My Hero

I signed up months ago for a Lunch and a Lesson workshop on how to teach essay writing with colors that was to be held today.  My mother and I drove to Susan’s house and while we were preparing the lunch part of the day, Susan told us to be thinking about our essay topic:  My Hero.  Needless to say, I had no trouble coming up with a hero or the three reasons why he was my hero.  My pencil hit the paper, and this is what resulted:

Heroes help others.  People yearn to be around heroes, if not to actually be them.  Most notably, however, heroes face challenges with grace and dignity.  Emmanuel Manirakiza epitomizes the title of hero.  His ability to overcome adversity, to set and achieve lofty goals, and to inspire others characterize him as the most heroic person I have ever met.

            Born in a seemingly inopportune setting- Rwanda in the early 1990s- Emmanuel encountered more adversity than most of the world could ever imagine.  A nasty war stole away his father and much of his extended family, and a nasty disease- cholera- robbed him of his mother and younger sister.  Rebels infiltrated the refugee came he fled to as a mere toddler forcing him to fend for himself in the bush in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.  He survived by sucking water from the roots of plants and fighting off snakes with stones.  He survived the machine-gunfire that lodged bullets in his calf and scarred his face, just below his left eye.  Once, shackled by rebels on the side of the road and literally starving to death, he survived the menacing glare of his own uncle, strong enough to help, but cowardly enough to ignore Emmanuel as he wasted away in the rebels’ possession.  In the midst of all of this adversity and so much more, Emmanuel overcame.  He ended up at Sonrise School, a school founded in 2000 by Bishop John Rucyahana for AIDS and genocide orphans.  He quickly rose to the top of his class and even scored in the top ten nationally on his Primary 6 exam earning him the nearly $300 he spent to buy his surviving sister a plot of land and to build her a very meager home, even by rural Rwandan standards.  He continued to excel through high school scoring in the top ten again on his Senior 3 national exam earning him a laptop computer that he would inevitably sell to ensure his nieces and nephews could have a chance to overcome their own adversity.

            One of Emmanuel’s goals in life was to provide an avenue out of poverty for his sister and her children, but his goals rose far and above that one.  As a young secondary school student, he had a dream to start an environmental club at Sonrise.  He wrote a business plan, actualized his dream, and even garnered financial support to buy and plant many trees to help prevent erosion and liven up his campus for his fellow classmates.  Another goal was to acquire a world-class education at a prestigious boarding school in South Africa.  He achieved this one as well and reached many other goals while he was at African Leadership Academy:  to interact with powerful politicians, to intern with the Rwandan government, to run his own business, to improve his writing, to deliver a speech to his classmates chronicling his life, to travel to the United States on an exchange, and even to accomplish his childhood dream of riding a horse.  His latest goal was to attend a prestigious university in the US.  He was accepted to the University of Rochester and offered a full scholarship to attend.  This fall, he would have had the chance to reach yet another of his lofty goals. 

            With his passing on to a better life at roughly a mere 20 years of age, Emmanuel was unable to reach his goal of a bachelor’s degree from a prestigious university, but his goals to change the world have inspired every person with whom he came in contact in his short time on Earth.  His life on Earth was characterized by a passion for people.  He served as a peer counselor and even advised people 5, 10, even 40 years his senior.  One of his favorite activities, public speaking, whether in school chapel or general assemblies moved people either to tears or to action.  His many accomplishments encouraged others to strive to make and attain their own lofty goals.  No one wanted to leave a one-on-one conversation with Emmanuel for fear of missing out on his abundant wisdom.  I remember siting in a dark, empty conference room at African Leadership Academy on a surprise visit to see him and soaking in his wisdom as he shared his story.  And his story, what a story!  His story is his legacy which will continue to inspire everyone who hears it for as long, or as short, as they may live.

            While Emmanuel is no longer with us in his physical body, we can all be inspired by the adversity he overcame to set and obtain our own lofty goals.  I can gratefully say that my hero, Emmanuel Manirakiza, changed my life, and I can only hope that his legacy will continue to change every life with which it comes in contact.  May Emmanuel’s loftiest goal- to change the world- inspire us all to do that very thing, for Emmanuel.

