repeat. Then, they would sing it in a tune and I would repeat. What began as them looking to practice English turned into them tutoring me in Kinyarwanda. While, periodically, the girls from my study would look up from the field to see if I was still there, and upon seeing me raise the eyebrows and curl the lips. I would mirror the response.

My girls, it turns out, were not the winning team. Luckily, few things could matter less to me. I ran down to the field and hugged them each. I felt so proud of them and thankful that they would have me there to watch. We walked back until the path from my house split from the road. I think this has been my favorite moment here thus far. I can’t describe how none of these things was separate from a burning in my chest from the Lord and for the Lord. I felt like I was where I should be, with people I was to be with, and time and joy seemed to fit together for an hour or so.

My favorites lately. Don't tell me i can only have one.

1.Early mornings, reading hymns and talking about the Lord with Caleb and Lydia

2.My hands being big enough to perfectly envelope a kitten until it feels safe enough to fall asleep...how it sighs every time I do.

3.Out of the Silent Planet and Sigur Ros

4.My chest swelling with pride and pleasure after creating new recipes from the same market list every week with Miriam and Katie

5.Walking to get a coca cola, sitting on stools on the little store's porch, and drinking it straight from the bottle.

6.Feeling like my body is my own again and not a watering hole for parasites.

7.Reading by candle light.

8.Writing letters.

9.Morning oatmeal with cinnamon and a jam made special with tiny Rwandan strawberries.

10.Recognizing and being recognized by girls from my small group

11.Impromptu trips to Ruhengheri, just to get to buy jam and coffee from a store

12.Phonetically learning cheeky German phrases from Johannie and Fionna that I use to
surprise the other Germans, (sounds like {kuk-mah-ver-droightch-kan}: "look who speaks German now...?"

13.Lighting my gas stove top, blowing out the match, sticking the end of the match in a spilt water, and listening to the the sound it makes.

14.Goat kids headbutting when their horns are no more than nubbs, their wreckless valor advancing their bodies.

15.Dancing in a 17 x 11 room to celebrate Immaculate's baptism, with no regard to the fact that I am a Muzungu, lack rhythm and coordination, and that I am unable to stop laughing even after it becomes painful.

16.Writing haikus in english.

17.Praying for loved ones while they sleep.

18.Getting dew on my toes when I walk to borrow milk in the mornings

19.Being so surrounded by the clouds, that I feel like I'm in the midst of the sunrise

20.Afternoons in my rocker with a book and french press.

21.Singing Bob Dylan with Katie on and off throughout the day

22."Full Grown Man/ Suspicious Minds" by Phosphorescent

23.The wonder and ache of missing people.

24.My feet becoming more sure on unlevel ground.

25.Swimming in Lake Kivu by the volcanoes.

Oh My Darling Clementine!

Oh My Darling Clementine!
Saturday, our cook Clementine, got married! A few weeks ago, at lunch we got our invitations and were filled with happiness. I had never been to an African wedding, and even American weddings can vary from couple to couple. So, there was much anticipation. We spent the week trying to figure out what would be an appropriate gift. Miriam, Katie, and I decided to buy a Rwandan handmade basket, and fill it with a card and a few things to help start up their house-hold. These baskets are perfectly made, very much like the baskets on the side of the road in Charleston. The Charleston baskets are outrageously priced. (This isn’t to say they aren’t worth the cost, but they will leave you with no money to fill them!) The basket that we bought was about 1 ½ ft high, shaped like a vase, and only 8,000 francs!

When we woke Saturday morning, we could hear distant drums and singing and celebrations across the valley from a mountain facing us. The wedding day began by visitations at Clementine’s house at 8:00 a.m.! We went about our morning tasks, and prepared to go to the church wedding, which was to be held at 11:00 a.m. The night before a German couple arrived on the hill, and we told them we would come by about five minutes before, so that we could all walk together. So, around 11:00, we all arrived at the church...to find it empty. Things in Shyira seem to have a way of delaying themselves. We sat down and waited. About thirty minutes later the pastor arrived. Then, the musicians began setting up and practicing. The music sounded almost Caribbean, and although it was in Kinyarwanda, we could hear the words “Clementine nwa Jeremie” and we knew that it had been written just for them.

Finally at 12:00, without a sign of anyone in the church, Katie and I walked back to the house to get water. Lydia was the flower girl and she was waiting for her cue to head to the church. Louise told us we could wait with them, that it could take a while. Right about that time, Louise said, “Look across to the mountain! See that row of white? It’s the bridal procession!” As I looked across the valley, I saw what looked like a small river of white winding down the hill. I was stunned. I can’t say I have a memory that took my breath away more. One bit of white, amidst all that green. The train was so far I could barely see them, but singing so fervently I could hear them. It struck me that the same people were singing that had been singing since 8:00 a.m. I ended up borrowing Caleb Jr.’s binoculars for a closer look.

