Our Song

I felt stifled. I wanted to get up, run out, scream. The music was so beautiful, but alone-on my wooden church bench, I was suffocating.

It was an ordinary Sunday in the middle of my time in Rwanda, but I will always remember it as one of the most difficult days of my year. Sitting in church, listening to my students make beautiful music in Kinyarwanda, no one could see that I was choking on the melodies. I was being strangled by words stuck my throat-words I wanted so desperately to know, to comprehend, to sing.

So much of my time this year has been spent trying to sing the song of another – trying to learn the words and rhythms and movements that characterize life in Rwanda, trying to be a part of it, trying to be like them.

My students have shown me so much grace as I have attempted to be “a part” at RLS this year. They have offered so many forgiving ears as I stumbled through Kinyarwanda conversations, so many patient mouths willing to explain answers to my thousands of questions, so many loving hands to flip to the right Bible passage for me in church, to write the Kinyarwanda words to songs I couldn’t remember, to lead me through the labyrinth of life in Rwamagana.

But with 10 days left here, I have been spending a lot of time reflecting on what being a part of this community and of a global community really means. Have I learned to sing their song? What about my song, the song of my home and culture, my people? Is there some great global chorus that we’re all supposed to abandon our own songs to join?

After being unable to sing (due to my own poor Kinyarwanda) for a few months, I was teaching a fine arts class and my students asked me to play something for them. I had about 3 seconds to think of a song I knew the guitar chords to that I thought they might also know, and I sang the first thing that popped into my head – “Halo” by Beyonce.

They loved it.

Last weekend, as a way to say goodbye to the students and staff at RLS, I asked a student who I’ve gotten close to if she would perform in the school talent show with me. I told her I didn’t want to sing in English or in Kinyarwanda, I wanted to sing both. I made a mash-up (classic Sav) of that first song I sang for my students “Halo”, and a Kinyarwanda song called “Malaika” (Angel). Rita agreed to sing “my” English song, to help me learn “her” Kinyarwanda song, and to sing them together.

Singing this song with Rita, it was hard to choke back tears. I finally sang for my students in Kinyarwanda, and they were so excited! It helped me to understand something essential about my time here and that is this: That there is a beauty in loving someone enough to learn parts of their song, but I know now that still doesn’t make their song yours. And that’s okay.

I think I’ve learned that we, we Rwandans, we Americans, we Christians, we Muslims, we students, we YAGM, we’re not always singing the same songs, and as much of a gift as it is to sing someone’s song with them for awhile, being in community doesn’t mean changing your whole song to their whole song. The point isn’t that the songs are the same. The point is the songs go together.

So with 10 days left, my song is one of gratitude. I'm thankful for all the people who have allowed me to join in their songs this year (even when I pronounce all the lyrics wrong). I'm thankful for those who have asked me to sing my own song, for those who have been willing to learn parts of that song. I'm thankful for every person who has helped weave the song of Rwanda and the song of this American muzungu into one beautiful, weird mash-up.

Going home, as much Kinyarwanda as I forget, that's the song I'll know by heart.

Women Who like Football

A few months ago, my housemate and I went to watch a soccer game on television at a local bar with a male teacher from our school. The place was packed, but we were the only women. When I asked the teacher why that was he laughed and said “Women don’t like football.” At that exact moment, the camera panned over the crowd at the football match, showing a Rwandan woman cheering enthusiastically.

“She likes football,” I said.

 I wasn’t expecting a lot in the way of female relationships when I stepped out on this journey a year ago. I was warned that in Rwanda, because women are expected to stay home more, it is hard to really get to know them. In this regard, my experience has been more than I could have ever imagined. I have met some of the most amazing women I have ever known this year. I have met women from all over Rwanda, Africa, and the world that have lifted me up, inspired me, and shown me what ‘being a woman’ really means.