My talk from church last night...

I wrote this whole talk last night, and I was planning to read through it a few times and be able to deliver it without just reading off the paper, but when I got home from church this afternoon, I received tragic news that one of the most influential people in my life and a future leader of Rwanda, my dear brother, child, advisor, and advisee drowned in a swimming pool in Kigali this afternoon, so I’m just going to read what I wrote verbatim and hope I can make it through.

Yesterday, I flew home from Alaska and had a similar bout of culture shock as when I flew home from Rwanda a few weeks ago.  People were wearing shorts!  In Rwanda, shorts are taboo.  In Alaska, it’s just too cold for shorts.  In honor of that experience, I’ve worn the shorts that a tailor made for me in Rwanda.  He was a bit bewildered to make them ::gasp:: so short.  I told him not to worry; I would wear them only in America. 

As I was flying “home” from Alaska, I started to really contemplate that word:  home.  What does it even mean? 

The Oxford English Dictionary’s first definition of the word is “the place where one lives permanently.”  I guess, by that definition, I’m homeless.  Another definition is “a place where something flourishes, from which it originates, or is most typically found.”  There are a couple places I have flourished:  Clemson, SC, Ridgecrest, NC, to name two.  Technically, I originated from Akron, OH, but I am most typically found in Kigali, Rwanda.

My primary job in Rwanda is working at Kigali International Community School, an international school whose mission is to provide a Christ-centered, U.S. accredited primary and secondary education to children of missionary families – and other international and national children – that challenges students to excel academically and live out a biblical worldview.  The vision of KICS is to impact the world for Christ by preparing servant leaders who choose character before career, wisdom beyond scholarship, service above self, and a lifestyle of participation over apathy.

Only one third of the student body at my school is Rwandan, which means the remaining two-thirds are growing up as global nomads or third culture kids.  A third culture kid (or TCK) is a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents’ culture.  The TCK frequently builds relationships to all of the cultures, while not having full ownership in any.  Although elements from each culture may be assimilated into the TCK’s life experience, the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar background.

After living in Rwanda for two and a half years, I’m beginning to identify with third culture kids.  While I didn’t spend my developmental years in a foreign country, I have spent most of my mid-twenties there.  Research shows that 90% of TCKS feel “out of sync” with their peers but also as if they understand other people and cultural groups better than the average American.  Eighty percent believe they can get along with anybody, and they often do, due to their sociocultural adaptability.  Depression is comparatively prevalent among TCKS.  TCKs’ sense of identity and well-being is directly and negatively affected by repatriation.  TCKs are highly linguistically adept and have a lower divorce rate than the general population and are 4 times more likely to get a bachelor’s degree than non-TCKs. 

The WORST question to ask a TCK is, “Where are you from?”  I had my own glimpse of what this feels like at a wedding a few weeks ago.  At least 5 people must have asked me, “So, where are you now?”  I didn’t know if I should answer, “I’m in the same place as you, at this wedding in Asheville, NC” or if I should say “I’m staying at my parents’ house in Simpsonville, SC” or “I’m on my way to Alaska via Washington, DC” or “I still teach at an international school in Rwanda.” 

It’s a really tricky place to be.  It’s tricky to learn the ins and outs of a new culture, but it’s even trickier to try to re-assimilate into your passport country’s culture, especially when you may have 2 or 3 passports.  While it was initially bothersome for me to never be understood in Rwanda because of language and cultural barriers, it is becoming increasingly wearisome to not be understood in my “home” culture because I’ve adopted some of my host country’s culture.  When I come to the States, I understand life here.  I lived it for 22 years. I can go a year without seeing my friends and family, but I generally understand the lives they’ve lived.  They, however, can’t possibly understand me and the life I’ve lived.  Transitions are hard. 

