please stand

Ever since I swallowed the last bite of cranberry sauce that I managed to scrounge up for Thanksgiving dinner, I have had the urge to listen to Handel’s Hallelujah chorus. And listen to it I have.

preparing to dance

But somehow listening through ear buds attached to my iPod just doesn’t cut it. I want to be overcome by the power of voices in a choir, to close my eyes and let the music sink into my soul, to stand resolutely in a crowd reaffirming the Hallelujahs.

Alas, I have found no such listening opportunities in Kigali. But last week I witnessed something even better: I saw the Hallelujah chorus come to life.

I am imagining the consternation on your face as you read this. “The Hallelujah chorus come to life? What could that mean?”

It means this: last week a Rwandan judge announced that Carol*, a 16-year-old IJM Rwanda client, would see justice. The judge sentenced the man who raped her to 20 years in prison—the longest sentence in our office to date—and ordered him to pay her damages. Hallelujah.

It means this: last week our office celebrated 18 clients’ completion of trauma-focused therapy. I watched as Dahlia*, a client who would draw away from everyone around her just months ago, read a poem she wrote about rape prevention to a crowd of 70 people. I listened as the smaller graduates, all from about age 5 to age 8, sang and danced across the stage in matching outfits. Hallelujah.

dancing at the celebration

Some of you may be reading this at your desk at work, others could be curled up on the couch under a blanket and still others might be reading this on your phone while you’re dashing to do some last minute Christmas shopping. But wherever you are, would you stand up with me for this Hallelujah chorus? Right now. Listen and stand. Because the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth. Hallelujah.

*a pseudonym

a place called home

I am a child of the 80s (at least the last 11 months of the decade), grew up in the 90s, and reached young adulthood in the first decade of the 21st century. And for the last 22 years of my life I have heard that the world is shrinking. You can fix your computer with a phone call to India, book a flight from Thailand to East Africa from the comfort of your North American leather sofa, and call a family member in London from a broken down car on the Rwandan road to Tanzania. (That last one is knowledge from personal experience. I would recommend another option if you ever end up in a similar situation.) Place, some self-confident, prophetic voices of the 20th century might argue, is becoming more irrelevant.

But now when I wake up in the morning under my mosquito net and listen to the rainy-season downpour, I am hardly convinced that place is irrelevant. I am much more prone to become a disciple of Wendell Berry. Place is everything.

I spent quite a few years of my life denying the imprint of place on me. I lived in cornfields–I dreamed of European cities. I saw pick-up trucks–I read of smart cars. I was surrounded by a small town whose inextricably knotted family lineages made everyone cousins–I vowed to one day move to the anonymity of a city. “I am not a product of my surroundings,” I defiantly declared, and I enthusiastically rallied behind the tide of globalization (all the while affirming the importance of distinct cultures by purchasing fair trade goods at Christmastime). I was a child of the world, unconfined by geographical boundaries.

But now when I wake up in the morning and miss oak trees and hardware stores and walking on cookie-cutter sidewalks, I am hardly convinced that I am unconfined by geographical boundaries. I miss a geographical place called home.

And there’s the rub. We are not robots, machines made to perform a function and easily relocate into another environment. We are molded flesh with beating hearts. We live, we breathe, we love, and as this cycle continues in a particular location, the location molds itself to us and we mold ourselves to it. And suddenly place is no longer irrelevant because of a place called home.

This Sunday while washing dishes at our outside sink I listened to a sermon by Tim Keller on the importance of home. Home, Keller says, is that perfect place where we fit into every nook and cranny. But is also a place that we have never quite found. We were created for the Garden of Eden and live as exiles in a fallen world; consequently, we hover in a kind of perpetual state of homesickness.

Home is whenever I'm with you. (March 2011)

I think that right now my longing for my eternal home, for Revelation 21 and John 14:2 and all that, is heightened by my longing for my earthly home. I realize my desire for a spiritual place because I am acutely aware of my desire for an earthly place. I feel the internal pain of a stretched crumb of dust (see the George Herbert poem below), which is technically what I am. I love two places at the same time. Indiana and Rwanda. Heaven and earth. It hurts sometimes.

But if the act of stretching “makes the musick better,” then I will yield myself to the stretching of this not-so-shrinking world (the universe is supposed to be expanding, after all). I will love home and I will love where I am placed; if the camel can fit through the eye of the needle, then the crumb of dust can be stretched. I have calmed and quieted my soul, Psalm 131. So here’s to home.

(p.s. Enjoy this George Herbert poem–not on home exactly, but it is incredibly insightful on what it is to be a stretched piece of dust.)

THE TEMPER.

(I)HOW should I praise thee, Lord ! how should my rymes

Gladly engrave thy love in steel,

If what my soul doth feel sometimes,

My soul might ever feel !

Although there were some fourtie heav’ns, or more,

Sometimes I peere above them all ;

Sometimes I hardly reach a score,

Sometimes to hell I fall.

O rack me not to such a vast extent ;

Those distances belong to thee :

The world’s too little for thy tent,

A grave too big for me.

