expectations and limitations

Tomorrow morning I am preaching at the day camp. I am not a preacher (nor do I ever want to be a preacher), and at this moment I am totally procrastinating putting together the message for tomorrow morning. My theme for tomorrow’s message is: “I can depend on Him because He created me with a purpose.”

In my head I’m thinking, “How on earth am I supposed to convince 85 African children that their lives have a rich, meaningful purpose?” And then I wondered if perhaps it’s not just African kids who may not think their lives hold purpose - maybe it’s children, maybe it’s adults, maybe it’s just people - not just in Rwanda, Africa, but all around the world.

We have expectations. But our expectations do not define our purpose. For example, a lot of these kids expect to wake up hungry each day. They expect to drop out of school because they won’t be able to afford to continue on to college or university.

I have expectations, too. A lot of them. I expected these kids to have angelic voices. I’ve quickly realized some children here are just as tone deaf as some children in Canada. (Why did I think for some reason that every African child could harmonize beautifully? It’s a myth, I tell you!) Teaching these kids to sing is a lot harder then I expected. Their voices may not at the moment be always aesthetically pleasing to my ear, but my, oh my, are their hearts ever pleasing to Jesus.

I think our expectations can quickly become limitations. It’s hard not to have expectations in life. I had expectations coming to Rwanda - though I tried my absolute best not to - and though some expectations have not been met whatsoever, others have been taken up and away, soaring past all that I wanted Rwanda to be.

My prayer tomorrow is that these kids will begin to realize that the expectations they have placed on their life do not determine the purpose their life has. God doesn’t require expectations for us. Surely if He did, not one of us would ever be able to meet them. But He has placed a purpose on our life. And doesn’t a purpose seem so much sweeter then any expectation ever possibly could? I’m shrugging off the expectations I’ve placed on myself, and instead focusing on the sweet, sweet purpose God has placed in front of me.

Now, let’s hope these 85 children might just believe the same..

mountain top moments

One of the things I’ve learned in Rwanda is that our life is made up of moments. We have our favourite: our mountain top moments. Our exciting, adventurous, daring, blog-worthy moments - the moments that take our breath away when we’re in the middle of them. The moments that fill us with a joy so deep we feel as though we may just erupt from happiness. Yes, those moments are sweet indeed.And then we have our valley low moments. Our moments where we stare up at the mountain just beyond us - one that seems to grow bigger and taller as each minute passes. And as we stare up at the crumbling rocks that are sure to fall and bury us at any second, we wonder how on earth we ever got from the mountain top behind us to the valley we are in now. And then there are the moments where we begin the slow climb back up the mountain. Though I haven’t had many low valley moments in my life, I think sometimes these slow climbing moments may be the hardest.  They can be long, and tedious, and hard, and we can slip further back and feel as though we’re not making any ground up the mountain. I feel as though these are the moments in life where we feel forgotten, without purpose, or feel as though we’re unable to be heard. Yes, I think our life is made up of moments. Small moments, big moments, hard moments, incredible moments. Moments where we feel bliss and moments where we wonder if we’ll ever be able to continue on. I think what I’m learning is: what do we do with our moments? How do we let those I’m-about-to-either-burst-into-tears-or-throw-something-against-a-wall kind of moments not control who we are? Do we allow our small, infuriating moments to overshadow our larger, sweeter moments? And how do we make sure our moments teach us to be kinder, more patient, more loving?

How do we make sure our moments make us more like Jesus?.

an african wedding

I wasn’t sure what to title this. It was a toss up between “wedding bells” and “here comes the bride”, but there were no bells at this wedding, and the bride was taking her sweet, sweet time. PART 1 - The Gusaba