We headed back to the church about twenty minutes later to wait on them. The singing was louder now, but they were hidden behind banana trees and there was no hope of seeing them until they were right in front of the church. Finally, around 12:30, the bride and her groom came into sight! We ran outside to watch them. There were dancers and singers out in front preparing the way, and there was a bridal party around and behind them. They curved around the road in front of the church, where Lydia joined them, in her flower girl garb. We watched in amazement. A kind lady named Dina that I’ve gotten to know well, stopped in front of Clementine spraying her with a powdery smelling body deodorant, and straightened the front of her dress. They continued up to the church with singing and dancing. We went inside and took our seats.

A few things to note about Rwandan weddings:
1. The bridesmaids wear white, also. So, the whole procession looks extremely striking. Of course, they wear hints of other colors, so they are easily distinguished from the bride.
2. The bride and bridegroom are to be as absolutely solemn as possible. There should not even be a hint of happiness on their face. They are leaving and cleaving, and so this is a day of mourning as well.
3. They are extensively long.
It was incredible to see a bride and a groom with faces full of dread about to marry! I have seen Clementine’s excitement about her wedding, her wide grin in extending the invitations to us, and her pleasure every time we mention Jeremie. However, if someone walking off an American street somehow arrived here, they would probably stand up to object! In the meantime, everyone else is giddy with gladness. It’s really quite funny. They proceed to the front of the church, where there are four wooden chairs that serve as the first row. The maid-of-honor and best man sit on the outside chairs, while Jeremie and Clementine sit in the middle. There are three pastors presiding over the service. The eldest begins first. Then, the younger pastor starts preaching. In the middle of preaching, he begins singing without music. Then, the sweat soaked group that has attended the couple down the mountain stands up and they begin singing with him, then dancing. Then, the pastor passes the mike off to a girl, who begins singing, while he begins a beautiful and wild and extravagant dance to celebrate!

The rest of the service consisted in:
1. Clementine’s brother giving her away.
2. A regular church service complete with a sermon.
3. The raising of the veil, as repeatedly commanded by the pastor, “slowly, slowly!”
4. Marriage vows.
5. Exchange of Rings.
6. Holy communion…for everyone in the church.
7. A ferocious rainstorm for the last two hours of the service, that began leaking water on my head. (I kept trying to tilt my body ever so slightly, so that there wouldn’t be one very wet spot, but hopefully it could serve as my hair’s daily wash….let’s just say we’ve had a water shortage on and off for almost a week, and you learn to take what you can get.)

**The only thing that was left out was the kiss! Instead, there was a very sweet hug.
All of this was in Kinyarwanda, and all of this lasted until almost 4:00! It was the longest service that I have attended. One of the most amusing parts was in the midst of this celebration, Clementine only ever cracked a slight smile when they were pronounced man and wife, which was immediately followed by a cheek-bite of self-denial. It tickled me. She was intent on doing this the right way.

After the wedding, we walked back home, grabbed our rain jackets, umbrellas, and a piece of honey bread and began walking back to the church to join Peace, the pastor’s wife, and then continue down the hill to the reception. The rain did not stop. As we walked down the hill, we were accompanied by an orange river over the rocks we treaded. It should be noted, Peace did all of this in white high heels, while Miriam, Katie, and I slid all over the place in our sandals. We had to cross three “bridges” that are nothing more than logs laid out across a gap in the mountain. Finally, we arrived at the reception. This was a well thought out place. There were tarps overhead, and when they began sinking low men would come with sticks and shift the water, with the help of gravity, from one tarp to the other until it ran off behind everyone. There were couches outside for the bridal party and chairs for the guests. Louise brought the new couple and the wedding party down the hill in her car, and the revelry began. There was singing, feeding each other cake, Fanta, and food. There was a line of food going out to the guests that would have made Henry Ford proud. We actually got orange and lemon Fanta and Cokes! This is a huge treat here.

One of the neatest things about the wedding was that the newlyweds presented gifts to the people that really helped them. I didn’t know this until post-wedding, but Clementine and Jeremie are both orphans. I didn’t ask details, but can guess. So, it is very dear that there was a whole community coming around them- keeping the rain away, dancing for them, perfuming them, feeding them, singing over them, affirming them, rejoicing with them. Clementine, then came to all the guests, and served us cake! The bottom of her white dress was now orange! There was something invaluable about it. Then, a line formed to present them with gifts. The three of us brought up the basket and Clementine smiled! She knows we are her silly “muzungu” girls that love her dearly!

Just before 7:00, we headed home, delighted… and exhausted!

A Shyira Valentine

Since Valentine’s morning fell on a Sunday this year, we spent the beginnings of it at the Shyira church. Caleb preached a sermon on love- what it is and what it isn’t. Since the crowd is a mixture of English speaking Africans and a few Americans, he began telling about some of the customs of this celebration in the States. He began to describe the Valentine being given in anonymity to one you’ve liked for a long time. Then, he went on to contrast the sort of love associated with Valentine’s Day with love. It is patient, kind, keeps no records of wrongs. The message was an honest love is a difficult and beautiful one. It is not cheap and there is loveliness in the investment that towers above passions that are fleeting. 1 Corinthians 13 is a light that illuminates the holes of my heart.