This year I’m transitioning into a new role at my school which will also attempt to help students ease into the major transitions in their lives.  With my newfound identification with Third Culture Kids and a week’s worth of training in Washington, DC, I hope to become an effective international school counselor.  What does that entail exactly?  Good question!  I know that I will be responsible for admitting and welcoming new students to KICS and that I will be guiding high schoolers through the college selection and application process, but beyond that, each new day is likely to be a huge adventure- and I like it.  I look very much forward to continuing to build relationships with the students I have taught for the past two years and broadening those relationships to envelop their families as well as I help them send their kids far, far away to college.  Not only will I serve as the school counselor, but I will also reach out and enter kids’ lives by being a YoungLife leader this year.  YoungLife is a relational ministry that seeks out kids where they are and shares the love of Christ with them. I served on a committee that supported and prayed for YoungLife last year, but I look forward to being more personally involved in students’ lives outside of school as a YoungLife leader in the coming school year.

Another big transition in my life will be moving from living alone in the servant’s quarters of another family’s home into a big house full of fellow global nomads.  I was able to develop an exceptionally good community over the course of this past school year, and I’m thrilled to be moving into a house with a few of my new friends.   You can be praying for us that our community will continue to thrive and also that we can find a 5^th roommate who can fit right into the mix.  We’re a relatively hospitable bunch, and we have a whole guesthouse complete with bunk beds and hope to host visitors with some regularity.  You can, therefore, consider this your formal invitation to come spend some time in Kigali, Rwanda.  Seriously though, you should come stay in our home.  Not only can you stay with some exceptionally gracious hostesses, you can also spend some of the most exceptional people you will ever meet.

Who are those exceptional people, you might ask?  My boys, of course.  If you’ve ever heard me talk about Rwanda before, then you know that there are about 15 young men who live there who have a very special place in my heart.  I volunteer to teach English to a traditional dance troupe comprised of former street boys in Rwanda.  They all survived the 1994 genocide and have lived together, many of them for the 18 years since the genocide ended.  Another definition of the word “home” is “a house or an apartment considered as a commercial property.”  By that definition, these boys spent most of their lives homeless, living together in a parking lot in downtown Kigali.  They have since been housed by the generous sponsorship of LEAF International, an organization based in Black Mountain, NC.  I have known these boys for almost 2 years now, and have visited them regularly in three different “homes” over the course of those two years.  I go twice a week to teach them English.  Two years ago I was teaching them “good morning,” “good afternoon,” “good evening,” and “good night.”  Today, I have real conversations with them about life and money and Jesus.  Not only am I their English teacher, but I am also their financial advisor, banker, counselor, mediator, and yes, even though most of them are older than I, their mother.  This year Easter Sunday fell during Genocide Memorial Week in April, and it provided a unique platform to discuss Jesus’s death, burial, and resurrection whilst remembering the atrocities that occurred in their country when they were small children and which took from most of them their entire families.  As you might imagine, the gospel is so desperately needed in their home but so hesitantly accepted.  How can you trust a God who would allow your whole family to be slaughtered with machetes before your eyes?  How can you believe that Jesus changes lives when you see your fellow street boys running to churches to repent and beg for money then turn right back around and steal from the rich men in the streets again?  Why would you want to be a Christian when so-called Christians are ignoring your deep hunger pangs and your desperate poverty?  When the church leaders are driving around in hordes of Land Rovers and claiming they are gifts from God?  How can you trust in Jesus when your society tells you not to trust anyone, not even your own family, if you even have a family?  These are the hurdles my boys face. 

My boys are survivors and they don’t need much, but they do have the same needs we all have and deserve the same rights we all enjoy.  Food, emotional support, healthcare, education…  Most of them have been out of school too long to return, and are receiving their entire education from me, but I am presently paying the school fees for Patrick Mbonyinshuti, and Lord willing, he will graduate from high school next December.  If you would be interested in helping me pay his school fees, he and I would gladly receive your support, and you can make a check payable to Rocky Creek Baptist Church and put Kelly in Rwanda in the memo line.  A good portion of the money I receive from supporters like you goes directly to bettering the lives of these boys.