In gratitude, I have written this post for all of them. This is for all the women who refuse to squeeze neatly inside the mold of femininity that history and culture have prepared for them, for all the women who fight to be heard, who struggle for control of their own bodies, who demand equal rights. This one is for all the women, especially those I have met this year, who by their actions continue to teach me, to ‘mother’ me, to show me how to navigate a world that so often doesn’t even invite us to watch the game. In a world that so often tells women we “can’t”, “shouldn’t”, or “don’t”, this is for all the women who are defiantly themselves, the Women Who like Football.

This year, these women have taught me that "Women are"....

BRAVE

The wonderful Laura and I on our first YAGM Rwanda Retreat.

Laura, 26, USA

How I know her: A fellow YAGM Rwanda, Laura lives a three hour bus ride from me. This year, she has become a pillar of strength for me to lean on when I seriously miss home or chocolate or both.

She inspires me because: After losing her dad just two years ago, Laura fearlessly left a stable job and a loving community to follow God’s call to Rwanda (where she jumped head-first into teaching university-level English courses)! She is perpetually positive, always finding the good in everyone and everything, and is bravely charting her own course for the future. She is constantly telling me not to worry, that things will work out, and she makes me believe it.

Her advice for young women: “Listen to yourself and be true to that even if other people don’t get it. Don’t apologize for who you are or what you think. Be friends with lots of different people but seek out people that really do get you the way you are.”

RESILIENT

Alice and I the day she taught me to crochet!

Alice, 23, Rwanda

How I know her: Alice works at a local bakery, and we struck up a friendship due to my EXCESSIVE purchasing of cinnamon rolls (whoops). She offered to teach me how to crochet, and the rest is history!

She inspires me because: At four years old, Alice lost her parents in the Rwandan Genocide and found herself in an orphanage in the northern part of the country. Seven years later, she was reunited with her brother and sister who had been refugees in Congo, but her orphanage was full and they could not stay with her. She began to take whatever she was given at the orphanage-soap, bread, school materials, and split them with her siblings outside so they could survive. She taught herself English at a young age, and Alice now uses the money she makes working at the bakery and making some small crotched items to pay for her brother’s secondary school fees. She dreams of one day opening her own business and selling her crochet designs on a larger scale.

Her advice for young women: “Be strong and respect yourself. Sometimes women think they are not strong. Especially in Rwanda they think men can do anything and they are nothing, but really women can do anything men can do.”

ADVENTUROUS

Maureen with the nursing students in Kibungo!

Maureen, 60, United Kingdom

How I know her: I met her through a friend at the bakery (again, cinnamon rolls), and she volunteers just down the street teaching at the Nursing School in town. We have become close friends, attending Aerobics class and getting goat brochettes together once a week.

She inspires me because: Maureen, a spunky single lady, has lived all over the world working as a nurse in war zones and developing countries for the last 40 years. A devout Catholic, Maureen dreams of a world where women can be priests. When I asked her why she stays a part of a church that tells her she can’t preach the gospel, she said “The church is my family. You don’t just abandon your family because you disagree with them. The only way you can change hearts is if you stay engaged in the conversation.” Did I mention this woman also attends an hour-long aerobics class every week and out-performs young men half her age? Yeah. She’s amazing.

Her advice for young women: "When they hear about my travels, so many women have told me 'Oh I always really wanted to do that but I didn't have time/money/courage'. So I would say to young women...If you want it, do it, go! You'll never regret it. Don't let anything stop you."

CALLED

Vero and I at school today making "silly faces".

Veronica, 27, Tanzania

How I know her: She is a recently ordained pastor and missionary that works with the Lutheran Church of Rwanda! She also teaches Religion at RLS, and has become a close friend.

She inspires me because: Veronica knew from a young age she wanted to be a pastor, but there are still very few female pastors in East Africa so it's been tough. Though a loving family encouraged her to consider a more lucrative career, Veronica insisted she go to divinity school and, a few months ago, was finally ordained! A member of a thriving Lutheran community in Tanzania, Vero could have stayed home and found a parish near her family, but she felt convicted in her call to mission work. Thus, she left everything and came to help lead the Kigali parish as a missionary in Rwanda. Veronica has a huge smile and an even bigger heart, and would drop everything to make you a mean coconut curry inspired by the flavors of her coastal home, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.

