Each morning and night, I find myself wishing each of you could take a walk with me on beautiful dirt road from my house to the main street. I am about to sound super melodramatic but seriously... I live for that little walk to the main road. It's here when all my thoughts and prayers that start and end my day flood my mind. Its here that I get one of my many glimpses of God for that day. Maybe its the insane, breath-taking view overlooking the city from the hill I live on. Maybe its the way I am encaved by sky and the powdered red-orange earth...or the several trees that reign over and awe me; the smell of the plumerias and the sight of these crazy looking trees with bright, spikey, orange flowers straight out of a Dr Suess book. It's on this road that in these still, quiet moments that I feel so small, engulfed by a magnificent God. I am still floored by this adventure called my life that I have absolutely nothing to do with, I just get to see His faithfulness at every turn.So I had by far the most epic birthday, my favorite thus far I think. I spent the day with the women, doing their nails and literally, laughing and having theeeeee entire day. Even the kids, including the babies, each took turns climbing into lap to have their nails painted, boys and girls. I could have easily gone home after my day with them and been able to say it was the best birthday ever but oh no, it didn't stop there. The evening followed with dinner with my friends Ryan, Laura, and Jenny. We went to this amazing place in town called Indian Khazana. You feel like your entranced into another world, like you're truly in India...except the humorous part is the Rwandan waitors in these Indian costumes. The food and company was spectacular. Ryan was sure to make as big of a deal as he could manage and was certain to let every person in that restaurant and every server know it was my birthday. Of course this will mean nothing to you, and I certainly didn't know before hand that Indian Khazana is known for their epic birthday celebrations. Apparently a small cake and "song" is what they'll give you for a whopping $10+. Our waiter kept trying to "discreetly" come over and whisper the arrangements to Ryan. He kept bringing over these "notes" or pieces of paper and talked loudly in his ear, sincerely thinking I couldn't see or hear anything going on. The waiter would say, "Well..we will do it...but you must give us money", literally bribing Ryan. We were teary eyed from laughter of these interactions. Finally Ryan and our group decided they were asking too much just to sing to me, and I really, truly didn't want to be sung to. Finally, to my relief, we said no thank you on the song and cake and decided on tea and dessert. Ten minutes later, it went completely dark in the restaurant and here came this conga line of easily 15 people plus. It was all the waiters and waitresses singing, dancing, with bells and symbols, and a candle and dessert leading the way. We thought, "Oh good! They're going to sing to someone!" We looked around wondering who's birthday it was. As they danced, we realized they were beelining for our table. Humiliation and shock was obvious in my laughter. As they all gathered around the table, they continued to dance and sing circles around us...but here's the kicker. It wasn't JUST the waiters, waitresses and everyone else that worked there...there were two smaller Rwandan waiters dressed up to the T as Santa Clause and a Barnus and Bailey Circus clown, jumping up and down. As Marcus would say...you think I'm kidding but I'm not. The group went from dancing in a circle around our table to running, singing and dancing around the entire restaurant before returning to our table to make me dance with them!! It lasted a good 10 minutes but felt like an hour. We all laughed with the deepest laughter; my stomach and face was throbbing from pain. Laura definitely caught it all on tape and oh yes, you will see it soon.
I am ecstatic to wake up each morning and go to work to hang out with the women. I am so incredibly grateful that I've had this gap of down time before Jared's return to Kigali; there's been endless opportunities to get to know people, my surroundings and especially these women. God has definitely been answering prayers and granting me favor and respect with them, something I definitely don't feel like I've earned but that they have graciously given me. God bless the person who invented nail polish because that's definitely been my initial "in" with them. Our translator Jane is always saying how much it blessed them and that they can't believe I would pay to come here first and then paint their nails with no pay. All this last week, I did pedicures for them and while I washed their feet, they kept giggling saying, "We are like the apostles and Jesus! Why would Jesus wash those men's dirty feet like she is washing our dirty feet?" Honestly, my stomach hurts at the end of each day from laughing. Something that blesses me during my work week is going in for the women's early morning prayer and worship time. It's absolutely amazing the way they pray together. It sounds a lot like loud talking in unison, if not yelling, together in a circle. I always awkwardly slip in and join. For those of you who haven't been to Africa...we Americans look pathetic in our prayer and worship next to them, as if we have no enthusiasm for God. My favorite thing in the world is the random times they'll be going about a normal work day and suddenly stop and gather in one part of the yard just to dance and sing, or stop and pray. It makes me feel closer to Him just witnessing that.
Two women who have absolutely captured my heart are Virginia and Martha. Of course I adore all the women but these two just yank my heart of my chest every time I'm around them...Virginia was the first woman they brought into the organization off the streets. She's been through years of abuse and yet this woman still glows and her eyes sparkle. 