There’s one more very special boy I would like to introduce you to before I finish tonight, and his name is Emmanuel Manirakiza, he's the one I referred to at the beginning.  His last name means God saves, and God has definitely saved him and for a very special purpose.  I wanted to tell you a little about him now so that when you heard in a few years about the Rwandan who won the Nobel Peace Prize or became the next president of Rwanda or became the world’s next best evangelist, you’d have heard of him here first.  Emmanuel was coming to the States in one short month to attend the University of Rochester on a full scholarship, and after you hear his personal statement, I think you’ll understand why:

It’s entitled “My First Pair of Shoes.”

I was about 13 years old when my feet first tasted a freedom that most people take for granted:  a pair of shoes. I grew up wild in the bush of Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, because of the war that deprived me of my parents and separated me from my sisters.  I had no chance to wear shoes until I was put in an orphanage school in 2001.  Here, the parents of some of the fee-paying children I took care of gave me small offerings to give to the school church on Sundays.  I did not spend this money for two years; instead, I saved it.

During school breaks, I traveled ninety-six kilometers, mostly by bare feet, to get to my village with this money in my pocket. On my journey home I tied the string I used to hold up my torn shorts around my concave stomach.  Hunger struck me, but I didn’t buy food because I wanted shoes. Wearing shoes will save me; it will allow me to sit freely in a crowd of other children or to enter people’s houses. Wearing shoes will relieve my knee pain.  In class, I usually sat with my knees bent acutely, my feet bent upside down and backwards. I hid them so that people could not see the cracks, literally deep enough to hide coins, in my heels.

I remember the first day my friend Karamu’s mother invited me to her fancy house. She coaxed me to enter, but my shame would not allow it. I looked at the spotlessly clean tiles on the house’s floor and then down at my filthy feet.  A voice in my head told me, “Do not enter! Your feet stink!” I had never been to a house with a cement floor before; I lived under a bridge or in a tent or in an animal’s den.  I could kill a snake, find water in the roots of a plant, and survive machine-gun fire, but I could not enter a house with a cement floor.

After a while, Karamu's mother realized that I was ashamed of my dirty, cracked feet and gave me water to wash. I went and washed them for over an hour, until they bled.  Formerly, my body knew water only on Christmas Day. Now, I sat at Karamu’s house, water and soap at my disposal. I spent almost all day washing my feet. My feet became less scaly, but the cracks and holes remained. 

After saving my offerings for two years and finally accumulating sixteen thousand francs, approximately thirty dollars, I ignored the fact that I carried my clothes in a polyethylene bag, I deliberately forgot the long distances I traveled on foot rather than paying the small bus fare, and I bought shoes. I believed shoes would free me, and indeed, when I wore them for the first time, they broke through chains of inferiority. I escaped the emotional prison I was in. For the first time since I arrived at this orphanage, I sat with my legs straight, feeling free. There is nothing like self-bondage. I had been bound by my history and my emotions for thirteen long years, and I was finally free.

Because of my new shoes, I gained the boldness to visit friends in towns and to call on businessmen to request a job. The shoes opened for me new doors of exploration and diverse experience; they not only broke my chains of bondage but sparked a realization that there are no small things, if we consider the impact they make.  Indeed, that first pair of shoes sent me flying.  On September 4, 2010, I flew to South Africa to attend the African Leadership Academy with some of the smartest young students from all over Africa. I took with me three pairs of shoes.

