When we’re separated from the comforts of home and the joys of particular familiar company, one might imagine it would be easy to develop a woe-is-me mentality over even the minor things we encounter each day. Truthfully, if I sat in my limited reasons for being discontent long enough, reveling in homesickness or lack of accessibility, I could probably talk myself out of ministry for the day- that's just the frank humanity in me; however, I simply can’t give in to these kinds of thoughts because every time I get out into the world God shows me a different piece of the infinite picture of reasons to live life and abundantly so.
We visited the Kigali Genocide Memorial the other day. The memorial took spectators through the progressive history of Rwanda, the leadership involved , evidence; photos, bones pieces of clothing taken from the mass graves; it was enlightening yet painful to take in. After touring through the halls of the nation’s scarlet records, Jordan and I were sitting outside with Pastor Robert waiting for the other members of AOC to show up. After a few moments of the lingering silence that settled on us like cobwebs during the exhibition we asked, “Pastor, were you inside of Rwanda when the genocide happened?”
Pastor looked off into the distance and folded his hands together in his lap. He had a pensive demeanor about his brow and then looked at the pavement for a moment as he spoke, “No, I fled to Uganda and lived in a refugee camp there.” He paused, “No, the problem with Rwanda is that it is too small. You cannot hide from your neighbor because they know you so well. If you go to a place, it is only a matter of time until you would be found there. There is no place to hide.”
These words were particularly weighty coming from our Pastor who is fifty three now. He had a wife and children during the time of the genocide.
It's hardly fathomable, the whole ordeal.. It was more than just debilitating to such a large group of people, it seems hard to imagine even recovering from something like this; some people may, some people may not..
Yet there is hope, and hope refuses to be conquered by the entanglements of fear.
We go to our tiny church out in the village with people who have lived through the deepest gutters of humanity’s wretchedness and are living meaningful, joyful lives. Some of these people have next to nothing to call their own. Widows and children attend church without their husbands or fathers. There is a man who has had two surgeries on his leg and can barely manage to walk but somehow finds the strength to stand and give glory to God. Our pastor has no known, living family outside of those who managed to flee to surrounding countries during the Rwandan genocide; yet, hope remains.
Their perspective on life and quality of living are a little different than most of ours in the United States. Their greetings and prayers often start with, “I thank God to be alive,” which remains one of the most profound statements one could start a greeting with to me. I admire their courage and their will to live despite the odds; their walking in thankfulness and not in pity. It shines a brighter, more direct light on the kind of life I get to live and how the minor inconveniences of life are nothing to fret over and surely less of something to complain about.
I came with hopes to make some kind of difference in Rwanda, and I did; however, these people have made a lasting impact on me as well, exclusively by being only themselves.
Thank you, good people of Rwanda, you have duly inspired me.
Hebrews 6:19-20.
We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf, having become a high priest forever after the order of Melchizedek.