Miriam, Katie, and I spent the rest of the day lunching, writing, resting, visiting with the pastor’s wife, walking the dog, and reading. We tend to ebb and flow from each other throughout the day. From six o’clock to eight o’clock each evening, we have electricity and –hopefully- internet. So, around six, we meet together on the King’s porch to check e-mail. Last night, Katie and I headed up to the house around 6:15 to see if the internet was working. It was! However, it only lasted for about fifteen minutes. So, we headed back to the apartment that she and Miriam live in, to make supper. We fixed a delicious meal of scrambled eggs with herbs, a side of tomato and avocado salsa, complete with basil, vinegar, and pepper.

Throughout this week, we have acquired the habit of watching an episode a night of a D.V.D. that Louise let us borrow. It is a T.V. series called “The # 1 Ladies Detective Agency,” and is set in Botswana. It is about a regular woman with good instincts that sets up an agency in Gaborone, and each episode she solves about three mysteries. We’re unashamedly addicted. There is something about being in Africa and watching a show set in Africa that we love. Although, we are living in a different country, the show picks up aspects of the African culture that are hard to name but fun to see captured. I told the girls last night, I will miss these evenings with them so much when I return.

We had some leftover cake from earlier in the week, and I decided to run next door to get some Refresh tea to go with it. By, this time, it was about 7:15, and my mind was winding down, in preparation for a quiet hour of good humored TV. It was dark and I didn’t bring my lantern because the lights were still on in my apartment. I got to the front door and began unlocking it, and realized there was paper scattered on my porch. My light is out on my porch, and so I thought maybe Caleb Jr. left papers out from homeschooling. I grabbed them and set them on my table, heading off to get the tea. Then, it hit me. Caleb hadn’t been out there since Thursday morning. I would have seen the papers before then. Then, I thought maybe someone left me a note, but the only people I know aside from the girls are out of town. By this time, I was in my kitchen grabbing the tea and scrambling back towards my open door, grabbing the papers. I looked down at them. There were three. The first read, “Kate;” then, “Elis’ teacher;” the third read, “And You.” I was getting very nervous. I locked the door and hurried back to the girls with tea and notes in hand.

I handed the “Kate” note to Katie, and the “Elis’ Teacher” note to Mir, since she home-schools a girl named Ellie. That left me with, “And You.” Miriam read her note first:
“Still have faith
In Jesus one day
You will se the answer
read: Philips 2:1
as you smile
on the problems being solve,
never become angry
From: X-man”
It was strange but kind and sweet, encouraging.

Katie read hers next. It went as follows:
“Hi evry morning when I see the sun shine your beautifull
Face better than. Angel come closer,
Your lips is sweet than candies
Your eyes white black and make my heart come down,
If I dont see you my heart heavy as vehicles engines
And my face become troubling.
It was X-MAN”

Then, I read mine:
“For so long without happy
But you can find it in Allymighty
As peace with us
You will see what you want.”
Mr. X-MA

We were all a little touched in different ways. I think katie was a little concerned as to who is infatuated with her. Miriam was left wondering what it all means. What problems? And I was left wondering who thought I looked like I’d been struggling with sadness. There is something truthful, dear, and hilarious about these letters. There is also something sort of amusing about seriousness being lost (and perhaps found) in translation.

We have spent the last week watching a show on African women detectives. Surely, that couldn’t be in vain. Let’s just say, we found ourselves motivated to figure out who these Valentines were sent by. We have deduced that it is someone Katie sees frequently, that has met Miriam, and has probably only seen or perhaps briefly met me. Katie teaches an English class of ten guys, and she also works at the hospital with many men. It could be any of these men she sees daily. We began to take out attendance papers from the English class, and look over them, trying to figure out who X-man is. This is what we do know:
-The writer has a very sharp cursive “y” and “j”
-The writer has a very delicate “p”
-The writer is assumed to have been at the church service and prompted by Caleb’s sermon

At this point, we have a pretty good lead. We know, but we’re not telling. Why?
Detectives are smug. Everyone knows it. Nobody says it… because we’re detectives.

Her House by the Water

Last Saturday morning Louise, Katie, and I began my second hike downhill to the market. However, the market was only to be our stop to “hail” our taxi out to a very small village, to visit a patient of Louise’s. I knew the patient had been sick and the Kings helped to build a house for her by the water. We were going to see the construction and how the patient was doing. Now, there are VERY few vehicles in Shyira and this market. There aren’t paved roads here, mostly bumpy dirt and rock roads. So, when I say “taxi,” extract any definition that word has held for you and understand a Shyira taxi.