Her advice for young women: “Our communities think that women need certain things to define us and make us look great, but I believe that young women can stand out and do good in a community just being who they are. I would say LOVE YOURSELF and trust your own abilities!”


and of course, Happy Mother's Day to the woman who has taught me to be...

DETERMINED

Mom and "I" at a TCU tailgate in October. I can't WAIT
to see her in Rwanda in less than 3 WEEKS!

Julie, 50, USA

How I know her: She’s my mom.

She inspires me because: There is no end to the number of ways my mom has inspired me. She has worked tirelessly for equal pay in a male-dominated industry for 20 years, and she makes no apologies about doing it all while rocking heels and a faux-fur vest. Almost one year ago, it was my mom that drove me to the airport alone, and as we clung to each other-faces flooded with tears, it was she that had the strength to encourage me to get on the plane. Her belief in me has carried me through some dark days this year, and I am privileged to be her daughter.

Her advice for young women: “Don’t let others define you. Don’t let stereotypes and discrimination make you bitter. Use others’ negativity to help you be strong and determined. Show others through your actions who and what defines you.”

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These women are incredible, but the intros above don't scratch the surface of the cloud of female witnesses that have inspired me this year. They don't include the fierce lady-trio of Heidi, Brittany, and Stephanie who run the YAGM program, or Pastor Kate, my country coordinator/mentor/guru, or Ralen or Alyssa or Jessica or Brynn or Megan or the other wonderful and inspiring women serving YAGM years around the world! They don't include Celine and Jeanette, the two female teachers at RLS that exemplify caring educators or Robin, the visionary woman who started Rwamagana Lutheran School or Shukulu, the first RLS graduate to go to university (she started this week!).  

This program, this year, has brought me to my knees with thanks. I am thankful both that I get to walk this earth with such amazing women and thankful that on the journey, if I'm really lucky, I may get to be a little more like each of them.


Bonus: Here's a picture of some women (and Justice, Alpha, and Omega) doing women stuff. These women happen to be liking football (except Steph, but she was a trooper).

In the Heart of 1000 Hills: Shingiro's Story

I asked my friend and colleague, Shingiro, if he would be willing to write a few words about the 1994 Genocide in Rwanda and the annual week of Kwibuka, Remembering, that takes place now every April. 

Shingiro (right), Katie, Celine, and I all work together at RLS

What follows is his story in his own words, which he has allowed me to share with you all. I have included some footnotes and links to additional resources at the end of the post for those who are not familiar with the history of Rwanda.

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In the Heart of 1000 Hills

Going through the students’ papers in the evening is a part of my work. My roommate, Kanamugire, does the same. He is also father of two, a teacher of entrepreneurship, and a school counselor. I’m Shingiro. I’m from southern Rwanda, but I live in Rwamagana, a beautiful village in the East.

Here in Rwanda, it’s the norm to go to a neighbor for many different reasons: for example, if you have water shortage or if you've forgotten to buy small things like salts, a box of matches, and so on. Personally, all my neighbors know that I’m a teacher; they send me their kids for homework support in the evening or weekends. In return I may send any of the kids to fetch water for or buy anything at the market. To me this is example enough to say that we live in harmony. In Rwanda, we attend the same market, we fetch water from the same source, our churches are always full on Sundays, we go to the same hospital, and our kids attend the same schools peacefully.

But I have other neighbors. They are from TIG, “Travail d’Interet General,” which is a French acronym that means “work for general service.” They are commonly called Tigistes. This may be compared to (court mandated) community service in USA, but it is not the same. Tigistes are confessed genocide perpetrators. There are about 40 in my neighborhood and they live side by side with genocide survivors. Many are old and they always wear pink or black uniforms. So you see my community shares much in common, but is also extremely complex. There many orphans (including me), there are children born of rape in Genocide against Tutsi, there are widows and widowers, there are many killers who confessed what they did and were released from prison because they have asked for forgiveness, and many others with stories that are hard for me to overlook.