The gusaba is basically like a dowry giving ceremony, where the family negotiates a union between the bride and the groom. It’s a traditional ceremony and was my very favourite part of the entire day. 
The gusaba was scheduled to start at 9 am, but then it came to realization that yesterday was umuganda (which is basically a mandatory morning once a month where everyone in the country participates in a community service type thing), so the ceremony was moved from 9 am to 11 am. I arrived at the house where the gusaba would take place at 11 am. We knew that the gusaba wouldn’t start then because (it’s Africa) people would need to go home and get changed into their traditional clothes which could take them awhile after umuganda. 
When the bride arrived, it was around noon, and she came up to me and told me apologetically that I wasn’t needed til around 1 pm because that’s when they estimated the guests were going to arrive. We told her that was fine, and ran a couple of errands (like picking up the sound equipment - that was a whole other experience) and were back at the house by 1. At 1 we began to get ready in the traditional clothing. 
There were 4 bridesmaids and 4 groomsmen on the bride’s side, and 3 bridesmaids and 4 groomsmen on the groom’s side. As the bride’s bridesmaids, we wore red traditional dresses, and red and gold traditional head pieces. Embarrassingly enough, I started to put the headpiece on as a necklace (it was a strand of beads, seemed right to me!), and one of the bridesmaids looked at me and laughed then said “ohya” (no) and placed it around my forehead. Oops. When we were finished getting ready it was 2:48 pm. The church wedding was supposed to start at 2 pm, and the gusaba hadn’t even started yet. I felt more stressed then I had felt at my sister’s wedding!! While we were waiting we took some photographs. And - this is no joke - I’m pretty sure I was photographed more then the bride herself. The groomsmen took turns getting their pictures taken with me! I guess a white girl is seriously exotic or something. Eventually, the ceremony started. I wasn’t needed til the very end, and my part was short, sweet, and simple. Just how I like it! Particularly because no one spoke great English so I kind of just followed the masses.

PART 2 - The Church Wedding

The church wedding was scheduled to begin at 2 pm, though that clearly didn’t happen. The church wedding is more of a typical western wedding. Instead of 4 bridesmaids, it gets cut down to 2 (and I made the cut - hooray!). The maid of honour is someone who is married, so this bride chose her aunt. We got ready for the church wedding at the gusaba house. The bride chose orange as her colour for the wedding. She donned a beautiful white dress with a tuele skirt and lace accents. She looked gorgeous! The other bridesmaid and I were put into strapless orange dresses. I kindly nicknamed it my traffic cone dress. It was extremely tight on the top and was extremely loose on the bottom, and it was so bright I seriously thought I’d be able to stop traffic. The church wedding started around 5 pm, and was similar to weddings here in Canada but with no “you may kiss the bride”. I was disappointed - that’s my favourite part! After the wedding, we went to the roundabout for pictures. Yes, you read that right! This specific roundabout, like the circular intersection, is the most popular place for wedding photos in Rwanda. So we all piled into a couple of vans, parked at the convenient store and walked across the intersection to the roundabout where no one smiled for pictures but me. They don’t smile for photos in Rwanda. I don’t get it. I already looked like the odd one out because of my skin colour, but throw in my big smiley face and I stuck out like a sore thumb!

PART 3 - The Reception

After about an hour of photos, it was 7:30 pm. We all piled back into the vans and drove back to the church for the reception. By this point, my shoes were killing me! I’d bought the heels from the second hand market and I could tell that my toes were starting to go this weird colour blue… Before the bridal party entered the reception, the bride and groom cut a piece of ribbon - I think to signify their marriage, but I’m not entirely sure. I have to admit, I’m not entirely sure what was happening at any moment during the entire day! The reception was fairly standard - they cut the cake, did a toast, had a couple of what I think were speeches, and had gifts given to them. But there was no dancing! That was a shame to me! The reception ended around 10:30 pm, and then they were off to the last ceremony of the day - the house warming ceremony. All the guests would go to their new house and bring their gifts as a blessing to them for their marriage. Us muzungu’s opted out of this last ceremony, since it was more designed for the family anyways.

WHAT I LEARNED:

1. It is very difficult to walk in high heels in Rwanda. 2. Bright orange seems to compliment a black woman’s skin tone so much nicer then it could ever compliment a pale white girl’s skin tone. 3. If I ever get married, I’m getting married in Canada..

faith is a choice

In approximately 4 days, my friend and I will be running a dance/music day camp for roughly 100 children. These children are around 6-25 years old. Some do not know English at all, some know English a little.Originally, I was coming to Rwanda to be able to help with this camp, and to just lend a hand here and there. Though I’ve worked at summer camp in Canada for 5 summers, I didn’t know anything about working at a camp in the heart of Africa. A girl from Los Angeles normally comes to Rwanda to run the camp, but this year was unable to. So now it’s up to my friend and I. Neither of us have ever done anything like this before. And as I look into the coming week ahead, I know I have a choice.

