The pastor told us a story today, a story of when he was younger. He grew up in the Catholic church, and near twenty years ago, he was attending the Catholic school just up the hill from where this church stands. In Uganda’s history, twenty years ago, the then-president, Idi Amin, ordered what amounted, in part, to a nation-wide persecution of Christians. As our pastor (who was only a student at the time) was in school one day, he happened to look down to this church when a group of soldiers pulled into the driveway. They began sorting through the congregation gathered there, asking who was a Christian. Some of the people said, “Oh, I do not belong to this church. I was just resting my feet on my way home.” Or, “I am only a visitor today. I do not really know what they believe here.” These people the soldiers let go. But there were others - people who stood up and said, “I am a Christian. I believe in Jesus Christ.” These people the soldiers loaded up into a truck and drove them away. I do not know what happened to them.
The man who witnessed this went to his room that night, wondering what it was that had been so important to those people that they had put their lives on the line rather than deny it. That day began a domino effect that eventually led to this man’s salvation. And, as we witnessed, he is now the pastor of the very same church where he watched the soldiers come and take away those who professed Christ. God is amazing.
After church, we spent a lovely time at our guest house with the guitars on the front porch. Jon Paul added the rich music of the African drums. Then there was lunch and a long afternoon, followed this evening by a special trip to a place called Ndere. That’s pretty much all I knew about it when we got on the bus. Something about dancing . . .
Ndere, it turns out, is quite a professional little spot situated on lovely, tree-crowned grounds. A team of very talented Africans trains there and, once a week, they give a special performance. A traditional African dance performance. Dinner and drinks included. From the first beat of the drum, I (in my jealously-held front-row seat) was captivated. I’m sorry, but the camera just will not do it justice, though I have added a few pictures. But there were a few things that I simply could not catch on film. Such as . . .
Our MC for the evening, an outgoing African man in a funny cow-skin hat who never stopped smiling and cracking jokes, called up all the children mid-way through the performance. After rather shy introductions, the man grouped the kids into a circle and instructed them to do whatever he did. He started simply: raising his hand, stomping his foot; then progressed to more difficult moves, like spinning in circles. He soon had them all quite comfortable, giggling hysterically, and extravagantly imitating his every move. I believe they even did the butt-shaking dance at one point. We in the audience really couldn’t stop laughing, but we had no idea what the children’s sense of ease on stage foreboded for later. It was a good half-hour after the “dance” from the children when a little boy (near ten years of age, I should think) walked quite randomly across stage. And I shouldn’t say “walked.” It was strutting rather. Only every third step or so, he’d add this little spin and slide on his heels, then look out at the audience with an enormous grin, anticipating our applause. And that wasn’t all. A bit later, a tiny little girl - barely old enough to walk - wandered across stage, looking rather lost, like she might have misplaced her mother, but not at all shy. Unfortunately for her, she had left behind on the ground a rather important piece of underclothing, but was nonetheless toddling about with her dress held quite up over her head. It was hilarious!
And so they danced and beat on their drums till the sweat poured down their faces, and we cheered and laughed until our sides ached and our hands buzzed. The sun set over the hazy hills, the stars came out, and the ladies kept up with their butt-shaking dance that I am still completely in awe of. I don’t know how you manage it for three minutes, much less three hours! But the Africans possess a unique and thrilling grace in dance and music that I think I am more than a little jealous of. Their entire bodies respond with unstudied ease to the voice of the drums, and the shining excitement on their dark faces is a sight to behold. They own the heart of music, I think, more truly than I ever shall. But it is such a pleasure and privilege to watch them.
They danced for us some Rwandan dances, with the costumes of blue and green and the long head-dresses that I have seen before. It made me heartsick for all my dear friends back in the blue mountains of that country. The girls also performed one dance while balancing clay jars on their heads. They started off with one, and we were awed. They floated about with apparent nonchalance, stepping and bending as if there were no breakable containers on their heads. But then they advanced beyond that to two jars, one on top of the other, and we were floored again. But did they stop there? Oh, no. Three, then four, then five, and on and on, until the very last, an enormously talented 16-year-old girl had eight jars perfectly balanced on her head. Did I forget to mention that she was still dancing? With a microphone. And singing. And then she decided that wasn’t quite enough and took a little walk up a flight up steps. With eight jars on her head. I think we all had our mouths hung open by this time. I know what it means now to hold another person truly in awe.
Those are the highlights. How do I find words for everything? There is simply not time enough or room. It is now late. The dance went almost to 10:00 p.m., and we still had the ride back to the guest house afterwards. I am exhausted. Dear God, hold me in Your strength. Amen.
