(Another) Strategic Retreat - Part I

As I write this, we have received little to no water since Sunday afternoon (actually since Friday morning, but we haven’t felt the pain quite so hard as we were away for most of the weekend).  I have been hallucinating dripping pipes (actually someone banging on something outside), I twitch every time the pipes gurgle (Tetris forgotten, tensed on the couch, ready to spring for the buckets with all the velocity of a guinea pig turning a corner on tile), and I’ve been setting my alarm for midnight as this is REGIDESO’s favourite time to gift us with water from the giant lake that lives five feet outside our back door.  

On the plus side, the power’s been great, and I have many new experiences, successes, and failures that I’m excited to share!

We had an American mission team visiting us from New York City, and though I saw them at church and Bible study a few times, I was gently reminded not to monopolise them and we first really had a chance to talk during a dinner party hosted by Carrottop and BFG (during which one of them was pleased to be eating ‘the food of his people’ - tacos - in Central Africa).  

It is actually thanks to their prayer, fundraising, and support that our church was able to afford a retreat, and we are thankful.  The co-leader of the team was a finance-managing cellist who moonlights as an elf – she is regal and elegant and Asian and all of this made me irrationally happy; the next two were a couple in love, and that’s magical enough; one was a tiny sprite - likely terrifyingly formidable in the urban jungle; the last was a genuinely kind mathematician/manager - which lies between Unicorn and Single Male Worship Leader on the rarity index. 

This team, hand-picked by God (other members had been unable to come for personal reasons or visa troubles), sought to encourage and train the members of our church in some ways - and were encouraged, in turn, by the strength of faith in a church family across the world. 

In addition, they did a good job of encouraging the poor, whining, huddled mass here (mainly by offering said mass conditioner and contact lens solution).  

After speaking with us (my international organization's team that mostly makes up the foreign population of our church), the Americans probably thought Pastor had paid us in diamonds to sing his praises at every opportunity.

This is not true.

It’s just that Pastor’s encouragement (based on Biblical principles) to serve others sacrificially is invaluable in this place, where people seek after their own interests in ways that we are not used to in the West.  For example, I am a believer in a form of individualism wherein I should try to take care of myself (which would be utterly selfish here), but I would have difficulty simply asking for money from anyone (even if I thought they had more than enough to spare), whereas this is an expectation here.

So I was looking forward to sharing our difficulties and joys, and understanding their concept of mission in the DRC as they organized events and served and prayed with their home community to be a blessing to our church in the Congo.  As I am contrary by nature, I was also partially dreading it because making friends who will soon leave is a hideous sort of masochism.  Also, this would be my second retreat in three weeks, I had been around a lot of people in that time, and while sharing is not hard for me, the reality of... being around... humans... who require communication and care...

[Please contact your local introvert to explain our mission, vision, and values (preferably via email). 

Butters is getting a crash course and it’s been hard for both of us – he likes people and linear conversations and sometimes I just don’t know how to support his bizarre needs.] 

But I was mostly excited – partially because I would get to spend time with my church family and partially because we would again be in Rwanda.

(Running.

Hot.

Water.)

The border crossing was as useless as ever – though faster as we now have regional visas that allow us to travel within a few neighbouring countries at a lower cost and with less passport pages.  I had emptied my backpack of all plastic bags so – naturally - my bag was not checked, and Carrottop, Butters, BFG (on his bike), and I got to the rest house in short order.

Once there, I was given a room to share, and set off to find my Pastor’s wife, who is generally capable and likes me enough to order me around. 

“[Kermit]!  You’ve gained weight!  Where are your shorts?!  You need shorts thiiiiiis small to be sexy!”

...Apparently I have a long way to go to be sexy.

This was new behaviour as I try not to wear shorts around humans unrelated to me (much less in front of a woman who is usually covered from throat to ankle); in retrospect, she has been quite proprietary about my body in terms of (what she views as) necessary adjustments.  I backed away slowly lest she trap and dress me in her toddler’s shorts and set off a little further to find the Americans.