1) I could become overwhelmed at this slightly (extremely) daunting task which is at hand. Picture this: 2 very white girls running a camp for over 100 very African children. 1 of us teaching dance (you can figure out pretty quickly that’s not me!), and 1 of us teaching music and singing (that’s me). During the morning there will be worship and preaching, and during the afternoon we will each take a group of 50+ kids and teach them. I could get scared because these kids don’t speak good English, if any English at all, and I could feel overcome with doubt that this camp just is not going to work.

OR

2) I could choose faith. I could choose to believe that God had me in Rwanda for this specific moment. I could choose to believe that God keeps swinging all these doors wide open for a reason. I could choose to believe that this camp will be a miracle. Because at this moment this camp doesn’t seem possible, or likely, or practical. But it does seem miraculous. And I’ve always wanted to live to see a miracle.

So in this moment, and in the next few moments, and all next week and the week after that, I will choose to have faith. At the end of the day, does it matter if they’ve learned singing techniques or proper dance moves? Or does it matter that we love them, and care for them, and want them to know how much Jesus loves them and cares for them?

This is my new philosophy:

“Seek first the Kingdom of God and his righteousness and then all these things will be given to you. So do not worry about tomorrow. Let tomorrow worry about itself. Living faithfully is a large enough task for today.” - Matthew 6:33

So choose faith. Because really, what else is there to choose?.

practicing forgiveness

I’m not quite sure how to put into words what I am feeling. I’m grieving a loss I’ve never known. 5000 losses, actually. I just got back from going to a church memorial, about an hour outside of Kigali. It’s in a smaller village, and 19 years ago the church was a thriving Catholic sanctuary. The doors were open as I got to the front of the church, and they seemed to beckon and welcome me in. I couldn’t shake the fact that those black barred doors that invited me in were the same doors in which greeted five thousand Rwandans to their grave.

As I entered the church, I saw rows of pews and benches that were flooded with the clothing of the people who died there. The mounds of shirts, pants and shoes stacked on to one another filled the entire church. I stood still and thought to myself, “Many people died right where I am standing.” There was not much room to walk around because there was so much clothing.

I wept.

Tears streamed down my face and it was hard for me to see through my blurry vision. I glanced up and saw many holes in the roof. Small bursts of light gleamed through, creating pockets of sunshine along the dusty clothing covered benches. The cheerful light seemed so wrong in that place of sorrow. The holes in the ceiling were produced from grenades that were thrown through the windows. I looked behind me, and the glass from the windows were broken. As I looked down the stairs I saw shattered sculls that matched the shattered windows.

I sat on a stair and looked out at the altar. The room smelled like mold and dust and death. A statue of Mary with her hands folded together gazed down at the disintegrated bodies. A place that was once supposed to be a shelter of safety was suddenly turned into a killing field. It made me feel physically ill to think that a room expected to be used to worship the God of the universe was instead an area used to destroy His creation.

I made my way outside and entered a mass grave. I walked down the stairs into a long narrow hallway. It was dark, and tall and had brick walls with cobwebs covering each corner. There were rows of shelves, and on the shelves there were skulls, bones, and coffins. Hundreds of coffins. I came to a shelf with smaller coffins and it dawned on me - that row was for the babies. I couldn’t breathe then, and I had to get out of the grave because I was beginning to suffocate. I thought that surely the door of the grave would close in on me and I would be locked in there forever. It was eerie and awful and I felt terrible for feeling creeped out, but I couldn’t handle the fact that 5000 bodies were lying in their death beds beside me.

I appreciate how Rwanda doesn’t cover up their despair - instead leaving everything the way it happened, completely raw. I think we can learn from this. We tend to cover things up, sugar coat them, making them pretty and pristine. But perhaps this only hides our grief and our sorrow. Perhaps true healing comes from the raw brutality of the situation. Perhaps once we accept that rawness, we finally begin to heal. But then again, I truly do not know and I almost hope I never do.

That was only one church. Only five thousand people out of the one million who were killed. My question is: how do they forgive? How do you begin to forgive someone who killed your family? or raped your mother? or hacked your father into pieces?

