I am glad you made it through the night:

I had just come downstairs from my room to get some morning coffee when Jean greeted me with “I am glad you made it through the night.”  It caught me off-guard for a moment, I had never heard such a morning greeting and yet as I sat there in the garden of this rural Rwandan home, it made a lot of sense.

This was Rwanda after the Genocide that took the lives of thousands, where for a hundred days there were no restful day or nights if you were a Tutsi.  Jean had spent most of those days in the bush.  He and some members of his family survived by hiding out from the Interhamwe militia that systematically went from home to home, looting, raping, killing in a ruthless manner while the world stood idly by.  Many thought they could find refuge in churches, only to find them to be prisons and places of execution instead of sanctuaries.  Each day was seen as a gift, each morning hope flickered and the survivors, those in hiding, greeted each other with, “I am glad you made it through the night.”

The night before as I lay in bed reading a book, the flickering candlelight eerily illuminated the walls of my room, my eyes to the walls pockmarked with bullet-holes, I closed my eyes, thinking of the girl that lived in my room.  She had been killed, as had her sister, grandmother and every occupant of the house.  Now I was staying here a few months later, my window was open and I could hear sounds of the night drifting in.  There were people walking by on the pathway speaking in muffled voices, the sounds of birds, drums, distant thunder and the every present mosquito.

A few months ago the sounds were different, gunfire, men running, screams, hacking sounds, sounds of death and destruction, sounds of despair and hopelessness, to some it seemed that even God had deserted them.  It was still in psyche of those who survived. That is why Jean greeted me with “I am glad you made it through the night.”

A few days later I was back in Kampala, Uganda and as I came downstairs, Ruth greeted me “how was your night?”  Ruth, was the housekeeper, she lived in a small apartment with her two daughters and young niece who was an orphan.  She too had known that the night could bring death and despair.  Her husband had been killed in front of her very eyes as they were robbed some years earlier.  She had lived through the years of the ruthless dictator Idi Amin and then later Milton Obote, along with the nightly break-ins, the wars, the round-ups and people simply disappearing their bodies found in the Nile or the impenetrable forest on the way to Jinja from Kampala.  She would often remind me to close the door of the upstairs of the house when I was there alone.  It was called the Idi Amin door and made of steel and even if someone entered downstairs, they would have a hard time gaining access to the second floor where I slept.

Today in the USA with the fear of biological warfare, with another high alert for potential terrorist attacks, with constant news-updates, opinions from talking heads, images of people standing in line in order to be tested or receive their dose of antibiotics, the soul of America is being scarred in ways never before.  Fear seeps in, despair takes over, and people are looking for shelter from the storm, the inner and outer ones.  Though I have not heard the greetings of Jean or Ruth as morning comes, many in America are thinking “I am glad I made it through the night.”

Jean and Ruth made if through their dark night of the soul by doing what Africans have always done during such times, “going on with life.”  Celebrating each day, gathering together as family, clan, and neighbors, roasting a goat, making some home-brew, bringing out the drums and being together as a people.  I have been to African funerals that last all night, people share their feelings, they cry, they laugh; they eat and celebrate the life of the person that has gone on and the next day they go on with living while still remembering the one  for whom they gathered.

September 11^th, stunned us all, the present war in Afghanistan, the bio-war at home bombard us with daily images of death and destruction, feelings of hopelessness, anger, frustration, and something else.  There is the realization that we are finite, fragile beings that death can come to us quickly in ways we had never imagined as it has to an innocent woman in New York dying of inhalation anthrax this very week.

Life is something very precious, friends, family, celebrating, remembering, sharing all make that life something to hold close to one’s heart.  Fear on the other hand binds our soul, binds our life energy and causes us to withdraw from life and retreat from the adventure of living each day in wondrous amazement of what is to be discovered on our life’s path.

Hopelessness, despair and turmoil are the aim of someone who brings terror into one’s midst, all of us have tasted the bitter cup of the loss of a loved one, divorce, the loss of a job and career on which we had staked everything, the loss of some material thing.  This season in the life of America, has reminded me of the words of a man who lived a few thousand years ago and wrote to his people who were in captivity a message of hope.  A message that can be applied to the here and now whether in Africa or the USA.  “Build houses and live in them, and plant gardens, and eat their produce.  Take wives and become the fathers of sons and daughters to husbands, that they may bear sons and daughters, and multiply there and do not decrease, and seek the well-being of the city in which you live, for in its well-being you will find your well-being….Jeremiah” 

A friend of mine lost her very expensive gold bracelet in Africa.  It was nowhere to be found.  I tried helping by re-tracing all the places, all the possibilities of where it could have been lost.  She remained very calm and from her mouth came some profound words.  “It is only a thing.”  If one reads the words of Jeremiah above, we find that the emphasis is not on things, but on that which brings true healing during times such as these, relationships, life, creation, growing, community.  Friends of mine in Africa, have lost all their things during times of trouble, but they kept alive the flame of friendship, of family, of reverence for live, for hope alive, even when some of them were taken away, those that remained, drew even closer.

We are approaching the seasons of celebrations of these values with Thanksgiving in America, Christmas and New Years, Hanukah and Ramadan.  Times were families and friends come together to celebrate what we have, each other, life, faith and hope in someone greater than ourselves.

I think this Holiday Season we will find that the emphasis is not so much on things but on each other.  Our ability to cope with all that assaults our senses comes from the meaning of our lives, from the meaningful people in our life, from the quiet times spent looking out at the rain while listening to gentle music that touches our inner being, from reading books, poetry that touch of fabric of hope, from the rituals that bring us security such as prayer and meditation, of celebrations as a meal out, a walk along the beach, the lighting of a candle, an act of random kindness (anonymously).

Back in Uganda Ruth cheerfully greeted me once again with “How was your night?”  I turned to her who had lost much in times and asked, “What makes you smile all the time?”  She replied by telling me a scripture that she had memorized years earlier.  “For I know the plans I have for you, plans for your welfare and not for your calamity to give you a future and a hope.”