Over two months ago, Victor and I unanimously decided that we wanted pizza. Mediocre pizza can be had in Kigali, but importing one from the International Space Station and cooking it during re-entry is a financially-comparable solution. Then, early last week, Victor decided it was time...time to splurge, time to recall old debts and settle them, time to enjoy a staple of the Western diet which long ago faded from the taste buds' memory (Victor forgave a considerable debt in exchange for a pizza).
Why this weekend? Because we had guests. A volunteer has been fearlessly helping for the last two rather exciting weeks, which included him nearly getting struck by lightning in a freak storm. A German and a Brit, both living in Kigali (and both of whom I had previously met) were also out for the weekend. It was a perfectly sized group: enough people to make it special, but few enough that everyone gets plenty of pizza.
So there we were, lounging around a bonfire, absolutely destroying the pizzas and relishing the company, swapping stories of harrowing bus rides and laughing at the locals' frequent mix-ups of "R" and "L" (yep, I'm Arexi just as often as I am Alexi [virtually no Kinyarwandan words end with consonants, which means they tack on an extra "e", "i", or whatever]). As the evening progressed, we even broke out the marshmellows and chocolate, truly a memorable occasion. All that came to mind was "The last time I enjoyed a day this much was as long ago as the last time I had pizza!" (both of which happened 69 days prior). But then, something changed.
In case you didn't guess, I am the oddball around here, and here are some examples. I am white, red-headed, vegetarian, not an alcohol consumer, but a Christian. The first two are the most obvious differences between Rwandans and myself. The last three are notable differences between myself and most other foreigners in Rwanda. And so, when Victor, Ralph, and Julian left for a couple minutes, Lorianne's curiosity got the best of her (she knew I was Adventist). She posed a question which nearly froze the blood in my arteries: "When you return to the States, will you go back to that style of religion?" Other questions like "What is your real hair color?", "Are you vegetarian because of animal rights?", "Would you like a beer?", and "How often do you shave?" have all been voiced many times, but this completely blindsided me. In an attempt to conceal my utter astonishment and to stall for time, I started talking until my wits recovered enough to formulate a coherent response. What was the reply? I honestly can't remember although it followed along the lines of "Probably, although I don't think the Western form of Adventism is all that different from the way the locals worship."
My frazzled nerves struggled to cope with the initial onslaught. Though nothing more was mentioned of the topic, I hardly thought of anything else the rest of the evening. "Are there really so many differences? We sing the same songs and read the same Bible, don't we?"; "Do my convictions mirror the attitude of the local believers?"; "Am I upholding the command to 'GO!'?"
Over the next few weeks, most student missionaries head for home, where open arms await them. They have laughed and wept, suffered and conquered, loved knowing they would lose their new friends soon. But I venture to say they have sensed their purpose, all of them. Some found it early on while others only recently saw the light. What about me? I'm not headed home any time soon, but perhaps this is better. I say such because I may have finally discovered my purpose. It's not to build a water system, fix some pumps, learn a language, or even minister to Rwandans. The first three are object-oriented tasks. Even the Rwandans (most of those who know me are also believers) are unlikely to understand what I say, what I do, and why I do it. On the other hand, westerners know what I gave up to come here. They know that surviving here in the remote corner of the far side of the world isn't a walk in the park. Maybe, just maybe, my assignment is to witness to my own culture by living for Him in the context of an entirely different one.