I was to share a room with Sprite and I’d been hoping to see whether she communed with birds or slept on flowers – she almost took flight as she careened down a hill, slender arms windmilling, so I figured it was only a matter of time.  Unfortunately (sort of), fewer people showed up than we’d expected and Pastor kindly gave me my own room with a gigantic bed (he was to extract repayment in a different form later, so do not look kindly on him). 

We took a break from near-constant prayer/study sessions one evening to go to the nearby town and explore a bit, the highlight for me being a building that housed the market (i.e. a mall) rather than vendors spread haphazardly across a warren of streets.  Here’s one dinner conversation resulting from a growing friendship:

Congolese Dude: But I have a question.
Elf: What’s up?
CD: Do you know kung-fu?
*foreigners burst into laughter*
CD: What? It’s in your blood!

He wasn’t being (entirely) serious, but I think we all learned unexpected lessons over the weekend, and not all through Pastor’s sermons.  Our days and evenings were divided into sessions, which made me happy because I like to be occupied – above all with songs of worship and praise and Bible studies – but was likely difficult for the American team, who (aside from Elf) did not understand or speak French.

During the first session on Friday night, Pastor asked Elf to share her testimony, to which I would have a front-row seat as we were sitting beside each other.  As he passed us on the way to his seat, he winked at me and said, “[Kermit] will translate.”

The world narrowed to the small, very horrible point of a pin, upon which demons were dancing with hobnailed boots.

I looked desperately at Carrottop, who was studiously avoiding my gaze as she knew me like the back of her hand.  I could hear her cool, clear voice in my head:  She’ll be slightly embarrassed, but will probably give in [‘cause she’s a schmuck].

Her husband was looking at me with the wondrous joy that permeates his every pore and giving me a BFG thumbs-up. 

I pointed forcefully at his wife.  Using appropriate fingers. 

He exuded more earnest joy, apparently under the impression that my increasingly frantic gestures were a happy dance for the opportunity to translate English for a French-speaking crowd of 40 people.  I gave up and slumped in my chair, knowing that Pastor's wife (who was sitting on my other side) would only offer help in the form of booty shorts or lingerie.  

I would like to take this moment to inform you that I only very recently accepted the existence of all fourteen French verb tenses, and even now their conjugation involves me viciously hissing “Oos, ooses, fuss, fusses, fut, fut, fut.”

[The plus-que partfait subjunctive involves auxiliaries like eusse, eusses, fusse, fusses, or fût, which are not pronounced as they are written, but I enjoy saying ‘fut’ too much to change.]

We struggled through my mangling of Elf’s testimony with the help of everyone who should have been doing the whole blasted thing to begin with, and then had to share our own in small groups.  During this time, I was shocked again by cultural differences surrounding these kinds of activities.  Locals, when given an assignment, tend to look for a speaker, a writer, and present answers that are appropriate to share within the whole group instead of more personal realities.  In part, I understand the reason for this, as age and gender are generally given precedence over actual wisdom, and sometimes the talkative enjoy the spotlight so much that they stay in it for the entire duration of a meeting.  However, I was still shocked when, in the midst of one young man’s testimony about his father’s death and his understanding of Jesus’ love during and after this event, one group member looked at her watch and said, “Yeah, so, to save time: when exactly was this, and how did you have a personal connection with Jesus?  Be specific.”

It felt like we were playing with a timer and the rules of Clue:  I met God in the kitchen with a candelabra at 3am on Sunday, March 24^th, 1963 – best midnight snack I ever had; I love  cheeses  Jesus, amen.

I tried vaguely to moderate, but as I think I was the only one put off by this cavalier treatment of the gift of grace in a difficult time, I just tried to rush through my experience of leaving home after a fight with my father, having another home prepared for me by the Father, and trying to serve others because, after having received the gift of God in Christ, I’m satisfied with whatever I have.  

...I mumbled random things with a general air of hyperventilation and hoped I would get an A+ and a gold star because I’m that student. 

-TBC-