Picture it: three women walking through the market in search of bike taxis. Louise spots a boy on a bike and he recognizes her interest. The next thing I know I am swarmed by probably ten teenage boys wanting to be our bike driver. For further clarification- and this is an important detail- these bikes are not moto-bikes. They are much like a cruiser that might be found in Pawleys Island. The slight distinction is a 6x12 inch, rectangular seat on the back, apparently for a bottom, mine. I looked at Louise and Katie. To those of you who are familiar with my nervous laugh, let your minds run wild. These teenage boys were all reaching their hands out to me to take them on as my driver. Apart from my good instincts, I took the more aggressive boy, or he took me. I don’t like roller coasters or fast driving. Yet, all of a sudden I have picked the most aggressive boy to drive me up the mountain road.

Luckily, I didn’t have to ride side saddle. So, I sat down right behind this boy. There was nothing I could see to hold onto accept for him or the tightly coiled springs under his seat. I curled my fingers around the coils in front of me, and we took off. Initially I thought we were going to tip over. I had Amanda’s great, big green bag on my right arm, filled with two water bottles. I couldn’t see anything but the red shirt on my driver’s back, and I was afraid to lean over to look around. Finally, curiosity became a substitution for bravery, and I peeked around. It was wonderful and terrifying. There were holes all over the road, people walking with sugar cane and baskets on their heads, small bridges made out of logs, and ditches on either side. We were going so quickly. We hardly ever slowed for something or someone obstructing our path. We might swerve, but we yielded to no one. All of a sudden, I was glad for his audacity. I feared and respected my teenage driver. There was a bell on the front of our bike, and I knew to hold on tightly when I heard it sounding in quick reverberation. A couple of times, he heard an irrepressible gasp and turned around to me, but he also heard uncontainable laughs.

We rode through two villages, one tightly packed with people. That village heard a recital from our bell. Then, we crossed a bridge. The water was orange from the soil, except for the tips of the rapids. They were white. The bridge was made up of rusted metal and slats of wood set so far apart that I could see the river rushing under me. The noise from the river, the different bikes passing on this bridge with yellow tubs filled with water, and our own bell filled me to the heights and I was so glad. There are few times where my entire mind is in one place and I don’t have to call back wandering thoughts. On this ride, my thoughts were holding on as securely as my fingers. I like that, and I was simply happy.
We rode the bike for 20 minutes, ending in an uphill stretch, and we reached the patient’s house. It was in a depression from the road, with the river running behind her backyard. We walked down and into her house. We were greeted by her three boys, and then met her. Louise speaks Kinyarwanda and I speak no more than greetings. So, she was conversing, while I was watching. The boys were beautiful. They were ranging from probably twelve to a baby. The twelve year old had a calm smile that made me want to know what he had seen. The baby must have been two. He reached his hand out to greet me. I could tell these were children who knew what it was to be loved by their mom, and her disposition showed she enjoyed every minute of it. Louise turned back to us as the little one was holding my hand. “He and his mom have AIDS. The older one seizes.” She continued visiting with this woman in a kind and comforting manner that is distinctly and honestly Louise. I wondered what this woman knew about each minute she had with her children and the weight of health, poor or fine, of which I have little concept. How much more costly are the grins of that household. She showed us her backyard, while she and Louise continued in conversation and I took pictures of the boys with my camera and then enjoyed watching them enjoy looking at themselves. We took pictures of the thankful family in front of their new house before we left.

The ride back was not like the ride there. I loosened my grasp on the coils. My mind was filled with joy and gladness and ache. I hate that the mother and her family were sick as much as much as I can hate. Yet, I love her joy more than I hate her pain, and I do believe her joy is increased by her perseverance through this. I have to believe this is how life works. I do believe it’s how the Lord works, and I love him for this. I’ve never seen beauty more severe and set apart than the beauty he creates out of suffering. We cannot muster it. I’ve tried to generate it in my own life, and broken and exhausted my own heart worse than anyone or anything could. I more wearied than before. But, when He heals our broken spirits in the midst of suffering, there is something full of glory in us that allows us to hope for more glory than we could have believed possible prior to suffering.

This woman is terminally sick. So is her baby. Saturday, she was a blessing to me. I had the joy of seeing someone grateful for a life that is also a struggle.

a rainy season.