Wilt thou meet arms with man, that thou dost stretch

A crumme of dust from heav’n to hell ?

Will great God measure with a wretch ?

Shall he thy stature spell ?

O let me, when thy roof my soul hath hid,

O let me roost and nestle there :

Then of a sinner thou art rid,

And I of hope and fear.

Yet take thy way ; for sure thy way is best : S

tretch or contract me thy poore debter :

This is but tuning of my breast,

To make the musick better.

Whether I flie with angels, fall with dust,

Thy hands made both, and I am there. T

hy power and love, my love and trust,

Make one place ev’ry where.

snapshots

of my life in the last few weeks.

1. Weddings here are a process. And they require lots of clothing changes. This weekend several of my co-workers and I went to another co-worker’s sister’s introduction ceremony—the second of three wedding ceremonies. The introduction ceremony features playful banter by representatives from each of the families as they decide which bride the groom will receive (they often offer very old or very young possibilities before agreeing on the actual bride who is hidden in the adjoining room) and how many cows the dowry will require. It ended with food and Fanta!

 

2. The wedding was in a conveniently beautiful area, so my housemates and I went up a day early to see the scenery (think of a fairy tale or the islands in Voyage of the Dawn Treader). I read, journalled, swam, and rested… all for under $50! This was a much needed Sabbath and time of reflection. The Lord certainly does give rest to those he loves (Psalm 127:2, but really all of Psalm 127).

 

3. I am currently writing this blog from a coffee shop because the office power and internet have been out for over 24 hours. Although it has been frustrating, it almost feels like a snow day. Minus the snow. My co-worker Christelle and I took advantage of the down time to practice our dance moves.

p.s. Sorry for the haphazard arrangement of photos! I’m working on a slowish internet connection that isn’t so cooperative with laying out photos…

the evolution of a shower

Last night I had my first, full power, enclosed, hot shower in my own house. I have had respites over the last eight weeks—I traveled to a conference in Nyanza for three days, went on an overnight trip with my roommates, and showered after swimming in a pool. But pretty much my shower history has been one of maneuvering, teeth chattering, mopping up puddles, and get-it-over-fast-so-I-no-longer-have-to-cringe-at-my-own-filth.

Stage 1: Let there be heat

When I first arrived in my new house I took cold showers. Each night I would turn the faucet to the hottest setting, but the only thing that came out was a frigid stream that made my Raynaud’s afflicted fingers turn purple. I gritted my teeth and scrubbed up. For four weeks.

Then I decided enough was enough. A warm shower had to be doable. After consulting my seasoned housemates I discovered that if I let the water run for a lengthy amount of time the hot water from the distantly located water heater would finally meander to my spigot. A miracle. (Don’t worry. I didn’t waste all that extra water. I saved it in a large bucket and used it to flush the toilet.)

And there was hot water.

Stage 2: Let the bathroom be dry

After I started taking hot showers I confronted a new dilemma: water overflow. Unfortunately, the 2ft. x 2ft. square of ceramic that is my shower did not have a shower curtain when I arrived. While I was taking cold showers this wasn’t so much of a problem. I generally tried to avoid using any more cold water than I actually needed. Not much water left the basin because not much water entered the basin.

But warm water is a temptation to even the most devout environmentalist, and I soon fell prey to its loveliness. After a few days of mopping up all the unruly water that rebelled against the 2ft. x 2ft. parameters, I discovered a shorter mount for the showerhead nozzle. By positioning the nozzle so that it sprayed into the corner and crouching down so that my hair was under the balmy flow I could take a hot shower with minimal spillage.

And there was dry tile surrounding the shower.

Stage 3: Let there be a curtain around the shower

Now don’t get me wrong. The crouching under the showerhead solution worked. And lucky for me I am 5’2”, so I didn’t even have that far to bend. But this was not a perfect situation. And my shoulders already have perpetual knots.

So when my housemate Clare spearheaded a campaign to install a shower curtain, I became a devoted supporter. First she scouted out a place that sold shower curtains (there aren’t as many shower-curtain outlets as one might think). Then she and another housemate, Thomasine, asked our handyman Samuel to rig up a system. After a few adjustments the shower curtain was installed. And tonight I enjoyed the full fruits of their labors.

And there was a protective curtain surrounding the shower.

Stage 4: Let there be rest and reflection

As I enjoyed my warm, spillageless shower last night, I reflected on how many other adjustments have taken place since I came to Rwanda. Take transportation: First I learned how to walk in my neighborhood. Then I took a moto. My next step is to take a public taxi (the bus system). Or my job: I began by taking notes in meetings and filling out simple request forms. Then I started coordinating schedules and conferences.

Sometimes I want to be done with adjustments. I want to BE completely adjusted to life in Rwanda. I even feel guilty when I, unlike my shower, am not at the final stage of perfection. But I have recently been confronted with the thought that God is in the gray areas, in the various stages of adjustments and changes. In fact, I will never be completely adjusted to any living situation anywhere in the world. Change is constant, painful as it may be.