I talked with a missionary the other day about this, and she told me she asked a Rwandan man if he has forgiven those who killed his family. His response was, “I am practicing forgiveness. Everyday I choose to practice forgiving those who killed my loved ones, and then someday I know forgiveness will come. If you practice something long enough, one day it will be perfected.”

.

Jesus' eyes

The past two days we have been working in the refugee camp, which is 45 minutes away from Kibuye and about 3 hours outside of Kigali. The camp is mostly made up of refugees from the Congo. The last time I was here, (yes - that was the time I fainted and caused lots of fun drama and attention!) I met a woman named Nathalie. She’s impossible to miss - she’s the one with the unbelievable joy that seems to seep out from every pore in her body, the one with the musical laugh that sounds like wind chimes and the one with the stunning eyes.One glance at her and I was struck by how her eyes held years of wisdom, such deep, warmhearted kindness, a love for life and for people that was beyond belief, and a spirit that was calm and peaceful - one that exuded serenity to anyone who had the privilege of surrounding her. One glance at her and it hit me that those beautiful set of eyes could only belong to one other: Jesus. I felt connected to Nathalie from the beginning. I can’t and don’t want to go into the details of Nathalie’s story, but this is what I do know… when Nathalie was young, her mother and father were killed by some rebels who came into her village. Then, in the early 2000’s, another set of rebels came into the village again. At this point Nathalie was grown up and beautiful, and had 5 babies and a husband. Nathalie took her babies and ran, and her husband made sure she was able to escape with the children. In the chaos, Nathalie and the children ran one way, and her husband ran the other. To this day, Nathalie does not know where her husband is, or if he is even still alive. She is by far, one of the strongest, most amazing people I have ever encountered in my entire life. She is an incredible mother to five children. She has also started a small sewing business in the camp in order to be able to make some money for her family to survive. I bought many things from her, including a pair of awesome African earrings. They’re my Nathalie earrings. Every time I wear them, I can remember this woman and how she changed my life. Nathalie had every reason to give up. And yet, somehow she still managed to find hope to make it through another day. She says her hope and strength can only come from Jesus. Life in the camp is not easy, and still each day she chooses to keep going, to keep loving her children, and to keep loving her Lord. Nathalie’s eyes are very sore. They hurt her often, particularly after long hours at the sewing machine. I gave her my sunglasses because it felt like the least I could do. She gave me the biggest grin and plopped them on to her gorgeous face. I wouldn’t consider myself an overly touchy person, and yet with Nathalie I constantly want to be stroking her back, or touching her hand. I need to show her that she means the world to me. Today as we were walking to her shop, her arm looped around mine and our fingers entwined together. I looked at her, touched my shoulder, then hers and said, “Nshuti.” She laughed, touched her shoulder then mine and with a smile replied, “Nshuti.” Nshuti means friend. I was serious - she is my friend. She feels like a sister to me. I feel like I’ve known her forever, and feel as though I’d like to know her for the rest of my life.  I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to see her again before Heaven, but I do know that the brief time I’ve had with her seems like a miracle to me. I can’t believe I’ve had the privilege and opportunity for my life and hands to be touched by Nathalie.

Precious, beautiful Nathalie, If you ever read this please know that I love you dearly. You have quickly become an inspiration to me, and I feel honoured and gratified to be able to call you my friend. You are beautiful, Nathalie. That’s the only word I can really think of to describe you and yet I know it will never do your humble spirit and magnificent face justice. You will forever be my friend, and I look forward to the day we meet again in Jesus’ presence. All my love, Aliza

“Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!” (Hebrews 13:2).

amazing grace

Today I was with the street boys. Most of the street “boys” are actually a lot older then I am…some are around 23 or 25, some are around 16 or 17. On Wednesdays I go to the street boys house (which is in the slums of Rwanda) and I tutor them. Or at least, I attempt to tutor them. Last Wednesday I had to tutor one boy, Appolonaire, in biology and chemistry…yes, you can laugh! Don’t worry, I laughed pretty hard too. There is a possible chance he could now fail those subjects…all because of his so-called “tutor”. I mostly just taught him how to study, and he learned the characteristics of non-flowering plants fairly quickly. If you ever need to know the characteristics of non-flowering plants…please don’t ask me. Appolonaire is beautiful. I asked him what his dreams are. He told me he wants to be a gospel singer. So I asked him to sing for me. And today he sang. He lifted his hands to Heaven, closed his eyes, and sang a Kinyarwandan song that gave me goosebumps all over my body. I swear, in that moment, as his African voice resounded in the small slum we sat in, the Holy Spirit was there too. It was a holy moment, indeed. And then, we sang together.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a child like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.