I helped him edit it, and I’ve read it dozens of times since then, but that last line still gets me every time…

I got an email from Emmanuel last week boasting about breathing familiar air, eating the foods he has missed, and spending time with people he loves. In his email he beckons me to “please come back home.”  I think Emmanuel knows better than I do that home is where the heart is, and clearly, my heart is in Rwanda.  It comes as a huge surprise to some people and no surprise to others when I tell them that I don’t see myself living here in the US for any significant amount of time any time soon.  But hey, this world is not our home. I want to read some Scripture about our mutual future home, and Emmanuel’s current home, as I close tonight.  1 Corinthians 5:1-10

5 For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down (that is, when we die and leave this earthly body), we will have a house in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands. ² We grow weary in our present bodies, and we long to put on our heavenly bodies like new clothing.³ For we will put on heavenly bodies; we will not be spirits without bodies.^[a]4 While we live in these earthly bodies, we groan and sigh, but it’s not that we want to die and get rid of these bodies that clothe us. Rather, we want to put on our new bodies so that these dying bodies will be swallowed up by life. ⁵ God himself has prepared us for this, and as a guarantee he has given us his Holy Spirit.

⁶ So we are always confident, even though we know that as long as we live in these bodies we are not at home with the Lord. ⁷ For we live by believing and not by seeing. ⁸ Yes, we are fully confident, and we would rather be away from these earthly bodies, for then we will be at home with the Lord. ⁹ So whether we are here in this body or away from this body, our goal is to please him. ¹⁰ For we must all stand before Christ to be judged. We will each receive whatever we deserve for the good or evil we have done in this earthly body.

Finally, I want to thank Rocky Creek as a church for continuing to support me as I serve in Rwanda and for letting me share from my heart every time I come “home.”  Next, I was going to tell you that I need a computer, and ask you for money, but that seems really silly in light of the present circumstances.  All I really want from you is your prayers and support as I grieve from afar the loss of a dear, dear friend.

Bully

Today, as I sat on my bed wondering how I would spend my day, I ran across the Facebook post of a good friend from college promoting a documentary I’d never heard of called Bully.  As a former bully and a future school counselor, I was intrigued, looked up the show times, found one two hours later and went to the movies for the first time since Toy Story 3D in Dubai 2 years ago.

I watched the film through three distinct pairs of glasses:  former bully, educator, and Christian.  Each part of me had a meaningful reaction.

Former Bully

The documentary featured the stories of three bullying victims as well as two families whose children had committed suicide as a result of being bullied at school.  As I watched the film, I felt remorse for my own past.  Though I was not guilty of physically bullying my classmates, the relational bullying so common with “mean girls” was my specialty and likely caused just as much harm as if I had been slamming kids into lockers.  I thought of individuals who were my targets in my “mean girl” days, and I wondered how much my bullying had impacted their lives.

Educator

I thought I might come away from the movie with an action plan for how to curb bullying at my little international school in Rwanda.  You might think that our tiny Christian school in the middle of Africa would be immune from such evils as bullying, but if so, you would be wrong.  We have had cases of physical, verbal, and cyber bullying just this year, and being the resident expert on cyber bullying (I both was a cyber bully in middle and high school and did research on cyber bullying in college), I was intimately involved with the most rampant case. 

The documentary often made the school administration out to be the bad guy (as documentaries are wont to do to some group of the general population).  They claimed the schools did nothing to stop bullying.  I could identify with both sides of this debate.  The principals claimed that kids would be kids and schools could not control them.  Anyone who knows any kid (and I’m sure most of us know at least one or two) knows the truth behind that.  As much as we may want to change a kid (or anyone for that matter), we can’t do it.  I also understood where parents were coming from in seeking safety for their children at school.  It is the school’s responsibility to look out for its students, and more educators do need to step in to uncomfortable situations to curb the negative impact of bullying on individuals and school culture in general. 

Christian

While the makers of this documentary were clearly just pushing the message of bullying awareness and prevention, I heard a much louder message shouting through all of the stories:  people need Jesus. 

I couldn’t help but remember what it was that stopped my bullying nine years ago:  Jesus. 

I thought of the runaway bullying victim I recently rescued and her biggest need:  Jesus.

I saw the pain in the eyes of the outcasts who could use the comfort of an even bigger outcast:  Jesus. 

I thought of the bullies and their insecurities coming out in the form of cruelty and the power to change them:  Jesus. 

I cried with the families who lost their children and thought of the best comforter of those who mourn:  Jesus.

