A Thank-You Note to YOU

Your 20s, changing a life

Back in November, after being completely overwhelmed by the "home visit" report from the Ubumwe Community Center, I asked for a wheelchair for Christmas.  

Among many other profiles, the report included a precious little boy named Mugisha (meaning "blessing") who was reduced to wallowing in the dirt because his legs wouldn't carry him to the opportunities waiting for him. Four hundred dollars would forever change this boy's life.

I had just returned from an unfathomably expensive (and worth every cent) trip to Rwanda. I didn't have four hundred dollars. But I had twenty. And I thought that maybe you did too.

So I did the very least I could do: I asked. And the twenties trickled in. But not enough. Then someone who had pledged to help (with twenty dollars, I assumed) wrote me a check for one hundred. But we still weren't there.

Then, on December 23, I get a Facebook message from Laura, a person I've only met through Facebook, who (unbeknownst to me) had been collecting money from her Sunday school class. A one hundred dollar check was in the mail. And I was getting a wheelchair for Christmas.

More importantly, Mugisha was getting a wheelchair . . . for life.

So thank you, thank you, thank you--for your prayers and your contributions.

But if I may ask, I still need your help. Wheelchairs, especially for children, are hard to find in Gisenyi, Rwanda. And while the financial hurdle is a huge one, it's only one. Would you please pray that a wheelchair finds its way to Mugisha?

And again, thank you. Thank you for proving that doing what you can with what you have still changes lives.

A Blessing for a Blessing (Part 1)

Mugisha: his name means "blessing"

I want a wheelchair for Christmas.

I want Mugisha to have access to an education.

I want Mugisha to look people in the eye.

I don't want Mugisha to spend one more day crawling in the dirt.

Do you?

So what's the cost for changing a life? 

Four hundred bucks.

Twenty dollars from twenty people.

And Mugisha gets a wheelchair for Christmas.

A blessing for a "blessing."

And if you're the generous kind, you already know that by blessing him, twenty dollars is nothing compared to the abundant blessings you'll get in return.

So who are my twenty? Actually, nineteen. I'm already in. 

Are you?


UPDATE: Mugisha--AND Ngabo--have wheelchairs! Read part 2!

Come with Me to the UCC

While visiting the beautiful country of Rwanda, you see people in need and wonder what you can do to make a real difference. The best I could come up with was handing out candy to kids. But Frederick Ndabaramiye and Zachary Dusingizimana, on the other hand, are two native Rwandans moving mountains in the Land of a Thousand Hills.


Although I had heard about the Ubumwe Community Center (UCC) for years, I was still blown away when I visited the center in person. We passed it by the first time, my husband noting, “Wow, that place is nice.” Backing up to enter the gates, we saw manicured landscaping, and more beautiful were the people who greeted us as we stepped out of the vehicle. They were all so eager to welcome the fish-out-of-water Americans to the community that had welcomed them. 

Nshuti, showing us head, eyes, ears, nose, mouth . . .

We met Nshuti who had lost both parents and was now cared for by his elderly grandmother. We were introduced to a five-year-old boy who, every day, crosses the border from the Democratic Republic of the Congo with his seven-year-old “big” sister; she drops him off at the center on her way to school. And we sat in the classroom with brilliant deaf children eager to converse—if only they could teach their inept American students how to speak their complex language.

Sewing class teacher, also "handicapped"

In Rwanda, a person with a physical or mental handicap typically is left to lead the life of a beggar. Fortunately, the UCC's co-founder, Frederick, doesn't believe in “disabilities.” Instead, the UCC embraces those who Frederick calls "people like me" and offers hands-on workshops that teach marketable skills, such as sewing, banana-leaf crafting, and knitting. During the trip, we later visited a small shop started by graduates of the UCC, where we bought an African tunic, dresses, and other souvenirs. Because of the UCC, these once-dismissed members of society are now business owners.



At the community center, deaf children attend class and have a teacher who takes them to “normal” schools in the afternoon. There’s a classroom for mentally challenged children, where a loving instructor guides them to learn vocabulary and math. There are outreach programs that make home visits to those who are homebound and sometimes neglected by family. Zachary explained that many times they just need soap or clothes or someone to talk to. Every member of the community center gets a daily lunch too. 

Most importantly, though, these once social outcasts have found a home at the Ubumwe Community Center, a place where they are surrounded by “people like me.”

Frederick with the new preschool, under construction

The newest project for the UCC is the construction of a preschool, where up to 100 “disabled” children and children of those already a part of UCC will receive free education and be integrated with “normal” children at an earlier age. Zachary feels that this will help both the challenged and mainstream students to accept one another more easily in the long run. 

If you have ever wanted to truly make a difference but didn't know where to start, start here or here.

I've seen it. 

It’s real. 

And you can be a part of it.

I have no doubt that they’ll find a way without our help. But do you really want them to?



Like the Ubumwe Community Center's Facebook page for updates on the center.

Worship in Rwanda

These beauties came to visit during the service.

On Sunday, we attended Frederick’s church, and in many ways, it was much like an American church service. There were announcements and a choir, babies crying and late arrivers, microphones and musical instruments, praying and tithing, and of course, that one inevitable cell phone ring. We listened from long wooden benches that held about twelve people hip-to-hip. By my best guesstimate, there were about 250 people in attendance that day. 

I couldn’t help but notice the differences too. There wasn’t just one choir—there were five! About a third of the church was involved in the choirs, and they each had a turn at leading praise. It was everything you’d expect: vibrant rich harmonies and a clapping rhythm I could never seem to catch. By the time the fifth choir took its turn, I could really feel the heat from the tin roof overhead, but as if on cue, a cooling rain came to pitter-pat our relief.

