(Another) Strategic Retreat - Part II

The Fam Jam
Rwanda, September 2016

Throughout the weekend, Pastor preached and we went through a Bible Study of 2Timothy, which reminded us of our goal as Christians (to share the good news of Christ’s salvation) despite our chains, and how to keep the faith in the face of opposition and false doctrine.  The answers still seemed somewhat rehearsed (rather like this summary, in fact) and I’m not always sure about application, but the fact remains that we are trying – it has always been Jehovah Jireh who has made a perfect sacrifice from simple willingness.

A major difficulty that wasn’t given importance in the discussion of the future of our church was the lack of women.  This retreat involved 40-50 people, of whom 10 were female. 

Half of these were visitors, not locals (no matter how much Carrottop and I think we belong here). 

Pastor doesn’t feel as if his ministry is towards women, which is fine.  Frankly, I think he’s spread pretty thin between his family, leading two services a week, myriad prayer meetings, training sessions, and his own studies; I’m not saying he has a responsibility to lead all the women of this city into a right relationship with God. 

But the total lack of interest in this direction hurts.  We did have a Women’s Retreat with a South African speaker I enjoyed learning from.  However, the translation that day left something to be desired, there was no follow-up (as far as I’m aware) with any of the guests, and women are a small percentage of our church who are rarely involved in active ministry (other than service of juice and biscuits, which is an acceptably feminine task that does not run the frightening risk of a female, at some point, teaching a Christian principle to a male).

I won’t write another feminist essay, but suffice to say that the reason women are not interested in the church is because there is no opportunity for growth and learning for them.  They have been taught that their future lies in marriage, baby-making, and childrearing, and there is next to no incentive for them to be involved in sharing the gospel unless it promises to actively get them impregnated quickly, - which is, thankfully, probably not God’s only sincere longing for half of the population created in His image. 

Instead of sermons which tell young women to clean houses, look nice, serve their husbands, and strive not to share verbal lessons of discipleship with them, maybe we should also share principles of integrity, financial management, leadership, and stewardship.  Unfortunately, the circular argument tends to go from They don’t understand to They shouldn’t lead anyway and back again.

I agree that if our church reaches enough young men, they will slowly begin to change their spheres of influence, including their families.  However, not including women in that process of change is like signing up for a triathlon and then shooting yourself in one foot – you may still compete, but you’re unlikely to win, and the process is longer and more painful than if you’d just trained your whole body at once.

My satisfaction was further dimmed by the expectation to translate from English and French and back when necessary – when there were at least five people within the church who had a better grasp of the combined trinity of French, English, and Swahili (including Carrottop and BFG, fresh from language training in Europe).  I appreciated the practice (after, you know, the near aneurysm from social anxiety), but I was worried that those who most needed to understand foreign testimonies of the need for God’s strength all over the world were made to understand by someone with a primary school grasp of French. 

I couldn’t dig in my heels and refuse because Pastor’d given me a nice room all to myself, and most were thankful for my translation (or said they were, anyway – they really had no choice).  After the last bout, during which I found myself making up words, sentence structure, and even another verb tense out of a sheer, panicked desire to please, BFG confessed his earnest desire to put me out of my misery and give it a try.

Of course, there was no need for translation after that afternoon.

In the warm haze of relief before lunch, I was chatting with the Americans when BFG, on Carrottop’s instruction, asked if I was a nun because of my outfit.  One of them was confused, but smiled when I explained.

“Yeah, I was gonna say – I’m definitely not gettin’ any nun vibes.  You look like you stepped out of an anthropology magazine, y’know, kind of boho, but...”

My mind was frozen.  I was willing to let the boho remark slide, but my entire brain had gone off on a tangent, and I was fighting my face’s natural propensity to collapse into a grimace of confusion/disgust.

Id:  An anthropology magazine, why an anthropology magazine, what is happening, can I make the face?

Ego:  No.  Just--

Id:  Why anthropology, do we look like we should be excavating fossils, let me make the face. 