Victims need Jesus.  Families need Jesus.  Educators need Jesus.  Bullies need Jesus. 

As I see it, the perfect solution to this horrendous problem is simply Jesus.  Jesus hung out with bullies and victims alike.  He loved them both unconditionally.  He rebuked bullies and he was a victim.  He gave us the perfect example to follow no matter what our role is in the bullying situation.   

'murica!

After 24 hours on American soil, I’ve come up with an initial top ten list of my favorite things about ‘murica.  They are clearly subject to change with time. Here they are, in no particular order:

1. The fact that it stays light out until 9:30pm.

2. Not having to open a gate to get into the driveway.

3. Free water at restaurants with unlimited free refills.

4. Not having helmet hair 24/7.

5. My mother’s southern accent.

6. Watching YouTube videos without waiting for an hour for them to load.

7. Driving a minivan with the windows down and the music up.

8. Wearing shorts in public.

9. A well-lit bathroom with a shower with amazing water pressure.

10. Chick-fil-a chicken biscuits.

Maybe later I’ll give you the top ten things I hate about ‘murica, but right now I’m high on the first world!

Joy and Pain

The most amazing part of my life here in Rwanda is the community that surrounds me.  Never before have I felt so loved and supported and truly communed with as I do now.  Let me give you a glimpse of said community via an unfortunate incident that occurred this afternoon, with a little pre-story for added perspective:

This morning, I woke up way late for church (like 4 minutes after it started) because I stayed up too late last night bowling with a dozen expat friends.  I bowled abysmally, but I had a splendid time fellowshipping with sweet friends, sharing jokes and stories and experiences until way past my bedtime.

So, I got to church late, but there was still a seat for me in the row in which I usually join friends.  That was nice.

After church, five of us decided to go to lunch together.  Well, actually, I had two different options of groups to join for lunch… Now, at this time last year, I would have sulked my way back to my house and scrounged up some food and gotten in my bed and spent my Sunday bored and lonely, so just the prospect of lunch with friends is something in which to rejoice.  I had a lovely lunch of a BBQ sandwich and then headed back home, which is when all the excitement went down…

The plan was to take Micki home and then grab my fabric from my classroom and meet Heather, Abby, and Julia at the market for a jaunt this afternoon, but as they so often do in Africa, plans changed.

As I was beginning to ascend the hill up to the neighborhood, a friendly moto-driver was hastily descending a bigger hill out of the neighboring neighborhood paying no regard to the yield sign that should have proffered me the opportunity to safely climb my hill home untouched.  Well, as they often do in Africa, the moto-driver ignored the yield sign and headed directly towards Micki and me on my little Scooty Pep+.  So, naturally, I swerved out of the way, and as it often does in Africa, it had recently rained rendering the pavement slick and wet.  So…. We fishtailed, I uttered a choice word, and flew Superman style off to the left as my scooter fell to its side ensnaring my left foot.  Micki took it much more gracefully (as she so often tends to do in most things, like Zumba and Justin Bieber dancing, for instance), and was fortunately saved from nasty hip road rash by the big wad of money in her waistband that she had just changed at the Forex Bureau (Fortunate, also, is the exchange rate and the fact that it takes quite a few Rwandan Franc bills to equal a couple hundred US Dollars).

We calmly assessed the situation and asked, “Whom should we call?” (Let’s be serious, we weren’t thinking in quite such good grammar in our state of shock… it was “Who should we call?”). I digress, but having options of people to call is another good indicator of the level of community we have here in Kigali.  We decided on the headmaster who dropped everything to head our way.  I also called “Mama” Natalie as she lived just at the top of the hill, and I knew she had a first aid kit, not that it would be adequate for the state of my foot...  Then, I sent Micki to the supermarket on the corner for a bottle of water to rinse off all of the blood and a towel to squeeze my foot to stop the bleeding.

