It started at about 6 AM…
“Hey guys, I can’t find my laptop.”
Carrie just turned on the lights, waking all of us girls up (most of us rather grumpy about it).
“One of the guys probably just needed it last night and grabbed it,” Kelsey was quick to reply and turn back over in bed.
That makes sense, nothing to worry about–
“No, guys, my backpack was also across the room.”
Uh-oh.
In my half asleep stupor, I sat up and looked at the end of our bed.
“My backpack is completely gone.”
“Mine is too.”
Suddenly it all started to sink in. What had been in my backpack? Wait…WHO HAD BEEN IN OUR ROOM?!
Carrie went to go wake up the boys while the rest of us started taking inventory of the room. What else was gone? Kelsey’s purse had been rifled through. Carrie still had her wallet and passport. Abby’s camera bag and backpack were both taken.
We heard Jordan down the hall waking up Pastor Robert.
It took a while for our half awake minds to put the pieces together and to let reality sink in. Sometime during the night, someone had broken into our pastor’s house, come into our room, and robbed us. They had taken only things from the girls’ room and mostly just electronics: laptops, cameras, iPods. We stood around waiting for the police, just staring in disbelief at the metal bars broken off a front window with a neighbor’s stolen car jack. How in the world did this happen on our last day in Rwanda? To such a wonderful family? In such a great, friendly neighborhood?
Four of us spent the next five or so hours filing police reports. The local station, after taking our statements (if you can really even call it that), sent us to a larger station about 15 minutes away. It took us about three hours at that police station, filling out forms, saying what happened, making lists of everything that had been stolen, being incredibly redundant, getting more and more frustrated by the second, not to mention the fact that we hadn’t eaten yet that day and it was getting to be lunch time.
The more and more frustrated I realized I was getting, the more I was made aware of how hard our poor Pastor was taking it. He loved us like his own family, had given us Rwandan names, like same names his own children have, just the night prior. He was so distraught, broken-hearted. My focus wasn’t on me for very long. I told him time and time again, it was all just stuff. Stuff can be replaced. We are thankful to be unharmed. We still love Rwanda. Over and over and over we told him, we told his neighbor.
When we finally got home, and got some lunch (yesssss), Jordan asked for a team meeting to “talk about our feelings.” We all kinda laughed about how corny it was, but recognized its importance. We talked. Vented. Let some anger out. Talked about thankfulness. Talked about how we could help Pastor and Mama G (what we called Mama Regina, Pastor’s wife). Talked about what to do next.
We called Abby’s cousin who is a local missionary with a car. Told him what had happened. We’d had plans to get a late lunch with him anyway, but asked him instead if he could help us get to the US Embassy. Abby’s and my passports had been among the things stolen. Jeff, our amazing legitics (legit + logistics = legitics) leader, had been in touch with the consulate office and arranged for the chief consulate to come in on his off day (it was not only a Saturday but a public service holiday). So Abby and I were escorted into the Embassy, while the rest of the team had to wait on the floor in post one. It took us about two hours to get the paperwork filled out and our new temporary passports printed, but we had passports and could travel with the rest of the squad the next day.
Next, we got on moto taxis (my absolute least favorite mode of transportation possible, motorcycle taxi) and headed out to a nearby mall where we could get wifi. Some people just wanted to go to hang out, but half of us needed to call home and get credit cards cancelled.
First thing was to call my bank. Thankfully I have this knack of getting the best possible customer service reps whenever I call my bank. I was cracking jokes and making light of the situation to ease my nerves. The guy on the other end shared with me that he’s a pastor in Florida and told me he’d pray for me before he transferred me over to the credit card department. New rep, same routine. He was willing to laugh at my ridiculousness and by the end of it, I had the gentleman sitting next to me at the internet cafe laughing along too.
After calling home (and finally breaking down and crying when my dad prayed for me as soon as he heard what happened) and making sure everything was taken care of as best I could, the team and I got on moto taxis again to head to Meze Fresh, to meet Pastor for burritos one last time (after we introduced him to this amazing thing called burrrrrr-ito he was addicted).
Needless to say, I’m already pretty nervous on moto taxis, but it’d been a long day so I was beyond caring. Jordan hastily told the group of drivers to stick together since only about one of them had actually heard where we were going. Then the lead driver ran a yellow light and about half of us got split up. Then a police moto came by, making my driver stop and further separating me from the group, but I thought I could still see Kent’s moto ahead. We started to catch up, when my driver peals off the main road to the right. Surely he just knows a short cut, I calmly try to say to myself. While the other half of my head is yelling and freaking out and envisioning how I’m about to get trafficked in the middle of Kigali….. I can continue to account for how terribly wrong my moto trip went, but I will surmise to say I was lost and alone, as the sun was going down, in a city I barely knew, without a phone, without any phone numbers, after a day that had been nerve wrecking and miserable. But, I was able to flag down a white guy, who ended up being deaf, and he was able to draw my driver a map and I made it to the restaurant with half my team waiting outside.
As Jordan put it, that day was “Kirsten’s day from hell.” It seems like everything that could have gone wrong did. But surprisingly, God filled my day with reminders of His love and faithfulness.
At the police station, a passing gentleman told us to have faith that our things would be recovered. Abby’s cousin was able to help us get to the Embassy, and kept us in good humor while we drove there. The Embassy was able to issue us passports without any fuss and I got to hang out on “American” soil for a little while. Plus the consulate officer was really nice and chatted with me about some of the travels I’ve done. The guys at my bank humored me and cracked jokes back, encouraging me to stay positive. I sat next to a fellow missionary at the internet cafe who encouraged me and shared what great things his ministry is doing. I got to use my limited ASL to talk to a deaf white guy in the middle of Africa, who might have appreciated my ability to communicate with him more than I appreciated his knowing where Meze Fresh was. And then seeing the heartache melt off Pastor’s face as he enjoyed one last burrito with us.
We serve a God who is bigger than break-ins and getting lost. Who is bigger than everything possible going wrong. Who loves His children enough to remind them, despite everything, that He’s got this.