This week, the rainy season in Shyira is making itself known. I am currently trapped inside the Shyira Chalet. It is positioned with a hill at the front door and a cliff under the back porch. During storms, the hill becomes a waterfall and a river flows over the kitchen’s stone floor, to the back porch, escaping through the cracks in its wood.
The roof of my apartment is tin. When it rains, it sounds like the Atlantic found its way to Shyira and is being poured over my head. Sometimes, it wakes me from my sleep, and hymns me into a deeper sleep. It’s hard to hear anything else, and during the day it keeps people still.
Shyira is in the clouds. So, almost every morning, there is a cloud over the valley in front of my apartment. When the rain comes, the huge mountains disappear into a white backdrop. The trees by the chalet porch are under the command of the wind and they are especially noticeable because of the disappearance of the world behind them. The chickens ebb to find their shelter. I’m not sure what happened to Tuki, the cat. She doesn’t seem to have made it inside, and she’s a bit of needy cat when she wants to be.
The rain in Shyira makes me want to continue inhaling until the storm ceases. One of my favorite smells in the U.S. is the rain. It picks up the smallest amounts of earth from the pavement, and carries them right into your nostrils. They feel full of something honest. Here, there is no pavement, and there is plenty of earth, and it seems that the storm finds that, and brings all of it to your nose. The small, musty smell grows and brims up to your chin, your mouth, your nose.
The rainy season demands your attention by conquering one sense, then another, then another.

Josephine the Goat

Thursday afternoon, after a walk to see a house on construction, Lydia and Katie and I decided to visit the newly born goats. The goats are staying in a stable that also houses the donkeys. It is a bit of a hide-out. Along the front and left side of the King’s yard is a huge bush that serves almost like a fence. In the center is a small clearing that Lydia led us through. It’s small enough to need to bend to walk through. Then, after veering left, is the shelter. We passed the donkeys, and in an open stall was a huge basket turned upside down. John, who helps with the animals, lifted up the basket and there were three baby goats. Two of them had just been born the day before. They started to run and hop down onto the ground from the stall, but their little legs were so new that they just fell into splits. They are the dearest things. I could not stop laughing. They love to go into the donkey stalls, and it is the funniest looking pair- these tiny goats and big donkeys!
Most of the time in Rwanda, seeing a goat does not mean petting a goat. It pleases me more than I can say just getting to see them everywhere, and hearing them first thing in the morning. These newborn kids wandered around the stable without any regard to their surroundings, and so had little patches of poop on them. I thought I probably wouldn’t pick one up, but I couldn’t help myself. I picked up a little goat with grey and white and every color in between. It put its little mouth up to my chin and tried to nurse. It was so adorable. That little goat just kept nuzzling my chin with its little goat mouth and goat instinct. Then, it leaned its head against my neck and rested, completely relaxed. I kept staring at it and its head kept falling farther back and its eyes closed and it fell into a deep sleep. I named him Lionel. Then, Lionel was a girl. So, I named her Josephine, and she is quite the Josephine. I could barely leave her. For those of you that know me well, this was one of the kindest days I’ve been given.
(*Suzanne, I wish you could have been there with me. I feel sure the other would be asleep in your arms.)

Shyira Shake.

Last week, Thursday night I believe, I woke to the sound of rattling. Then, I realized my bed was shaking under my body, so steadily that my body began shaking too. About two seconds after I sat up it stopped. Under the comfort of my mosquito net, in my silent room, I sat and waited to see if I heard another rattle, or felt another shake. Nothing. It must have been a dream, I thought.
Much later through the night, I woke again. This time I heard another subtle rattling. I realized my headboard was shaking against the wall. Much more alarmed at this reoccurrence, I jerked my shaking body up in bed and waited for it to stop. However, sitting up didn’t make it stop. Could this be a dream? Absolutely not. I was sitting straight up in my bed. After fifteen seconds or so, it stopped. Now, this may not seem like a long time, but let me assure you, to a woman- in a silent room, alone in an apartment, in an remote village, without electricity, waking to her bed trembling under her in the middle of the night- fifteen seconds is long enough to induce heavy concern.
So, I began wondering. Are Katie and Miriam experiencing this in their apartment? Have I lost my mind? Then, I began to reason and hypothesize what could be happening. As I lay back down, my mind surged from one idea to another. Then, it came to me. What had I felt? A tremor. What makes a room tremor? An earthquake. I began thinking about the three volcanoes we can see from Shyira Hill. There is even one in the Congo, as close as thirty kilometers away. VOLCANIC ACTIVITY! Of course that wasn’t the first thought in my mind! I’m not crazy- I’m just not used to volcanoes waking me from my sleep! With my mind at ease, I fell back into a nice rest.
The next day, I decided to ask Katie and Miriam about their nights. I didn’t feel quite as secure in my reason, sharing my theory of volcanic activity. Turns out, neither of the girls felt the restless earth shaking their beds. Not to worry, they’re heavy sleepers. So, we sat around trying to figure out and debate the possibilities. We came to two conclusions. 1. There was a reoccurring, volcano induced quake last night and I was the only one stirred. OR… 2. The malaria meds I have been taking are causing me to have hallucinations. “No.” I told them. “It couldn’t be hallucinations. I was sitting up in my bed and continued to hear and feel the shaking!”
Katie said, “Well, I think it’s ideal to be at the top of a mountain for one of those.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Well because the bottom of the hill has everything sliding down on it.”
“But, what do you think is sliding down onto it?”
No response.
Finally, two days ago, I asked Louise about the volcanoes and the night quakes. She graciously told me that she couldn’t be sure, but highly doubted it was an earthquake. She offered me a different medicine to ward off malaria, and told me that one out of four people have to get off this medicine! It is hard to believe that hallucinations can be so clearly audible, so tactile, and that twenty-five percent of people on these meds know exactly what I mean! However, seeing as there are no news reports to support my theory, and the earth has stopped shaking in Shyira since I started new meds, I concede to the fact that I have had drug-induced hallucinations.