The question is: does this community really live in harmony? Are the people healed yet? Have they repented? Are they forgiven? Do we need to answer these questions? As a survivor, I will not give any answer; instead I’ll share a personal experience and views on my unique society.

Like other schools in Rwanda, April 1^st, 2016 Rwamagana Lutheran School’s students and teachers take their luggage. Some are packing early in the morning; others did it the night before. They are not packing for a holiday or the end of the first semester, but in preparation for mourning week¹.  In this mourning week, Rwandans remember our loved ones who are forever living in our hearts. During this time I often think about my career as a teacher. I decided on teaching not because my dad was a teacher, but because of my own circumstances:

I remember that genocide started early in 1990. I was at my grandfather’s house, near the source of the Nile. The memories are still embedded in my mind every time I see the river. Memories from an elementary classroom, a teacher reading from German explorers’ writings about the origin of ‘Tutsi’². Memories of teachers with list of Hutu and Tutsi children. Once I was in 3^rd grade, a teacher came in with a list and spoke, “Tutsi stand up”. We stood up, 5 in a class of 40. My friend Moses, a Hutu kid who was new at the school, but who was also my football friend and neighbor, stood up. A teacher warned him to never stand up again with minority group. From this classroom experience, I decided one day to be a teacher of change not because of it was my dream, but because my own teachers separated not only Hutu and Tutsi, but they also separated friends.

Then one day after class, a terrible event happened; the river we used to swim in turned red with dead bodies floating like tree leaves in the flood. That was dated 1990 not 1994. Those were Tutsi bodies.

I personally believe humans are the cruelest beasts I’ve ever witnessed, and for me, the mourning never waits until 7^th April.. It’s a daily burden.  

As my students now pack to go home for the week, and the teachers are leaving the school, Kanamugire is going to see his family and I’m going to stay alone.

“You’re going to stay alone.” My roommate pities me.

“I’m not alone. Like best friends, I have nice books” I shot back. 

“You need a break man.”  He added.

“Oh, yeah. Let me give a call to this beautiful lady.” I say.

Hoping that I’ am going on date, my roommate smiled and I smiled back. I dialed her number, she picked it up and we talked.

“How are you darling? It’s been ages, but now it’s a blessing and honor to talk to you again.’’ I said.

“More we talk, the younger I become. Can’t you hear that my voice sounds like one of a bride to be?” she says.

We laugh and laugh until tears flow on my cheeks. She asks me if am fine, I say yes. I asked her how old age is treating her. She teases me that every time I call, she thinks about my (nonexistent) wedding invitation. We laughed and exchange emotional words I’m not able to translate in English.

Whenever I visit this old woman of 87, she gives me hope for the future. And hopefully, I give her hope for living. This is not my girlfriend. She is neither my grandma nor my aunt, she is simply my heroine. An extraordinary and brave woman, she saved many Tutsi. She was not armed like UN peacekeepers, or the Belgian or French army, but she saved many from sharpened swords and machetes, only armed with the Bible she used to read to us. I spent 2 months under her bed while the same neighbors I used to talk with macheteed children, smashed infants on the walls, or killed with clubs with nails sticking out of them.

On the third day of the mourning week, I visited this woman, and she gave me a warm welcome. The only problem she has is of sight, she is no longer able to read her Bible. I helped, and I took her Bible to remind her of a favorite verse from Philippians 3:18−21:

“For, as I have often told you before and now tell you again even with tears, many live as enemies of the cross of Christ. Their destiny is destruction, their god is their stomach, and their glory is in their shame. Their mind is set on earthly things. But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body.”

“What a preacher you were!” I said as I reminded her that she used to read this for those of us in hiding.