Ego:  No, that’s a paleontologist--

Id:  Oooo, do we get brushes, remember that dinosaur we like, with a head, what’s it called, I really want to make the face!

Ego:  No!  Look, you just pretend to be normal.  I’ll run a search and figure this out. 

Id:  I forget what we're talking about.  For lunch, lets eat potatoes until we throw up!

Superego:  Why me.

It was only later – much later – that a part of my brain provided me with an image of ‘Anthroplogie.’

Mealtimes were another trial as my entire church discovered that I like sambaza (small fish) and ndizi (fried plantain), and that I know some Swahili; they took every opportunity to ask how I was and whether I’d eaten my favourite foods.  This was entirely due to one mischievous man (who leads the hospital missions every month) who used to ask me every Sunday (multiple times) how I was doing (‘Biko aye?’) and whether I’ve eaten sambaza and ndizi.  I was unsure as to why he asked all this in a high falsetto, but was touched by his concern (until I just wanted him to shut his piehole). 

Anyway, the entire church found out that this drives me insane (I made the face), and delighted in asking me the same questions every time they saw me.  They didn’t have much to say about my French (which indicates general failure), but praised my Swahili teacher, which really encouraged me...

Ah, family. 

Unfortunately, there are still some who think I am outsider.  But would like to do something about it. 

I casually mentioned earlier that there was an older man who had been reminding me for many months that he hadn’t forgotten our meeting.  As Pastor had already told me that it may be about some sort of business venture, I had practiced my regretful face and various speeches to the effect of Not happening. 

Pastor saw us on the way to this long-awaited meeting and shot me an Alright, [Kermit]? in his usual melodic South African way; I widened my eyes to indicate that I was dying and continued on.  

“So you remember that I wanted to talk to you?”

“Yeees.”

“And you told me to talk to the Pastor?”

“Huh.  Well.  It sounds like something I would do, but I don’t think I did...  You said you wanted to talk to the Pastor...”

“No, you wanted me to talk to him.”

“Okay.”

“So I did, and he said I should talk to you.”

“So that was all a pointless waste of time - good, good; I feel more at home already.”

“I want to be direct, so I just thought I should say it and sleep well.”

“ Bring it on  Go ahead.”

“So I’ve been hurt in love before and now I think we should start a good Christian relationship.”

I stared at him. 

He stared at me.

He was serious. 

I reflected that only Carrottop and Pastor have the right idea of directness (for mutual benefit) – everyone else’s version is just a last ditch effort at coercion because I’ve been (only occasionally deliberately) obtuse.  I also feel like, at this point, I should be awarded sainthood – the patron saint of utterly unacceptable crushes.  Thus, every time a woman was accosted on public transit by a leering stranger, she would remember me and I would wing up to God and whisper it in His omnipresent ear. 

...I’m not entirely sure how sainthood works, but I think that’s the gist. 

  

Before getting my halo and parking spot, however, I still had to deal with this 5-ft tall middle-aged miscreant who honestly thought we would make a good couple. 

Trapped between volcanic frustration and a genetic desire to please, I eventually managed a wobbly Probably not coupled with many apologetically toothy smiles.  I’m sure he's not very discouraged; I have a gift for this sort of thing.  

Receiving contraband blankets from the magical mathematician (who also found it chilly at night – admittedly due to a fever) at the end of the weekend appeased me somewhat, but I was still in a state of generalized mourning over the state of my life.  This was not at all aided by the fact that our goodbyes to the American team suddenly became some sort of photo frenzy around me in the absence of actual white people. 

The drive home was once again mostly painless – aside from when I didn’t mother Butters enough.  Next time, I’m thinking of having him hold my purse while I fill in both our exit and entry forms – not because I doubt his capability, you understand, but because he’s small and confused and too darn relaxed about everything. 

We returned to an apartment that bore all the evidence of having received little to no water for three days (I didn’t have enough water to flush and I hadn’t been home since Friday morning), and there was an arrogant drop of lizard poop on the lid of my toilet. 

The gall.

The next day, Butters put a mop cloth on my head and I wondered why I hadn’t started my own solitary aid agency in Rwanda.