Good Morning, Good Evening

Wednesday afternoon, Katie and I decided to take a walk to see the soccer field. The walk passes through the hospital grounds and I was able to see the different wards: abana (children), abagore (women), abagabo (men). Outside of each ward, there were patients getting fresh air and doctors and nurses traveling from one building to the next. Katie and I have been taking Kinyarwanda language courses. Many doctors and nurses have been taking English courses. So, as we walked, we began to practice our greetings with those we passed. This continued for the rest of our trip.
We walked a ways passed little houses, and fences. Rwanda has some of the most aesthetically pleasing fences I have ever seen. For the most part, fences look foreign to land and teach your eyes to divide and plot the land, leaving your mark on it– more than the land’s mark on you. Maybe it’s the beauty of Rwanda that the fence builders don’t want to escape. Lydia and I were talking about Shyira. She said, “It’s just so green. Everything is so green.” There are bushes and trees along every path, many hold much more height than me. If caught in deep conversation, one might miss the fences altogether. They are the same height as the trees, made out of wood and banana leaves and look like they could have grown out of the land that way. They make for a very inviting village.
We continued to greet and be greeted by Rwandans. It was a wonderful experience. They were so kind to us, and we were grateful. We heard “muzungu” from the children, but it was clearly out of interest and description. It was a different tone than the market. They may be marking a difference, but the distinction didn’t seem to offend them. Sometimes, when they yelled, “Muzungu,” Katie and I would say, “Abana (children!)” It was great to get to play and communicate and joke even with just a few words! It was about 5:30 in the afternoon when we reached the soccer field. To get to the field, we had to walk around the mountain and so I couldn’t see it until we were right upon it. The field was on a cliff. Although it was sunny, spare rain drops kept plopping on shirt or foot. The sight was a horizontal slant of sun, over the backdrop of mountain, onto a field – a golden mist that these boys ran and played through with every bit of energy they owned. I may have never seen anything so beautiful. There was a life to this place that seized everything around it. These boys saw us taking pictures of them and came over and started showing off by karate chopping and kicking the air for the pictures. They were so happy to be fierce and to be moving and to be little boys. It was beautiful and I am so thankful for them.
As we continued our walk through the village, the sun kept getting lower, children on the side of the road kept shouting, “Good morning.” (*pronounced “Gude Marneeng!”) We called back, “Good Evening!” and they walked alongside us much of the way. We made friends with a 10 year old boy and he came along. There is something to be said here for learning to keep quiet company. It’s nice just to have someone alongside that is there only because they want to be. They want to learn you, but not to interrogate. I hope to be more like that.
At one point, a group of children came up to us and one with a cute, chubby face grabbed Katie’s and the smallest one grabbed my hand. Her hand was so tiny she could only hold a few of my fingers, but she was firm and would not let go. It felt so sweet to be touched by someone here, to feel trusted and to be able to love someone by just squeezing her hand back and smiling. This is what I love most about life, these short holds that make you want to live without end.
Finally, we had to say goodbye so we could get back before dark. We started walking back, while the sunset in the sky changed every minute. I couldn’t imagine a more attractive afternoon. It occurred to me, as I saw this beauty, God is so good. Then, I thought about the genocide, this land, the unspoken events that happened that left scars and broken families. It makes saying the Lord is good a thing of trust. I do believe it. There is a healing that is more perpetual than a scar. This is the paradox of Rwanda. It doesn’t allow you to look only at beauty, it doesn’t allow you to think beauty alone covers a multitude of sins, and it doesn’t allow sin to extinguish beauty. It is a challenge to my heart and eyes and mind.

Saturday Market.