One more digression.  At one point, I was looking for my cell phone to make another phone call when I noticed my pocketbook was presumably missing.  I immediately accused the growing crowd of spectators of taking advantage of this poor injured Muzungu and stealing my bag (which we are so often apt to do) when one of the onlookers kindly pointed out that Micki was holding my bag.  One of the innocent bystanders had actually been kind enough to save my bag from the masses and handed it to me, but as I was busy clotting blood, I gave it to Micki for safe-keeping, and in our mental state, we overlooked that detail.  Now, back to the regularly scheduled programming…

Then within 5 minutes, the doctor dad of my of my students (and husband of our friendly librarian) drove by and saw a crowd and came to assess the situation.  He assured me that, as it so often is, the hospital was unnecessary and also that calling the police (which the locals realllllly wanted me to do) would just cause more hassle than it was worth.  Then, along came Jamie in her little red car.  She saw a crowd and a Scooty Pep+ and knew it was one of “our girls” (as three of us now drive said vehicle). All of our supporters emerged on the scene practically simultaneously. Jamie drove me to Micki’s house, Dr. Miller went to get his first aid kit (which was like Goliath compared with Natalie’s David-esque kit), the headmaster helped Natalie start my scooter which she drove to the house, and the real assessment began. 

Here are a few pictures, taken by Jamie for longevity’s sake, after a bit of cleaning and during the administration of lidocaine:

A few shots of lidocaine, four sutures (you know, to close in the exposed tendon), one nice dressing, and two hours later, all was (relatively-speaking) well with the world. 

I can’t forget to mention the support of Emily sharing one of her epic stories as the doctor shot my sensitive little foot full of lidocaine to distract me from the pain and the gift of a Lindt Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt bar from Abby who was intent on boosting morale through the sacrifice of her favorite chocolate and Jamie and Natalie running to the pharmacy to buy more supplies and medicines and Micki picking up the things I dropped and bringing me water and just being there and Natalie offering me her bed for a few nights so I don’t have to live alone in pain and travel so far to work and Jamie taking me to my house to pick up some belongings and the headmaster and deputy headmaster stopping by to check on me post-surgery. 

These people love me, and I love them, too, and I’m not sure what I would do without the love of Christ shining through each and every one of them in my times of need this year.  I can only hope to embody Christ to each of them as they face their own difficulties in the years to come.  The joys of community make the pain of scooter accidents oh-so-much more bearable! 

Living and Learning

The good ol’ proverbial “they” out there say, “You live, and you learn,” and I have to agree.  Take these few examples, for instance:

You give 15 former street boys 3,000RWF (5USD) each to buy health insurance, and you learn to ask for receipts.

You eagerly buy a 32GB flash drive from a guy on the street for 5,000RWF (8USD), get home, find out it’s fake, and you learn your street smarts could use some work.

You read a whole book in a big green field on a beautiful, equatorial sunny day, and you learn to reapply sunscreen.

You copy a vocabulary quiz you found online that has extra credit (which you firmly do NOT believe in) in the instructions, and you learn to read the things you hand your students before quiz time.

You venture out on a limb to make homemade tortillas for the first time and put them in the oven to keep them warm, and you learn how tortilla chips are made.

You spend a month delving near death and slowly climbing back from it, and you learn to sleep under a mosquito net.

You read the book of Genesis to a group of genocide orphans, and you learn to see the story of the world in a more meaningful way.

You tell someone how they’ve hurt you, and you learn that people really can change for the better.

You open your eyes, and you learn to see the glimpses of redemption all around you.

You open a book, and you learn to see the world from someone else’s perspective.

You open the door, and you learn not to fear what’s behind the next one.

You open your heart, and you learn who really loves you.

You open your arms, and you learn how to love.

You open your mind, and you learn about yourself and the world around you.

You live, and you learn.

And according to my girl Alanis Morissette, not only do you learn when you live, but also when you love, cry, lose, bleed, scream, grieve, choke, laugh, choose, pray, and ask.  And again, I have to agree.  As I have done each of these things in the last few months, I have learned. 

While I’m here in Rwanda to teach, I find that I’m learning much more than I’m teaching, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.  I love living and learning (and alliteration).