She talks constantly about how much better her life is now. The nail polish sess definitely brought us together but even after that I feel like she is consistent with me, and I with her. Every morning that I arrive, she comes and finds me or I find her and were both just laughing when we catch sight of one another. It's always those mushy moments too precious to be real; we hug and hold each other and attempt to communicate pathetically in English or Kinyarwanda. I tear up every time I am around her because she's always at least holding my hand, playing with my hair or will grab my face and say in Kinyarwanda "I love you I'm so happy you're here". I'm obsessed with her kids too; Deborah and Gigi -- they're the two cutest children you've ever seen. Her little boy, "Gigi", runs laps around the house all day long. He has more energy than any of the other children and though he's only two years old, he is the interrogator of the group. You'll see him beating on them, yelling or chasing them. The other day he came to our office window, smiling ear to ear, waving the biggest machete in hand that I've ever seen in my life. 
No joke it was bigger than him! Ilea saw him, sighed, rolled her eyes [like it was normal] and scolded him. She went outside to get it from him and he started to run off. It was about to become a wild goose chase of child and machete and Ilea when she caught him, scolded him again and took it away. I haven't seen a child throw a tantrum like that since a candy store or toy aisle in Toys R Us! Hysterical that his machete got taken away. AHHHAHAHAHAHA!!
She talks constantly about how much better her life is now. The nail polish sess definitely brought us together but even after that I feel like she is consistent with me, and I with her. Every morning that I arrive, she comes and finds me or I find her and were both just laughing when we catch sight of one another. It's always those mushy moments too precious to be real; we hug and hold each other and attempt to communicate pathetically in English or Kinyarwanda. I tear up every time I am around her because she's always at least holding my hand, playing with my hair or will grab my face and say in Kinyarwanda "I love you I'm so happy you're here". I'm obsessed with her kids too; Deborah and Gigi -- they're the two cutest children you've ever seen. Her little boy, "Gigi", runs laps around the house all day long. He has more energy than any of the other children and though he's only two years old, he is the interrogator of the group. You'll see him beating on them, yelling or chasing them. The other day he came to our office window, smiling ear to ear, waving the biggest machete in hand that I've ever seen in my life. 
No joke it was bigger than him! Ilea saw him, sighed, rolled her eyes [like it was normal] and scolded him. She went outside to get it from him and he started to run off. It was about to become a wild goose chase of child and machete and Ilea when she caught him, scolded him again and took it away. I haven't seen a child throw a tantrum like that since a candy store or toy aisle in Toys R Us! Hysterical that his machete got taken away. AHHHAHAHAHAHA!!Martha is an older woman, probably in her late 30s, early 40s. She has the most weathered, stunning, gorgeous face. Her eyes tell stories all on their own. 
I remember the first few days of being at the Treasure Center, her and I would catch eye contact, I'd smile at her and she'd roll her eyes, snarl and keep walking. You can't help but laugh a little when you see her walking around; she always has this sassy look at her face and the messiest, most distraught bedhead with the most random outfits. Yet she still can't hide her smile that reveals how soft and genuine she is underneath. I continued to watch her and to try with her. I noticed she'd always be right in the center of all the other women, talking up a storm, when they were working out on the porch. She'd rattle off with a completely straight, serious face and suddenly, all the women would follow up with roars of laughter. I was so confused at first as to why they would bust up when she obviously wasn't laughing but came to find that she is the comedian of the group and is just a smart ass with the driest sense of humor. I smile when I see her taking "breaks" from work; she was either making the women laugh, napping under the tree, laying out or playing with the grass. She started to warm up to me when she saw me painting nails and cleaning everyone's "dirty" feet. Whenever I'd be doing one of the women's feet, she'd peek over my shoulder and wag her finger saying "dirty, dirty, dirty". We bonded after that. Now she makes sure she'll come find me and hug me each day. Each weekend that's passed, come Monday, she'll go off about how she missed me and hasn't seen me in so long. She tells me too that she's inviting herself to the wedding I am apparently having someday and that I'm not allowed to leave Rwanda. Ah, I adore this woman.
A huge contrast Rwanda and Northern Uganda, is most people in Northern Uganda are open about the war and the effects its had on their life. Whereas no one here talks about 1994, even 14 years later and understandably so. I was told that no one was ever going to open up about that and that they are incredibly offended when foreigners ask. One morning, I was talking to one of our Rwandan staff asking her about her childhood and she slowly eased into how her life was effected by the years leading up to, during and after the genocide in 1994. I sat as attentively as I could, taking in every word. We talked for over two hours, I asked many questions but I mainly listened. I asked her at one point how Rwandans view it when muzungus ask about the genocide. She shook her head and said painfully, "So many times they ask so many inappropriate, insensitive questions. Even as we as Rwandese have to be careful when we talk about our own pasts around one another, those who may have experienced it too. It is so utterly painful. So many foreigners ask what tribe I belonged to or if my family died. If we want to share, we will bring it up but it is not their place to ask." In our conversation I came to find that there was so little I/we really know about the genocide and the events leading up to for nearly the past century, not to mention what followed. I wish I could type and tell you all she shared with me...but I will honor keeping those details in a journal...
All I can think when I look around a young, old, middle aged, boy, girl, mother, father, anyone in this society...depending on their age...all I can think is..."You're in your 20s...or you're in your 30s...you lived through it...what is your story" I am amazed when I see old people. I wish somehow I had supernatural powers to know someone's story.