My first Saturday here, I decided to walk with Miriam and Katie down to the market. It was my third day here and I was feeling pretty tired, but thought it’d be great to get into the heart of Shyira. The path we walked on turned out to be a hike down the side of the mountain. It was absolutely beautiful. We passed different houses on our way down, children, women carrying babies on their back. We passed men carrying up a man on a stretcher. It was a wooden stretcher and the carrying style was very much like that of a pallbearer. It was great and overwhelming to pass all these people on the way down. Some of the children were using banana leaves as umbrellas.
The walk reminds me of being young and finding trails at my grandparent’s house in Columbia or with my grandmother at a lake in North Carolina. It is some mingling between wonder and adventure. Something of childhood vigor is reclaimed. This mountain is like the world a child tries to create in her backyard out of a brain and imagination and hope. It makes me think that there is something very important about that longing of a child that we brush aside for growing up. I want to figure out how not to trade one for the other. I think I had forgotten parts of me that I haven’t outgrown as much as I thought. They are turning out to be more like a wheel barrow that will still go and carry, and even has a familiar grip- but is a bit awkward because its rusty and your hands are bigger. But, they are still a wheel barrow…or a chariot, or a pirate ship.
After the walk down, we came to the market. The sun was blazing and there were so many people. The atmosphere is very different from any market I’ve been to in Niger. Miriam and Katie and I were complete outsiders, ‘muzungus,’ white people. That is all anyone says to us. It is strange being only known for that. I want to know people. I feel like it is a more difficult thing to really know people here than it is in Niger. There seems to be more of a reservation. I’m not sure if it is because I am white or if it is because this country has learned to carry a different sort of awareness in the past century than I’m familiar with. This leads to another strange part of the atmosphere of Rwanda. The words Hutu and Tutsi are not spoken- they are not discussed. The day I arrived in Kigali, I saw the genocide memorial, but I have heard nothing concerning the events since. It creates a tension. I think it may have been naivety on my part thinking that I would learn a lot about Rwanda’s history by hearing people speak on it. I think it may be that I learn more in the quietness of this history.
On the way home from the market, we had to hike uphill. Let me remind you how excited I had been for the venture. Now was the real adventure: hiking uphill. There are uneven rocks everywhere and then some rocks covered with dust that makes them easy to slide on. You have to pay particular attention to your footing, and you’re a little breathless so there’s not a lot of talking. Also, the sun was making itself increasingly known. At one point I even thought to myself- whatever category I’m in right now is so far past Team Mihm Extreme, I amaze myself. It was very tiring, but I was in it. Then, I started feeling dizzy. Hmmm. What’s this strange sensation? My legs aren’t too terribly worn out but I feel like I can’t catch a good breath, even when I stop. Whoa. What’s that? Severe nausea? Then, we all realized, I had altitude sickness. I tried to give them a heads up: “Guys. I’m going to throw up. When I throw up, I cry.” I had only known these girls three days when they patiently watched me vomit and dry heave on the side of a mountain. Did Pan ever throw up when he was flying to Neverland? I have a good notion he didn’t. All of a sudden, my amazement and my body were colliding. It was a painful dash at my morning pride. The ladies carrying babies on their backs that we passed on our way back up now passed us. There was a faithful little girl that followed us up the whole way. Every time I stopped to throw up, she stopped, too. Katie and Miriam couldn’t have been more kind and patient with me. As bad as it was, it was great to see so quickly what great people I will be sharing this trip with.
There is a lot left unsaid about Rwandan culture I’ve experienced thus far, including that day. My apologies. I don’t yet feel qualified to speak on it. I certainly don’t feel qualified to assess. My eyes are very young here. The more I am here, the more I need to watch and listen, and not try to figure out.

Sardines, sheds, spiders...OH MY!

With any reference to my previous blog, it may seem as if I am nothing more than a bundle of fears when I tell you that I hate spiders, but aside from heights, spiders are my weakness. In fact, I may or may not have had a few friends look up how numerous spiders were in Rwanda before I left. However, I knew that this was something I might have to deal with considering the vegetation and climate here. I thought to myself, “Well there may be a spider that wanders in or out of my apartment that needs to be killed. I will deal with that problem when it arises.” I didn’t know what size or with what frequency these spiders would come. This is something I’ve decided not to worry about. If a problem crawls my way, I will solve it. This is not a time for being a coward.
Thursday afternoon, Katie and Louise and I held a kids club for the missionary kids. We had a bible study that was encouraging. Then, we had a crafts time, during which we picked fresh rosemary, mint, and leaves from a lemon tree, and made sachets as part of the craft. The afternoon was really wonderful. When Caleb and Lydia joined us, we decided to play a game of sardines. It was Caleb’s turn to hide first. (For those of you that don’t know, Sardines is much like the inverse of Hide and Seek. One person hides, and the rest search. When the hider is found by a searcher, the searcher becomes a hider also…until all the searchers have joined company with the hider, and the last searcher comes upon the group.) We split up and were searching for Caleb. There is a very- let me repeat VERY- small shed in the back yard at the Kings. When I looked in, I saw Caleb standing, and Katie crouching in there. There wasn’t a door per say, but more so a rusty opening with a wheel in front. This was clearly for storage of things, not people. However, as a competitor in all but athletics, I found my way in and hunkered down on a dirty green children’s chair. Soon, the Schuman’s older daughter, Elizabeth, found her way in also and it became less and less possible for one to scurry out. This was a claustrophobic nightmare. Luckily, I am not claustrophobic. Katie whispered, “Caleb took this ‘sardines’ literally. We are squished together in a metal can! But it’s not so bad except for the spiders.” Hmmm….except for the spiders. Hmmm what a small exception. It was at this point that any sort of calm repute I’d built with my new friends and the children I’m teaching proved a façade. I started squealing and squirming and confessing how arachnophobia plagues me! It was maybe one of the most spastic moments of my life. There is a whole small group at home that understands the irony of this situation. Katie spent the rest of the time in the shed trying to back track or point out the animals in the yard to me, and I spent the rest of the time trying to be brave and keep focus on the great green world outside this shed. At one point, it occurred to me, “This is a Harry Potter nightmare!” Eventually, the last searcher found us and we got out. Only then did Katie tell me that had I looked a little closer I would have seen baby spiders crawling out of nests all around me, including the nest in the chair I was sitting in! It was terribly creepy, but I made it out in one piece without any little crawling companions on me. I’m not going to say that I didn’t suffer from continual scratching, a nervous twitch, and a watchful eye the rest of the evening.

