I love Uganda. Not so much the perfect semi-tropical climate complete with year round mild temperatures in the mid-70s with a slight breeze off the lake at all times. It’s not really the lush vegetation that covers the countryside, or the robust cinnamon dirt that supports it beneath. I don’t have too much endearment the beautiful water views or the adventurous allure of the remote islands that dot the second largest lake in the world.
When God commands us to ask for “the nations for your inheritance, and the ends of the earth for your possession,” I don’t think it’s geography He’s speaking of. The “wealth of the nations” isn’t ethnic foods or cultural practices, differing styles of dress or skin color. It’s the people. These eternal souls, fashioned in the very image of God Himself, housed in two body styles with endless variations, compose the Uganda that I love.
There’s plenty of things I love about the Ugandan people. I appreciate their soft-spoken mannerisms and typically shy personalities. I like the mix of their generally passive nature and curiously friendliness. They have a God-given gift of hospitality that has been developed for generations. They are a people without pretense, saying and acting what they think with little to no filter. And one of my favorite characteristics that mark these rich people is their helpfulness.
I suppose it’s part of the hospitable makeup that causes church greeters to promptly commandeer every personal possession from the hands of entering parishioners while dragging them by the hand to locate the best seat in the house. It’s natural for them to forbid elders or visitors to do any sort of work, forcibly causing them to rest while tirelessly laboring to provide for and please them.
But there comes a point when helpfulness can become unprofitable. When loose pages are falling out of my favorite Bible, something has shifted in the realm of accommodation. When I’m led to the front row (every time), with my 7-month old who couldn’t sit quietly for two hours if I paid him in breast milk, I’ve missed the value of the kind gesture that’s been offered me. But these are mere inconveniences, I remind myself, and if they feel cheery and fulfilled by their obliging actions, let me be the recipient, whether it benefits my life or not. We are culturally distinct anyway.
But without a doubt, the worst part of being hosted by such kindness is when it is financially costly to endure it.
After preaching to elementary school kids at an island primary school (worshipping children who would put most adult believers to shame), I left my beautiful Martin guitar sitting softly in its plush case on a nearby desk while we prayed for people and shook hands with students. This costly gift had been bestowed by a favorite uncle of mine on a missionary visit last December. I rarely take “the nice guitar” out to the islands, but with a team in tow I decided it was worth the risk. I don’t know what inspired us to choose that guitar for the evening’s meeting, but nonetheless it was present. I neglected to latch the lid, knowing I would close it properly at our time of departure and safely carry it on the motorcycle back to the tent. Yet even as I thanked the miniature worship leader for his ministry that evening, I heard the horrifying sound of hollow hardwood striking hard packed soil with an eerie E-diminished tone. I held my composure and hoped for the best as I brushed past the rest of the students to inspect the guitar. Sure enough, Fred’s instinctive helpful grasp combined with ignorance of high tech American latches made for a six inch separation between back and sidewall on the Martin. With the absence of a good guitar shop in all of East Africa, I’ll be pulling out my super glue…
On another occasion, our speedboat landed near the shore of a fishing village surrounded by scores of interested first time viewers. Many of these were church members of the nearby Redeemed of the Lord Evangelistic Church who helpfully (there’s that word again) offered to tow our boat to a safe location while we went happily onto the meeting, unburdened by such a menial task. But once back on the water, noticing the lack of depth indication at critical lake positions, I leaned over the stern to discover my sonar emitter had been brutally detached from it’s key bearing and was gracefully slung over the edge of the fiberglass vessel. Once again, super glue might be my goodly savior.
One would think that poverty and the general lack of nice or expensive things would cause another to be very careful with that person’s property, but quite the opposite is true. That silly ignorance of care for useful ministry tools continues to be a costly blunder by many loving hosts. But I can’t blame them. And I can’t get angry. I’d rather lose my stuff than lose my relationships. In reality this stuff is completely replaceable and was never mine in the first place.
God bless Uganda.