“I used to tell you, my children, whoever got involved in killing innocent people one day or other will be paid back. Can’t you see? They’ve destroyed themselves. The memories of what they’ve done will always haunt them. My son, never discriminate against or underestimate any person. Pretend you know no one and treat the people of God equally. For that you will be a friend of the cross. I am not the one who saved you all. ‘Ni ya Mana yirirwa ahandi igataha I Rwanda’: A God that visits other places and always come back home.”  She said in a composed voice. “My son you must follow the Lord’s words. Other things you are chasing will follow.”   

Before saying good bye, the old woman gave me another verse she has memorized:

“John16:20 ‘YOUR GRIEF WILL TURN TO JOY’. God's word never fails.” She instructed.

Rwanda has changed. We are no longer listening to a single radio program used only to dehumanize Tutsi as roaches, snakes, and beasts with tails. (Ethnic) IDs no longer exist, nor does the small country where religious leaders, business people, and politicians could not think about of development, but only about division.

But can we turn our back and forget?  Is it ethical to forget that many survivors were killed even after genocide without any eye witnesses? Is there any moral right to call my neighbors ‘Hutu’ or ‘Tutsi’ while many Hutu died on roadblocks because they look like Tutsi? What about the many children with a confused identity? ³ There are many reasons to remember. Remember that once you tell a wrong story of a people, you’re robbing them of their dignity. 

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Genocide memorials can be found throughout the country.
This one is in the Western province in front of a church on Lake Kivu.

Stained glass art from a church outside Kigali where
10,000 people were killed in and around the sanctuary.  

There is really nothing that I can say, nor is it my place to say anything, about the experiences of my Rwandan friends and neighbors during the genocide against the Tutsi. I will only say this: I am constantly in awe of the strength of  the people that I meet here. I feel privileged to be able just to be a witness to their stories, their courage, and their love. I am blessed every day to walk the earth alongside such remarkable, resilient, forgiving people.

I'll end with this, the email Shingiro wrote me when he sent me the document above:

"Thanks a lot for encouraging me to put this on paper, it means a lot to me despite the lack of exact words that describe inhumanity of humans.

As we remember (this event) in Rwanda, we also remember the part of ourselves that is human."

Shingiro

1 Mourning week, called “Kwibuka” (Kinyarwanda for ‘to remember’), is a week-long national commemoration/bank holiday beginning every April 7^th. April 7^th is the date that, in 1994, 100 days of genocidal killings began in Rwanda, resulting in the deaths of almost one million Tutsi and moderate Hutu. During the week of “Kwibuka”, schools and businesses close, and all Rwandans must attend commemoration meetings in their home communities.

2 Shingiro’s description of the ‘origin of the Tutsi’ he was taught: a Belgian priest said that Noah’s sinful son, cursed by the Father and destined to be a slave, moved from Ethiopia to Rwanda and that is how the Tutsi came to Rwanda. (The Belgian colonists used this narrative to justify giving power to those they deemed to be ‘Tutsi’, claiming they were more closely related to Caucasians. They claimed that the more numerous but less affluent ‘Hutu’ had been in Rwanda longer. From what I understand, this narrative was co-opted by Hutu extremists to encourage militias to ‘reclaim’ whatever parts of Rwanda the Tutsi occupied.)

3  Because intermarriage was/is common and it was/is almost impossible to tell the difference between ‘Hutu’ and ‘Tutsi’, many children have one parent from one ethnic group and another parent from the other ethnic group. During the genocide, this confused identity meant that it was not only neighbor against neighbor, but sometimes husband turned against wife, cousin against cousin, etc. 

Rwanda: How the Genocide Happened
http://www.bbc.com/news/world-africa-13431486

I am umuzungu. I am white.

"Umuzungu!"

It's hurled at me from across the street. It's tossed from the seats of bikes and from passing car horns. It's catching up to me with the pitter-patter of school children's laughing feet. It sees me coming from an impossibly long way off. As I wade through the world, this word pools behind me in swirls of whispers and shared looks.