Up on the Mountain....

On Wednesday night, I began my ascent to Shyira. For those of you who don’t know, I’m terribly afraid of heights. In fact, I can’t remember anytime that I’ve arrived on a mountain without cramping, clammy hands. I had been pretty concerned about this. Over the course of planning this trip, I had growing anxiety about it. At night, I would try not to think about these winding mountain roads as I went to sleep. I flew into Kigali, and Caleb and Louise picked me up and drove me up a mountain to the home we’d stay the night in before we continued on to Shyira. I felt very safe, and unworried about the traffic and hills of Kigali.
When we began our three-hour trip to Shyira the next day, I was still a little concerned about the “unbeaten path”. We drove high on paved, but small two-lane roads towards Shyira. Now the predicament is: pretty shortly after two hours are up, the roads turn into craters and there is a lot of bumping up and down, and a little necessary swerving to miss outrageous holes. The two lane road turns to one lane on the edge of a mountain for the remainder. (Hannah Smolinski knows the dread of being in these sorts of circumstances with me better than most.)However, I knew that this road led to Shyira, and more than anything I wanted to see Shyira. There is something about the Rwandan mountains that makes you long to go higher. The safety of the foot of the mountains has a certain charm, but the heights cultivate a greater desire within. It was actually quite amazing. The whole ride up I found the bumps to be part of the adventure, the rain was beautiful, I felt complete trust in Caleb as a driver, and I couldn’t stop looking over the edge at the inconceivable mountains below and around us.
This was an answered prayer from God. I can’t convey to you my worry over this one point, and the relief I felt in being able to love looking down from the mountains as much as looking upon them. It has been a continual thought entering my mind- the Lord makes “safety” resistible. There is no safety outside of the Lord, there is no longing like that which is for him. I believe the Lord has called me to Shyira for this time to serve him through serving his people. There is a comfort found in obedience which outweighs a mind’s worry. There is no promise that the ways he leads us will look unassuming. There is no promise that it won’t beckon fear, but there is a promise that we needn’t fear and there is a desire so great that it cannot take fear as a companion.

Procrastination, Preparation

I am in the midst of packing up my house in Columbia and setting aside anything I might need in Rwanda. I move there on January 18th. I have to be packed by tomorrow. Consequently, as any natural procrastinator would, I find this to be the perfect time to begin my blog.

It is strange packing up the things that hold everything for you. My books, my pictures, my scraps of paper that contain momentary epiphanies, gifts I can't let go, letters, hairpins. Some of these things are practical, and some can't quite seperate from pieces of my mind itself. These are the things that have trekked through the last seven years in Columbia with me. They are the elite of my possessions, and they are not seperate from people. This is the most difficult part of packing away- the haunting that I am packing up parts of people to remember. The parts that, at some points, I thought were too dear to part with and so I stowed them away in some drawer or by my favourite page of a book. It's a little paradoxical. It is the the memory that is such a part of me, I can't imagine moving without it. It is the memory that, if incorrect in its posture, cripples movement as well. So, the question comes to my mind what stance does one take? What kind of love of a place or a people is a worthy love? I want the sort of love for people and places that doesn't have tightly closing fingers, that get white knuckled and numb. Columbia and all who fill it are my temptation in this way. There is an allowance of sifting through fingers that comes with honest love. I keep thinking about the Lord and how I can never damage him or myself because I cling to him. There is something in me that is made for clinging and steadiness. There has to be some sort of sense in the fact that Christ loves these longings of mine, and he has every strength and supply for each moment and experience. The beauty of beginning something new is not in what you are leaving, not even in what you are going towards, but what is not leaving. This is Christ. This is the love that cannot be sifted through my fingers even when I think it can. THis is the love that I cannot cling to too tightly. This is the love that upholds me in my clinging. This is steadfast. This is mine.

I'm beginning to think life is not fitting through a doorway with bags packed full of things and people we can't live without, but fitting through a keyhole with the Lord and trusting him for what is good and necessary, all the way to glory. This is my relief, my expectation, my joy.

This is the beauty of memories, they tell of his supply.