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, January 30, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Friday, January 8, 2010
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.
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.
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