Umuzungu. Foreign. Umuzungu. Rich.

Umuzungu. White.

I am umuzungu.

I have not been anonymous for one day in Rwanda, and as this word attaches itself to me every morning, I am again reminded of the privilege of anonymity I enjoy in the United States. It has taken me 23 years and a journey across the world to feel "other" because of my skin color. Some people are made to feel that from birth.

But comfortable anonymity seems to be the only part of my racial privilege I left in the U.S. The rest of it slipped in silently among my dresses and scarves, and has seen fit to accompany me everywhere.

It came along when my I went to a soccer game in Huye, a town in the southern province. While hordes of Rwandan and Congolese fans were pushed back by police and threatened with nightsticks, my friends and I stood to the side-unsure of what to do and unwilling to enter the fray for fear of injury. As I looked up toward the gate a guard gave me an almost imperceptible nod, and just like that-me, my two white friends, and the three young Rwandan boys that made up our party were invited in.


The same issues of race and privilege that plague my home country have confronted me anew here in Rwanda, and I don't have all the answers about how to fix these systems. In fact, most days, I feel like I don't have any of the answers. 

I have arrived only at this: I cannot change these systems on my own, but I also can't passively accept this unearned power, this privilege. I can't passively accept a world where Rwandan children can correctly assume by my skin color that I have money I can give them. I can't passively accept a world where my friends of color are daily profiled and marginalized-labeled with words like "dangerous" and "thug"- while, rather than being racially likened to the centuries of dangerous white colonists who destroyed, exploited, and enslaved this continent, I am welcomed into homes, classrooms, and congregations as a "special visitor".

I cannot passively accept this world. I am called to not passively accept this world.

So I will continue to wrestle with the privilege I packed in my suitcase, the privilege that will inevitably land on U.S. soil with me in a few short months. I will work to monitor my own actions, especially those that contribute to these systems of privilege and oppression. I will try to listen to the struggles of communities of color more than I talk about my own opinion. I will seek out stories from the voices that history and culture have silenced for so long.

And I will probably mess up...a lot.

But especially in those moments, I will pray. I will pray for mercy from those who suffer under the heel of oppression, to whose burden I too often thoughtlessly add my own weight. I will pray for mercy from a God who has demanded I "do justice", who so frequently watches me fall painfully short. I will pray for mercy for a broken world, that we may find a way to knit the torn fabric of our shared humanity-in all its many skin colors and sexualities and nationalities and religions and genders-back together in love.

Ihangane. Patience.

I want to tell you a story about two kind, faithful souls on opposite sides of the globe.

Dan was a friend and mentor that played the bass guitar in the praise band I sang with at my church in Texas. Though he was older than the next member of the band by maybe 20 years, Dan always showed up to practice with a kind word, a smile, and of course, a rumbling bass groove that echoed in your bones. Dan constantly encouraged me when I was nervous to sing, and from my very first practice made me feel like I had been a part of the team forever. When I left for my year in Rwanda, Dan told me “Please be careful, have fun, and remember: God’s work, our hands.”

The Faith Lutheran worship band (including Dan and I) praying before
leading worship at Synod Assembly last year.

Dan passed away two days ago.

When I heard the news, I was shocked. I mourned for Dan’s family, for my church community, and for myself. I mourned that I couldn’t be there to say goodbye, to support the people I love and the people that loved Dan.

And in the midst of my grief, Mose came home for his night guard shift.

Mose and I when I visited his family at home!

Mose, maybe 10 years younger than Dan, is the closest person I have to a Rwandan host family member. Mose took one look at my face and knew I was not ok. So after I told him what had happened, he grabbed my hand and told me (in kinyarwanda):

“God has each of our names written down. We don’t know when we will go to be with God, but God knows. God knows the year, the month, and the day. So to some of us, God says ‘buretse’ (wait) it’s not time for you yet. But to others of us, God says ‘gwino’ (come).” He said, “’Inshuti’ (my friend), I know your heart hurts. ‘Ihangane.’”