Please watch the documentary "As We Forgive". I saw it here and its beautiful.
I remember the first few days of being at the Treasure Center, her and I would catch eye contact, I'd smile at her and she'd roll her eyes, snarl and keep walking. You can't help but laugh a little when you see her walking around; she always has this sassy look at her face and the messiest, most distraught bedhead with the most random outfits. Yet she still can't hide her smile that reveals how soft and genuine she is underneath. I continued to watch her and to try with her. I noticed she'd always be right in the center of all the other women, talking up a storm, when they were working out on the porch. She'd rattle off with a completely straight, serious face and suddenly, all the women would follow up with roars of laughter. I was so confused at first as to why they would bust up when she obviously wasn't laughing but came to find that she is the comedian of the group and is just a smart ass with the driest sense of humor. I smile when I see her taking "breaks" from work; she was either making the women laugh, napping under the tree, laying out or playing with the grass. She started to warm up to me when she saw me painting nails and cleaning everyone's "dirty" feet. Whenever I'd be doing one of the women's feet, she'd peek over my shoulder and wag her finger saying "dirty, dirty, dirty". We bonded after that. Now she makes sure she'll come find me and hug me each day. Each weekend that's passed, come Monday, she'll go off about how she missed me and hasn't seen me in so long. She tells me too that she's inviting herself to the wedding I am apparently having someday and that I'm not allowed to leave Rwanda. Ah, I adore this woman.A huge contrast Rwanda and Northern Uganda, is most people in Northern Uganda are open about the war and the effects its had on their life. Whereas no one here talks about 1994, even 14 years later and understandably so. I was told that no one was ever going to open up about that and that they are incredibly offended when foreigners ask. One morning, I was talking to one of our Rwandan staff asking her about her childhood and she slowly eased into how her life was effected by the years leading up to, during and after the genocide in 1994. I sat as attentively as I could, taking in every word. We talked for over two hours, I asked many questions but I mainly listened. I asked her at one point how Rwandans view it when muzungus ask about the genocide. She shook her head and said painfully, "So many times they ask so many inappropriate, insensitive questions. Even as we as Rwandese have to be careful when we talk about our own pasts around one another, those who may have experienced it too. It is so utterly painful. So many foreigners ask what tribe I belonged to or if my family died. If we want to share, we will bring it up but it is not their place to ask." In our conversation I came to find that there was so little I/we really know about the genocide and the events leading up to for nearly the past century, not to mention what followed. I wish I could type and tell you all she shared with me...but I will honor keeping those details in a journal...
All I can think when I look around a young, old, middle aged, boy, girl, mother, father, anyone in this society...depending on their age...all I can think is..."You're in your 20s...or you're in your 30s...you lived through it...what is your story" I am amazed when I see old people. I wish somehow I had supernatural powers to know someone's story.
Please watch the documentary "As We Forgive". I saw it here and its beautiful.
Any of you who've heard me tell of my first journey to this beautiful continent know that it was the endless ways that I was served and loved by these people that inevitably saved my life in more ways than one. Its humbling every time I encounter these unbelievable acts of kindness and love; that nothing I have to offer can even amount to such as these. Here in Rwanda, I am still convinced its always going to always be an uphill battle to get others to allow me into their hearts and lives...but there have been a few occasions here already of unreal kindness that show up in the most unexpected ways.
A week or two ago, I went to meet some friends for some tea and internet time on the other side of town. After an hour or so at the cafe, I hopped back onto a moto back to Kiyovu, where I live...or so I thought. Come to find out, the moto driver had no clue where that was and I figured this out once things stopped looking familiar. He finally stopped at a gas station, kind of shrugged, found another moto driver for me and asked me to pay up for that portion of the trip. I freaked out inside because I only had an exact amount to get home. I tried explaining that to, now, the 5 or 6 moto drivers that had made a circle around me who'd come to watch the muzungu argue with the clueless Rwandan moto driver. After 15 minutes of my dilemma being interpreted in both French and Kinyarwanda, not only were they demanding an unfair amount for the moto driver who got us lost to begin with but also an absurd amount for the moto driver who was now going to take me back to Kiyovu. I started to tear up because 1) I really, truly didn't have the money to get home, and 2) they weren't going to take me home if I couldn't pay up. As the first tear rolled down my cheek, this average looking, younger Rwandan man merged into the group, rattled off in Kinyarwanda, listened to their replies of the situation, looked down at his pockets and started to dig into them, pulling out random coins. I watched him in shock while also in suspense of what he could possibly be doing. He wagged his finger at the moto drivers, grabbed and put into my hand the exact amount I needed to get home. I panicked and tried giving him back his money but he didn't want it. I thanked him and begin to ball. Emotions aren't handled well here, especially by men, so the moto driver hurried me onto the back of a moto and I was on my way home, at this point hysterically in tears because I couldn't believe what just happened. I especially felt the beautiful privilege and honor of being a recipient for such an act of kindness...
...and to think after all these years of it being ingrained into me to not give handouts in Africa, here I am, the one getting the handout...
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