I awoke to the call to prayer coming forth from the distance just before sunrise. Every morning I awoke to that call while I was in Uganda. My curtains were open as usual to allow the cool air to come in at night and bring relief from the heat and humidity.

I raised myself in bed and looked out, lights flickering in the distance, just below me my landlord Mr. Musesi came out of his house followed by his father and sons. Their prayer carpets in hand, I could make out their white sort of dress like clothes. Soon they began to bow toward Mecca and pray to Allah and I could both see and hear them as they went through their morning routine.

Mr. Musesi and I got along quite well; we had rented his house for years while he lived with his two wives and many children in a smaller house on the same property. He was in the investment business and drove a Mercedes on the weekends, during the week it was hidden in the garage. I referred to it as his hidden wealth. Like many Ugandans he knew it was best not attract robbers and thieves by flaunting one’s things. The same reason I drove an older car, which meant that I was never hijacked like some of my European neighbors had been.

Often we would talk during the evening hour just before dusk going over the day, how thing were going for each other and how the water-flow was in the house and how we hoped that the power would be on during the evening. Every other night the power was shut off for two hours to conserve electricity. I happened not to live in the wealthier part of town where the power seemed to stay on eternally.

That morning I did something I had never done before. I dressed quickly and went downstairs, opening up the various locks that were supposed to protect me from robbers. The night guard equipped with bow and arrows was surprised to see me. A lot of good a bow and arrow would do against robbers equipped with submachine guns, but it was customary to have a guard even though most nights I could hear him snore just beneath my window.

I walked just down the hill where there was bench near Mr. Musesi’s house; there I quietly seated myself and sat while I listened to the sounds of prayer, of Kampala awakening around me. I could hear a car in a distance slowly churning up the road just outside of the gate. The scent of charcoal from African homes near me making the morning Chai (tea) wafted around me. The sounds of children, birds, the sun slowly rising over Lake Victoria all added to this symphony of sights and sounds.

I closed my eyes, and began to pray, to meditate in my own way, just being quiet in the moment greeting the new day being kissed by the African sun as it rose. I felt the bench move and Mr. Musesi had taken a seat next to me. We sat there quietly in harmony with our surroundings and a sense of fellowship with one another. We prayed differently, he attended the mosque, I did not attend anything but my own heart and yet we were kindred spirits, two men bound together by this morning wrapped in the quiet sounds of a new day.

I opened up my eyes and saw his hands opened toward the heavens resting on his lap turned upward. I followed his example and we both sat there enjoying the serenity of the moment. Hands turned upward, a symbol of surrender to the divine, a call inviting for God as we understood God to be and come and take from us the things that kept us small in our humanity. The pettiness, the bitterness and cynicism that would keep us from being all that we were meant to be and in its place depositing a sense of the divine, giving us an impartation of things from above that were meant to take us beyond the here and now and place doors of opportunity before us.

There was total silence between us and yet one could feel the heart and soul in each of us straining upward toward God, a strong desire in each to leave behind what was behind us and moving toward all that God had for us.

I could see his lips move, while I sat there in total silence my mind stayed on the moment, on the grace that was so evident to both of us. Here we were a Muslim and a Christian, miles apart when it came to theological rhetoric and yet one in the spirit of prayer. I thought as to how often we dwell on what separates us, of what keeps us at a distance, while we had so much in common. I was sitting next to man praying like I was, a heart filled like mine with heart cries and expectations, dreams yet to be fulfilled. We had more in common then we realized.

Both of us were brought back to the present as one of his daughters brought a pot of freshly brewed tea mixed with milk sugars. We poured in silence only listening to the gurgle of the tea being poured into the cups. We sat there without exchanging words realizing that this was bigger then each one of us. We had shared a moment in time, we had connected without words, and we had seen each others heart and we were brought closer. No longer would we discuss the things that kept us apart but we both felt that this was a sacred moment in time.

Mr. Musesi turned to me and asked how my night had been, a common Uganda morning greeting and I replied that it had gone well and I was glad that he made it through the night. We both smiled, the Muslim and Christian united.

Things changed after that, I became part of Mr. Musesi’s family. I was there when Ramadan was over and the goat was roasted to celebrate. I was there for the weddings, the funerals and he was there in my life. We had shared a moment, a morning; we had sat there being kissed by the morning sun while our hearts had been strangely quickened by the God who watches over us all.

Back in the USA I still get up early morning, more often then not it is the mist and rain that meets me and I cannot sit outside on my deck awaiting the new day, but my heart goes back to that morning where two men from different backgrounds, beliefs and faiths had their hearts united as one.

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Last Updated: 13 February, 2008