Patience.

“Ihangane” is a word often used in Kinyarwanda when someone is in pain-physical pain or emotional pain. Not “I’m sorry”, not “Hang in there.”“Patience.”

It is a sentiment filled with so much more hope than "sorry." Patience, there will be a way. Patience, one day pain will end. Patience, don’t give up.

And after he said all of this to me, Mose made me grilled corn on the charcoal stove in the back yard. He chatted with me about his family.  He gave me part of the avocado he brought from home. I was hurting, and Mose accompanied me.

So often, especially this year, I find that even as I seek to accompany others, I am constantly being accompanied myself. Dan and Mose are two of the accompanying saints walking with me on this journey, and it pains me that these two beautiful souls will never know each other in this life. But.

But I heard God’s voice in Mose’s yesterday. I heard God saying “ihangane”. Patience.

Romans 8:24-25 says: "Hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently."

I hope. I hope to meet Dan again. I hope to reunite with all those that my heart aches for right now. And in my hoping, I get this response: "Patience."

Patience, Dan has been called to “gwino”, to come home. Patience, you have been called to “buretse”, to “wait”, to keep sowing seeds where you are. Patience, one day, the Kingdom will be realized in all its fullness.

And the Kingdom is like this: a place where all the saints from all corners of the globe will sing, and play the bass, and eat corn cooked on a charcoal fire, together.

Be hopeful. Be patient. Ihangane. 

The (Rwandan) Christmas Song

I have had very few white Christmases. Though the seasonal music of my childhood spoke of ice and snow and Jack Frost, most of my Christmases have been more along the lines of a Heat Miser holiday-so I was ready to spend Christmas just south of the equator. However, this Christmas season I have been even more struck by the disparity between holiday music and the realities of Christmas in Rwanda. Finally, listening to The Christmas Song for the millionth time, I decided to re-write it to reflect my Christmas experience here with a little help from my fellow Rwanda YAGM.

The video link is below, followed by the lyrics. Hope you like it!
Noheli nziza, Merry Christmas!

The Rwandan Christmas Song by YAGM Rwanda

The (Rwandan) Christmas Song

Corncobs roasting on a charcoal fire

Mosquito netting by your nose

“Mwami Yesu” being sung by a choir

And folks wrapped in kitenge clothes

Everybody knows

Laura wearing kitenge and teaching the YAGMs
how to cook at orientation!

Kigali Chorale Christmas concert 

Adventist choir singing on Christmas Day!

Banana trees and avocado

Help to make the season bright

Motos beep, with their headlights aglow

And make it hard to sleep tonight

Banana trees and rolling hills in the
tiny village of Mumeya.

Chad and the famous head-sized avocado.

And when it comes to Christmas day

Well, you won’t find any reindeer or a sleigh

And though there won’t be a spangled tree in sight

You may see Christmas seems a little more right

Christmas Cantata in Kigali 

No trees, no stockings, no gifts but the
savior-and what a gift He is.

And so I’m offering this simple phrase

To kids from Huye to Kivu

Stunning Lake Kivu

My sweet Laura and I in Huye, Rwanda

Although it’s been said many times, many ways

Merry Christmas,

Noheli nziza,

Merry Christmas to you.

Noheli nziza from our family to yours.

Turkey and Typhoid: A Thanksgiving Story

1 Thessalonians 5:18

Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

Anyone who knows us knows that my family is really close…like they-made-a-cardboard-cutout-of-me-to-cart-around-with-them-all-year-and-sometimes-they-dress-her-up-in-seasonally-appropriate-clothing close.

The picture I received from my family on Thanksgiving,
my four people plus flat Sav in a scarf.

 It’s the kind of close that makes a little sister secretly collect letters from her big sister’s family and friends to send with her to Rwanda so that when she’s feeling down, she always has a loving word from home. It’s the kind of close that makes a father and a daughter unknowingly get each other the same parting gift. It’s the kind of close that makes a family quote the live action Grinch until they are laugh-crying one day and have knock-down drag-out arguments the next. It’s weird close.