This week I have been reading 2 Corinthians 4:7-12 about how we have this treasure (we learn from v.6 that “this treasure” is probably “the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ”) in jars of clay.  We who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body.

So according to these verses the adjustment is not supposed to be easy. (It hasn’t always been.) It sounds like it’s supposed to hurt. (It has at times.) But the change does reveal God’s glory that is behind the work of adjusting. If we were silver jars instead of clay no one would pay any attention to the light shining through the cracks. They’d be too enamored with the silver.

So adjustments are inevitable, and I think they will continue for the rest of the time in Rwanda and beyond. But today is Sunday, and I will revel in my hot shower.

And on the seventh day there was rest.

 

fame

I made it in The New Times, a newspaper in Rwanda! Okay, my name is not in print. I am actually just a tiny dot in the background of a picture, but I was excited. Check out the article here.

But even better than being in the newspaper is the reason this article came out. This week IJM Rwanda had the opportunity to conduct training on child sexual assault in the context of Rwandan law. The training went well, and I will write more about it soon!

the count: reasons why this was a good week (in no particular order):

With my some of my housemates (Jastine, Thomasine, Clare) on our trip to Akegara, a national park, a few weeks ago. The man taking the picture wasn't sure where the "capture" button was. In the background is Clare's very hearty Rav4, which we dubbed "Corinthian."

1. I successfully booked and then rescheduled my boss’s flight on RwandAir, the we-don’t-do-online-booking, cash-only airline that charges US dollars in a country whose national currency is the franc. The customer service flight attendant was so wowed by my greeting in Kinyarwanda that she completed the transaction with a smile and taught me a few new words.

2. Clean underwear. Hand washed by someone else. Thank you, Clare.

3. St. Etienne’s, an Anglican church near the heart of Kigali. When a 65-ish British man gave a resounding reading from Isaiah for the first reading I knew I’d be coming back to this place for the rest of the year. Psalm 100.

4. The schoolgirl who ran up from behind me on the way home from work, grabbed my hand, and started swinging it. She tried a little English, I tried a little Kinyarwanda, but mostly we walked hand-in-hand until parting ways at the Gishush intersection.

Jastine with water buffalo

5. Rainy day (Saturday). Good movie (Africa United).

6. Moses*. When I first saw him, about 5 months old with all of my female co-workers oohing and ahhing over him, I tried to exercise restraint. I said to myself, “Self, you have work to do. Stay at your desk.” But I was weak. And I am glad I was weak. They handed Moses over to me and I got to hold him for five wonderful minutes. I later found out Moses was the product of rape. But now he and his mother are safe and in a loving family. All the IJM ladies are putty in his hands.

7. Lunches at MiniJust. It’s a cafeteria-style, heap your plate with as much rice, cassava, plantains, and beans as your tummy can hold for under $2, operation. But the best part is going with my co-workers. It’s kind of like having brothers.

Bing Crosby, you are so wise.

*a pseudonym

three weeks and old shoes

Ahem. Cue the mood music.

On the way home from work on Friday I saw the sight below.

If I

a) had stashed an SLR camera in my brown work purse (I don’t have one, so this was a far-fetched possibility)

b) had mustered up the courage to ask this boy if I could take his photo instead of snapping away like a stalker

c) didn’t have the “Stevens shake” that causes my hands to tremble at important moments

you would see a pair of red Converse shoes. Unfortunately, a, b, and c did not take place, so the photo is blurry. But let me continue.

This particular pair of red Converse has a large hole in the back heel of the right shoe. The fabric is faded—probably from sun and the perils of hand washing. They are undoubtedly loved by the 9ish-year-old boy who is sporting them on his way home from school on a Friday evening. (After all, well-worn Converse are always loved. Right now Abercrombie and Fitch designers are probably trying to replicate this look in factories, but I don’t think they will succeed. You can’t manufacture a story.)

Anyway, as I walked behind this boy in his shoes on the way home from work, I couldn’t help feeling like those shoes. Well-worn and full of holes. During the last several weeks of moving to a new country, meeting all new people, and starting work at IJM Rwanda I have been reminded of how little I am. I am nothing. I am expendable. Jesus doesn’t need me.

But he loves me like this boy loves his Converse. And it’s when I am at the end of myself, when I don’t know how to light my own kitchen stove, fill out a payment request form for my boss, or reach out to start a meaningful conversation with a colleague that he loves me.

At work we have been reading from Galatians as a staff every morning. On Thursday morning we read from Galatians 6, and I talked with a co-worker about the joy of being nothing. I will never have anything to offer God, and in the last three weeks that has sometimes seemed very evident. But he uses us in our humility, and it is a joyful thing to know that any strength or ability that I have is from God alone.

One day this week I was working at a desk when a co-worker at the desk next to me started singing under her breath. I couldn’t make out the words—they were in Kinyarwanda. But I recognized the tune: “’Tis So Sweet to Trust In Jesus.” And it’s true. It is so sweet to trust in Jesus.

On a sidenote: here is me with a giraffe at Akagera, a national park about 2.5 hours away. It took us 10 hours to get there.