Some Reflections Before Life in the Village

If anyone would have said to me in December, "Americans need Jesus too. There is so much ministry that needs to be done here." I would have said, "Duh; all of us need Jesus." If someone had dared to express to me, "Maybe God will call u to stay here in the States." I would have said "I know that He can, but please no! Don’t make me stay here!"I think a big part of me really expected to come here and have some sense of "I want this to be home”—maybe not Uganda specifically, but somewhere in Sub-Saharan Africa, or anywhere but the States. I don't know why, but such is what I had pictured for so long in my head.

Culture shock for me was not a struggle with latrines or dirt floors (partially because I do not have either at my home here); culture shock for me has been the realization of something that I already knew on a cognitive level. Humans are fallen creatures who need redeemed by our Savior daily—Ugandan Christians as much as Americans. I came already affectively valuing Ugandan culture “as a means by which God reveals different aspects of himself," (our one syllabus) and I think I had a somewhat romanticized version of what Christianity would look like being lived in Africa anywhere. But I was soon blinded by the fact that sin distorts God’s revelation here as much as at home. Please do not misunderstand; there are indeed a lot of great people on this campus and the surrounding community who genuinely love the Lord and endeavor to follow HIm. But there are also those, just like in America, who profess faith in Christ and do not live as He bids us to. 

 I have for so long wanted to leave the States; since high school, I have desired to serve the Lord elsewhere. Missionaries (not the ones who served colonial interests rather than Jesus) have been my heroes of faith. I think I express that often to anyone who talks to me long enough! Now, I am aware that my home is a part of me that I truly love and miss, so much more than I expected to. That is not to imply that I cry myself to sleep here and long to go home already (because I'm definitely not anywhere close to being in that state of mind), but for the first time ever in my life, I think that I am legitimately willing to live in the States for as long as Jesus asks me to do so. Before coming to Uganda, I was also "willing"--out of a love, passion, and trust in His plan--but I would never have ceased to feel antsy and would have constantly asked, "Ok, can I go somewhere now?....How about now??" Today, I am more willing on an emotional level to enjoy my home culture, and I don’t know if I can adequately express how strange it feels for me to say that. I think I grasp more fully the concept Paul expresses in Romans 1, that the creation groans waiting for the Lord to be revealed. This world will never truly be home in the fullest sense, so I should stop subconsciously thinking that traveling anywhere is going to fix the spiritual longing that is in all of us for something beyond what we have here. This life will never bring complete fulfillment, and that is a large part of the point of the Gospel.

Generalizations, Blanket Statements, Assumptions, Stereotypes: All Formed for One Legitimate Reason or Another, but Made to be Broken!

As most of you are aware, I am living with a wonderful host family in Mukono for an entire semester; they are wonderful but not even close to what I expected. Apart from the physical location being much “nicer” than I anticipated, my family members do not fit my previous conception of a typical Ugandan family. I did not anticipate they would fit exactly within the mold we tend to put them, but I did assume they would to some extent, at least in more ways than they do. One dominant ideal in Africa that is discussed in my department at school is that of patriarchy. Africa is considered a traditional society that is extremely patriarchal in countless ways, from perceptions of who does the cooking to men buying their wives with cows. In my family here, my papa knows his way around the kitchen; I am told that once, when my mama was bedridden, a maid ran off because she could not handle sharing kitchen work with a man. He is a reverend by profession; in Uganda, that means people are expected to serve him whenever he goes anywhere. (Traditionally, the more glorified a leader is, the better off his people consider themselves.) But my papa understands Jesus’ mandate to serve as one that applies to him as well as the layperson. One time, he even begged me to let him serve me something, even if it was just a glass of water. The patriarchal stereotype is further broken during our family devotion time. My first Sunday with them, we did not attend church because we were exhausted from a function on Saturday. In the evening, we had a mini church service in our living room. I was nominated the preacher, for some strange reason, my sister the sermon director (not sure how this is different from preacher, but it meant she read from “Our Daily Bread” devotional and I read the Scripture passage), and my other sisters the intercessors. Such practice is typical of our devotion times; he sometimes takes the verbal lead, but he is more often the silent leader, not what one expects to encounter in a society that is labeled patriarchal.

My sister Hannah also proved to be not what I expected. When imagining a young African woman, even one in the city, what do you envision? One who is tough, not easily grossed out, super conservatively dressed, maybe dirty nails, most likely married by age 23 with a child, and certainly more than able to handle a few chickens? That’s what I would have said before arriving here. The reality is that Hannah is super gorgeous. She likes to paint her nails and gets her hair done frequently. Her wardrobe is adorable, and I would wear anything in it in the States (some of her skirts sit an inch or two above her knees). She does not want to be married anytime soon, and she does not want a houseful of children when she does get married. And she definitely needs some practice handling the chickens she owns!

Recently, she is in the process of beginning a small business on the side of raising and selling chickens. Since she works in Kampala, the family pays some guys to tend to the chicks throughout the day. One night, we all strolled down the trail to the “farm” to check on the little animals. Upon arriving, my papa told Hannah to hold one and tell him about how much it weighed. She stepped inside the coop, and bent over to grab one. It flapped its wings rapidly; she squealed and jumped backwards. We all laughed. She tried again, same result, “How am I supposed to catch one?! They fly away! And they feel nasty!” Papa said “You just grab it quickly,” as he demonstrated with his hands. Hannah’s expression persisted declaring, “There’s no way this is happening. Why do I have to do this anyway?” Papa then turned to me and nudged me to give it a try. I stepped inside, took a small breath, bent down and attempted to grab one. This first try was similar to Hannah’s, without the intense squeal (shocking, I know). Then I took a deep breath and told myself that I was smarter than the half grown chicken, lunged quickly, and succeeded in scooping it up in my hands! I then turned to try to give it to Hannah so that she could hold it and estimate its weight (in kg). She again tried to hold it but instantly backed up with an additional look of disgust when she felt the thin layer of feathers against its warm little body. Her quick movements made the bird react with flapping wings, so I set it down. Papa still wanted a weight estimate from Hannah, so I again captured another chicken, hoping she might be able to take if from my hands. She again did not. We left the coop laughing hysterically as I declared we were both born in the wrong country. J