Holidays have always revolved around this, around the gift of my family and around our shared faith. Yes, there is always the classic southern Thanksgiving complete with banana pudding.  Yes, there is the annual decorating of the house with no less than 13 Christmas trees. Yes, there are the marathon Christmas Eves that keep us at church from noon to 1 a.m. I’m not saying I don’t and won’t really miss these events, I will, but what I will miss most is time with the only four people in every one of my memories of these events. My people.

So I knew the holidays were going to be tough. I was, for the first time, not really looking forward to celebrating, and just a few days before American Thanksgiving I found myself subconsciously taking inventory.

Savanna’s Pre-Thanksgiving Inventory, Take 1

What I did know I didn’t have:

 A way to watch football

 Pumpkin spice anything

Cool weather

Turkey

My family

What I didn’t know I did have: 

Typhoid fever

Yep, just a few days before Thanksgiving I made my way, disoriented, feverish, and dehydrated, to a clinic in Kigali where I was diagnosed with Typhoid Fever and immediately admitted. (Note: At the behest of a beloved mentor-who also happens to be the best storyteller I know-I have written the whole misadventure down for posterity and would love to share it, but it’s long and I won’t recount it all here.)

My Typhoid room!

My view of the outside world.

As I spent the next five days in the clinic hooked up to an IV being pumped full of fluids and antibiotics, I had a lot of time to think. Typhoid (and drugs and a significant amount of alone time) does things to a person, and I took another inventory. This one looked pretty different.

Savanna’s Pre-Thanksgiving Inventory, Take 2

What I did have (for sure):

My health

Folks from five different countries pray over me in the hospital

Friends from Rwamagana travel an hour to Kigali to visit me

A God of healing

A phone full of well-wishes from friends and teachers at RLS

Notes of love and prayer from my sending communities in the U.S.

Four people halfway around the world, in Texas, who I love more than life

What I didn’t have (anymore): 

Typhoid Fever

I want to go on record of saying that I fully acknowledge how much it sucks that it took a serious bacterial infection to make me realize just how thankful I should be on Thanksgiving. I am a (mostly) healthy, white, upper middle-class American with countless loving communities; I am privileged beyond belief-I know that. In my oversight I can only ask for grace. But I will also say that the pain of being without people we love, especially during the holidays, whether that separation is temporary or permanent, is very real. My mistake in approaching this holiday season was that I thought I was without my family, but I wasn’t, I’m not.

Banana pudding I made for part of my Rwandan family on Thanksgiving!

I have family in teachers and students at Rwamagana Lutheran School. I have family in a local baker who opened her home to me, no questions asked, so that I could wait on results from the clinic. I have family in Rwanda, in the U.S., and in YAGMs around the world who were, as my grandmother says, “praying hedges around me”. And I have family in the five other beautiful and broken and straight up weird souls that make up the YAGM Rwanda team.

Sometimes family finds you, I'm lucky to be a part of this one.

So yeah, this Thanksgiving I didn’t have turkey, but I did have Typhoid. And finally walking out of my hospital room of my own accord, breathing in the fresh air, and wondering at the bright blue Rwandan sky, I have never been more thankful. I am thankful for a strong body that can fight illnesses, for awesome medical personnel around the world, for clean water and good food, for friends that send me play-by-plays of football games (Go tigers!), for chicken when there’s no turkey, for the universality of banana pudding, for this beautiful country I get to call my temporary home, and for an ever-present God. I am thankful for my four people in Texas, and for my family, all of you, wherever you are-from Rwanda to Jerusalem to the UK to the US. 

But most of all, I am thankful that in this world that is often so dark, there is still so much to be thankful for. 

So may your heart be filled with gratitude and your life be filled with light,

 And may your holiday season be filled with just as much love... 

and a lot less bacteria.

Love,

Sav

How can I not be thankful to spend the holidays here?!