I started going for lunch time mass at Christ The King, a
while back when I was a bit troubled. I could not get my mind to settle. I
would describe my mind at that time as Monday morning traffic chaos in
Kampala just before the traffic policeman/woman calmly arrives to start their
shift.
So I took myself to the one place my mother taught me to go. Church. I had hoped I’d have a better chance of finding Him
in his house rather than in mine. I wanted God to be a good traffic police man
and set everything back in order. I
wanted him to arrive on his police motorcycle with the orange light rotating
and flashing, whistle in mouth, clip
board under the arm, black boots
polished, white uniform freshly ironed,
ready to magically unlock all the confounded cars and taxis in my mind
stuck in grid lock.
Church helped. The familiar pattern of mass helped still my
mind, so much so that I somehow rekindled one of my ‘bad’ habits. From a young age I have always loved the idea
of mass, the ritual of the movements, the rhythm and repetition in
the priest’s voice and the congregation's, the predictable
silences, the familiar hymns… I could go on…but for now let me stick to my
‘bad’habit. When I get distracted from
my prayer, I love watching other people pray. There is so much you can learn about a person just by looking at how they interact with God. I actually think that people
are at their most vulnerable in church, because church has totally different
social cues. For one you enter silently and sit, no need to greet your
neighbor, no need to introduce
yourself, no need to tell people who you are. After all you are here to
talk to God, and he already knows who you are.
So this habit of studying people in church, resurfaced
during lunch time mass. And since my mother was no longer around to nudge my
shoulder, or gently bow my head in prayer when my mind faulted, I settled back
into my habit of studying people as they arrived, took their seats, and knelt to begin their private
internal conversation with God. (I know...I know... it's a terrible habit which all story tellers need 😉 )
Some
really interesting occurrences happened since the first time I attended. Today I have decided to share just three on
this blog. Three that to this day have remained in my mind.
THE FIRST STORY: So this didn't happened in church, but it certainly surprised me. One time I stepped out of office to get a boda boda to church. I waved
down one, and asked him the price to Christ The King. He seemed vague about it, so I assertively told him ‘ 1000ugx, that all I have!’. He didn’t
quarrel, I hopped on, and we whizzed off to church. When we arrived, he parked his boda boda, I proceeded to pay
him and to my surprise he refused to take
the money. He took off his helmet and calmly walked off into the church
for mass. And that was my first and last free boda boda ride to church. 😲😲😲
THE SECOND STORY: I was late, it was
lent season so the inside of the church was packed. I spread out my scarf and sat on the circular steps that surround the
entrance to the church. As we got busy
saying the apostles creed. A bare footed women in dirty clothes approached the church. she was
lamenting and crying to herself, and to anyone who would listen. She had a stack
of tattered leaflets with her and she was trying to give them to people but they would
twist their faces and move out of her way. You know the bronze statue of Jesus
with the big feet outside of Christ the King? She stopped before it and knelt down. I swear
she prayed straight from her heart with so much humility. I could feel it,
remember I told you I have experience in
watching people at church. I can tell who’s authentic. At one point she got up
and flipped though her leaflets and picked
out the best ones she could find, the glossy ones with the least amount of dampness from her tears. Then she lay them at Jesus’s feet. She gave her offering. Her best offering. Remember that story in the bible the one with the sick women who just knew if she touched Jesus , she’d be healed. What about that story when Jesus mentioned the greatness of the poor lady's offering in the temple verses the rich man? This reminded
me of that. Because as she prayed she didn’t seem so tortured by her personal
demons anymore. Then after five
minutes, she got up and carried on walking, returning right back to the state she
entered our presence in, lamenting and handing leaflets to strangers. Never saw
her again. But I’d like to naively think she has many regular conversations with Jesus.
THE THIRD STORY: It was another lent season, I was sat
outside on the steps as usually. I wasn’t alone there were other late comers
like me. Around Fifteen minutes into
mass, as they were reading the second reading . We see a short thin woman hobbling closer to us trying to reach the steps at the entrance
of the church. She can barely move her feet because of the unusual heavy bundle on her back and the aged handbag and blue & green mukeka in her hands. the bundle is wrapped in a lesu with a common
picture of the virgin Mary on it. When she reaches the steps , she balances herself, lays out the mukeka, places down her bag, then slowly and cautiously manages to put her bundle down. The bundle starts to move and unravel itself. It's boy, a boy with
a head that is too big for it's body. The size of his head informs us that some special operation must be done to fix it. We all know in Uganda that will cost money, and from the looks of the lady she doesn't have much to spare. So where did she turn to? Church. God's house. The lady doesn’t make any
eye contact with anyone, she knows we are all staring at her, and the boy .
Despite all this, she joins in the prayers with us, because I am sure she is used to our reaction by now, we can’t be
the first group of people to stare, possibly judge and then pity them. When mass is down she asks for no help, puts
her son on her back, balances her bag and mukeka, and leaves as she came. For three days , everyone who sits
outside with me at mass, we watch her come and say her prayers and leave. Then
one day when it is time for the offertory, every single one of us takes our offertory and places it on the mukeka next to her. She is so shocked that
we see her cry silently throughout the rest of mass. Like I said earlier, during mass
the social cues are different. In the street I mind my own business, but in
church this women could have fitted quite comfortably into anyone of Jesus’
parables, so at mass she becomes our business. After Easter, I never see her or her son at
mass again. I don’t think we helped her much, in fact I think her faith and
determination to get to mass everyday with her son actually helped us. It
helped me put a lot into perspective. I
think bronze Jesus with the big feet sent her to teach us something. My mind
went very still that day. Things were crisp and clear like that first breath of fresh air during an early morning walk.
We become different creatures on the way to God’s house and also while we are in it.So maybe God didn’t arrive in a motorcycle, lights flashing,
whistle ready to blow. He arrived the way he does. Unexpectedly. And I got the message.
(btw find me on twitter @mariajulietrose 😀)
(btw find me on twitter @mariajulietrose 😀)
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