A white girl and a black boy praised God together today. It doesn’t matter where you live, what colour your skin is, or the size of your home. As Appolonaire reminded me today, we are all the same. We are all created in the image of God. We are all loved, cherished, valued and treasured by the One who has created us. You don’t need a church to praise God. Sometimes all you need is a slum in Rwanda..

painting nails and washing feet

Today was splendid. Really.

Today my heart and soul and chest and feet and ears and ankles and hands and nose were entirely filled to the brim with complete and utter joy. Truly. Exhilaration seeped from the very core of me, spreading throughout my entire body. I could hardly keep the smile off my face, or the laughter from my voice.

Today Jesus guided my hands as I painted the fingertips and toes of women affected by HIV aids.

Today I pampered and prepped and prettied up the hands and feet of weary women who walk very far and work long hours each and every day.

I decided my purpose is to love, and today I wanted to do just that.

I don’t know if I’ll ever explain this well - but the moment I had when I was kneeling on the ground massaging a woman’s tired feet, I felt Jesus kneeling beside me washing the feet of his disciples.

Jesus came to serve. He washed the feet of his disciples, and I figured since I can’t exactly wash their feet (our water has run out), I might as well paint their nails. And there’s nothing like a makeshift spa day to bring a couple of girls together - no matter if they live oceans away and have completely different lives. Oh my, how lovely it is that nail polish can be one of the greatest forms of communication! Who would have thought?

The ladies were so happy as the polish slid across their nails. It thrilled me. They told me they loved me and kissed me and stroked my hair and for those hours we just loved each other.

While I was painting some ruby red polish onto one of the lady’s fingers, she explained to me that she loves the colour red.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it reminds me of the blood of Jesus.” She told me. “And the love he has for each of us. His blood is just a reminder of that love for us. And now every time I look at my fingers I see Jesus.”

I may just paint my fingernails red as well.

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legacy of love

"My loved ones, let us devote ourselves to loving one another. Love comes straight from God, and everyone who loves is born of God, and truly knows God. Anyone who does not love does not love God, because God is love." - 1 John 4:7 

 This is my anthem, my motto, my mantra. Or at least I want it to be. I want to embody love, and though I know I never can fully exemplify the essence of love, I want to come as close as I possibly can to be like Jesus. Like God. Like Love. When I read this verse yesterday afternoon, I knew what I wanted my life to be - a devotion to loving people. For so long I have tried to figure out what my life’s purpose is, and when I read this verse I realized my purpose has been sitting right in front of me this entire time. It’s simple really. Love God. Love others. Funny how it took me going all the way to Africa to realize it. I see Jesus everywhere here. I feel His breath in the wind that brushes against my cheek; I feel His hand curve around mine when my fingers are entwined with a small child’s. It’s not that I don’t feel Him in Canada, it’s just that He is so evident to me here. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never needed Him as much as I do right now. He has quickly become my comfort. (Jolly Ranchers and Werther candies can only go so far, and then comes Jesus.) It’s not that I’m not happy here - I am - it’s just that everything is so different from home. The beds and showers and food and people are all different. And that’s not a bad thing, but it’s so comforting to know that Jesus will never change, or leave me. That He will always be with me, because He is love..

saying goodbye to fear

Today I watched my fears fly away.I wrote them down on scraps of paper, tied them to balloons, lifted my hands and gave them to Jesus. As they fluttered from my fingertips, I watched as those fears soared higher and higher til I could see them no longer. I released them from the tight hold they had on my heart and handed them over to Jesus. It’s amazing how freeing it is to let Jesus take away your fears. It used to feel like those things would swallow me up and eat me whole. Though writing them on a piece of paper and tying them to a balloon string doesn’t automatically take them permanently away, Jesus can. And He will. If you ask Him. Today my steps feel softer, my heart feels stronger, and my shoulders feel lighter. Because today, I watched my fears fly fly fly away..