A year and a half ago, I was in Uganda for the third time. My focus was training teachers but I also
hoped to start a new project on the side.
I was compelled by people’s stories, especially women’s stories, and
wanted to record them. Before arriving,
I’d done a bunch of research and discovered that story-telling is deeply
connected with healing and reconciliation within families and communities. I imagined walking from home to home in the
village, notebook and pen in hand, with ladies excited to pour out their life
stories. In the future, I could see big
groups of ladies coming together – maybe even from opposing tribes – and reconciling. I was pumped.
There was a lot I hadn’t considered. Number one:
having a relationship with the story teller was way more important than
I’d thought. Number two: being invited into the vulnerable parts of a
person’s life was way more sacred than I’d thought.
In Uganda, you don’t get down to business unless you’ve
first asked about their family, health, sleeping well, etc. My translator, Mabel, was from the village,
so I had some built-in trust based on her presence. In one family’s home, I had previous
relationship with Hannah (name changed), so I went there first. Hannah was out “digging” (working in the
fields). After a pretty stilted attempt
to record life stories from her sister-in-law, Hannah and her mother came home,
wanting to share. It was cool inside on
the dirt floor. I sipped black tea,
seeped in smoke from the fire upon which it was prepared. The
other ladies drank warm cow’s milk.
Flies buzzed, landing and cleaning themselves in a chaotic ballet. Two chickens snuck past the curtain to the
back room and loudly announced their egg laying efforts.
Within minutes of beginning their story, a deep family
tragedy was shared. An older brother who
took care of them had died, and they believed it was from jealous villagers
bewitching him. Both Hannah and her mother began to cry. I had Mabel translate that
I felt sad with them. This story
gathering mission had gone from coaxing one word answers from sister-in-law to
suddenly sitting in the center of Hannah and her mother’s wounds. These aren’t blithe, carefree tales from
Reader’s Digest. There was real hardship
and devastating pain. I realized I’d romanticized this idea of being
let in to another’s life. Once there,
recording the words seemed completely irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was to sit
quietly and be present with them.
I don’t remember who began singing, but a chorus from church
rose up from our little group. It made
the two bare-bottomed babies clap and coo – their delight made a bridge from
the tears to the joyful worship. “Weebale
Yesu, weebale Yesu….” Thank you, Jesus,
thank you, Jesus…. We sang over and over until it was time to walk home.
This school year, I have a student who says two or three
words a day in the classroom. She mostly
looks down at her hands and leaves her work untouched. I’ve tried being more strict, more lenient,
even goofy. Today, I caught her glance
and crossed my eyes at her. No
response. When the kids went home, my
student teacher told me that she had asked this girl why she wasn’t
working.
“Don’t you like
school?”
“I hate school,” she replied, “Every day. I’m stupid.”
I came home, mulling over this window into this little girl’s
heart. It feels like recording stories
in Uganda. How can I expect to teach
this student multiplication without better understanding who she is? How can I understand who she is without
building trust? Then, when we’re let
into that precious space, motivating her to get her work done doesn’t seem to
matter. She needs to know how amazing
she is before 6x7 will have any impact on her life.
We don’t know people’s stories until they trust us enough to
let us in. Once inside, how do we best respond?
Oh God,
Let me not presume to fix, judge, or shame,
When I am a guest in your child’s heart.
Let me be You with skin on,
May Your presence be tangible,
And mine irrelevant.
May this child of Yours know the peace and grace,
Of having shared their heart with You.
Thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus.
Amen.