There were several opportunities to tithe, during which steady streams of people would walk to the front to give—at least one lady (Dan noticed) went forward several times. The one crying baby I could see was alerting his mother that he was ready to be untied from her back, a sight that amazes me no less each time I see it. The babies and toddlers are tied on so neatly, so securely, so contentedly that you’d never even know they were there except for the little feet sticking out in the front or the little head peeking out in the back (if not covered).

The main difference, of course, was that the entire service was in Kinyarwanda. (Well, except for the very brief interval when they asked their American guest to come to the front and say a few words.) Yet I had no problem understanding the passion of the message. The pastor spoke fervently about “changing your testimony” (as was whispered to me), using the examples of Daniel reading the writing on the wall and Joseph interpreting the pharaoh’s dreams. I read the verses in my English Bible as he preached and pleaded in Kinyarwanda. And while I couldn’t literally understand very much of the service, there’s just something universal about the power of praise and the reverence of prayer.

As the pastor brought the service to a close (about three hours in), everyone turned to look at the three Americans seated toward the back. I immediately wondered what cultural faux pas we had committed, but Frederick quickly explained: the pastor was asking our family to carry greetings from their church in Gisenyi back to ours, at home in the United States and wherever we may travel.

So, from the beautiful, worshipful church in Gisenyi, Rwanda, I send you all the greetings of universal Love.

Rwanda: First Impressions



Kigali

When we stepped off the plane onto the runway, the first thing I noticed was the smell. It was the rustic, welcoming scent of burning wood, and I realized it was dinnertime in Rwanda. It was dark, but I could tell we were surrounded by hills from the artificial stars that rose up all around us in the distance and stretched far into the darkness.




Another striking impression was the pride Rwandans seem to have for their country and their president. Our server at dinner, Clarence, later saw us wandering around the hotel and offered to show us around Kigali. As we walked, he proudly pointed to the new construction and quickly noted the old buildings that would be torn down as the country's Vision 2020 plan was implemented. It wasn't the first time I'd heard about the plan--or the last. Both Frederick and our driver, Charles, have spoken of the plan and how President Kagame wanted to “do something special in Africa,” as Charles put it. Or in Kagame’s words, “As I tell our people, nobody owes Rwandans anything. . . . Rwanda is a nation with high goals and a sense of purpose.”

There’s also a certain problem-solving ability, a “Rwandan ingenuity” (to hand down an American phrase that no longer seems to fit so well). When a beggar came to our window, the driver explained, “You don’t see many of them anymore. The government has taken them off the streets and sent them to school to learn trades they can use.” I had noticed the same proactive ingenuity about Frederick, who takes what most would write off as a debilitating condition and uses as a way to serve the world.

A certain efficiency happens as a result of this problem-solving approach. The “land of a thousand hills” isn’t what you would think of as a prime agricultural location, but they make it work. They have to. Many of the people depend on crops for food or to trade for other necessities, so they’ve covered their thousand hills with pole beans and coffee, pineapples and potatoes, tea, avocadoes and bananas. (Oh, the bananas!) And I didn't see just a row of banana trees. Surrounding the tall banana trees are smaller plants, such as coffee or beans, to maximize the productivity of the land.

To make this work smoothly requires a great sense of community purpose. Many communities harvest together—not operating under a “yours or mine” method, but a “let’s work together till we get it all done” mentality. We just happened to arrive the day before the entire country came out to put their community approach to work. When we were making plans with our driver, he told us that nothing would be open until about noon on Saturday. Once a month, the whole country closes their businesses and stops what they’re doing for a nationwide clean-up day. We had to see that for ourselves. And sure enough, as we roamed the streets, they were quiet, except for the swish of a broom or the splash of tossed water.

But there’s so much more than that: it’s the people walking—to and from everywhere—with crops and goods on their head--with babies tied on their backs. It’s the fresh, pungent flowers in the hotel lobby and restaurant. It’s the sweet bananas. It’s the way they wave or the children cheer “Umuzungu!” as you pass. (Umuzungu means “white person,” but not in a derogatory way. It’s how we’d say, “There’s George Clooney!” J) It's how they use their horns to communicate what they're about to do, instead of chastising what the other driver did. It’s the way they light up when you shake their hands and bumble out, “Muraho,” the one word you can manage in their language, in their country, while they've spent years learning yours. And the service: let’s just say that if I were to tell the hotel clerk that I’d forgotten my cat, I think he would fly to the United States to get it.

I’m guessing much of that stems from how much these people really love their country. They just want you to leave this country with the same love of Rwanda they feel every day.

And you know, they may just get that wish. They’ve certainly earned it.

Beautiful Monday

I couldn't help but think of Christmas when these little Monday beauties caught my eye.

Of course, I tried to fix it by removing the wrinkled brown leaf (upper right) and snapping another photo. But somehow my edited version of beauty wasn't as, well, beautiful.

This Monday taught me: come as you are, with what you have. Don't meddle with the gifts you've been given.

Have a beautiful Monday. . . .

Beautiful Monday

Stones River overlook

I captured this beauty on a Monday, during my morning walk. This is my halfway point, a little overlook by Stones River, where Civil War battles were fought and soldiers crouched in fear to fill their canteens.

But this morning, there was only peace and beauty, a little preview of heaven nestled between a greenway and a golf course.

Have a beautiful Monday. . . .