Not only a song on Kenyan radio: I love my love!!

I sit in the welcome darkness. The infrequently used, cost ineffective generator has faded to silence and my tea stands steaming on the table (well, as steaming as last-night’s-boiled-water kept in a flask allows), in easy reach of my tea-drinking hand. As I sit in the quiet and reflect on all that made today fabulous, I realise that I am probably multiple cups of tea and a few birthday chocolates away from fully comprehending the magnitude of Love today…

Most days, I play a game… “I love my life”. Many can play – it’s more fun that way; a game, for the whole family really. And it’s simple, really simple. It’s all about finding those moments within one’s day, regardless of how small and insignificant they might seem were you to share them with others, where you’re able to stop. And smile (or giggle hysterically). And sigh contentedly.  “Ahhhh, LOVE my life!” Some days contain fewer of these moments than others, but if one is paying attention, there is always at least one or two often found in the oddest of places. Today, however, was littered with moments like this. There was the moment an elderly man, a motorbike driver, stretched out his hand and gently moved a piece of my hair that was stuck in my mouth, out of the way, as I negotiated a price. He didn’t say a word. Neither did I. We both felt better. He gave me the price I wanted and drove with great care. There was that moment that I raced through town, skilfully dodging potholes and oncoming traffic, on the back of a different motorbike, my scarf trailing at a right angle behind me. There was that moment that I, knees in the dirt, wept for the nations of the world that are currently at war as we ‘burned’ for war zones in the church we call ‘family’ here in Goma. There was that moment that…

I made a new friend. Google tells me that his name means “kind and loving” or “chief” and, so as to honour his story, one only just beginning really, I will call him just that… kind and loving. Headed through one of the… let’s call it ‘more unsavoury’ parts of town this morning – a trip that we make multiple times a week – to church, or visiting friends… I made a new friend. I noticed him immediately. His tall frame and bright red football shirt stood out against the drab wooden shelter selling freshly made mandazi, [small doughnut like treats] behind him. More than his frame, however, and more than his red shirt, I noticed the hostility with which he approached us; even after we had quickly passed. For a mere moment, it was almost as if my peripheral vision widened to include kind and loving. The hostility in his gait was outplayed only by the vulgarity which spewed forth from his mouth accompanied by beer breath and spit which landed in puddles on the already muddy ground. I would feel far more comfortable relaying his very clear and in mostly English (a rare occurrence) message if there were a way to audibly bleep out those words which would have made a sailor blush. In my opinion, bleeps should always be audible. The word ‘bleep’ just wouldn’t suffice. So instead; a short summary. Bear in mind, today, I made a new friend.

“You have come to take the diamonds!” he yelled! A diamond thief? With this face? Really? But I heard him… He was convinced that we were here for one reason only, to pillage Congo for her mineral wealth and leave – just like everybody else. He kept reminding me that he is Congolese and I am not. I kept yelling crudely that he was not afraid to kill me. That he, with is slingshot, was like David who could bring Goliath crashing down. Was I the Goliath he was referring to this morning? Again, this is funny when you know that I’m only little, really. I kept engaging him in conversation, talking to him about where we were going and inviting him to come along, but I kept walking. I kept looking at him, but I kept walking. And suddenly. As one more time he yelled that we were here to take his diamonds and that I should give him all my money and that he was Congolese and I was not; God spoke. “Tell him that you are African too.” And so… looking directly into his hurting eyes. Seeing the brokenness beyond the rage. I said, “I come from South Africa, I am also African.” And just like that I saw a switch. A melting and a softening began. He walked right on into church with us, sat down and placed his slingshot carefully on the bench next to him. Kind and loving was about to encounter Love.

As the church here, joined together with the church in California to celebrate life and contend for peace in war zones and nations experiencing conflict, I shared briefly of how much DRCongo (and other conflict zones) are loved by the One who loves completely. How our desire is to see war ended, communities rebuilt and a nation restored to peace and wholeness. And then we worshipped. We prayed. Kind and loving, arms raised, worshipped too. And then it happened. Kind and loving covered his eyes, and wept; my heart broke for this man. A man, not afraid to kill, a man so consumed by anger and hatred, but a man who has never known real love. A man who has never known what it feels to live in a nation not ravaged by war. A man who does not know what it feels like to go to bed at night without fear.

At some point he caught my eye and waved, signalling his leaving. I knew I needed to find him. And that’s exactly what we did. Having terrorised the neighbourhood of our pastor the previous night, slinging stones into the air and enjoying the sound of both the stones on the tin roof and the shrieks of the people within the homes he expected to be in trouble. His raised slingshot was no deterrent to the plan that Jesus had for him this morning. Right there, in his ‘front yard’ he wept as the love of God pierced his very core. Right there, he encountered real Love. Right there he made a new friend. I made a new friend. This young man, forgotten by family and declared ‘crazy’ by the community has just embarked on a journey towards freedom. A journey that will require encouragement and Truth and love ad friends. 

And then I realised. It is not the armies of soldiers that cause war. It is not the documents signed in governments that result in war. It’s the individual that is so consumed with hatred, so lost in anger, so blinded by rage, so drowned in hopelessness, so numbed by brokenness, so desperate for a love that he has yet to understand and who is unafraid to kill or quite simply indifferent to life. It’s the individual that starts a war. It is groups of individuals who falsely believe that the power veneer offered by a group of similarly broken men who incite fear, revel in calamity and encourage conflict can rescue them.

And so, to see war ended and communities rebuilt; it’s the individual we need to go after. It’s the one we need to stop for. It’s choosing to see the brokenness beyond the rage in the eyes of kind and loving. It’s the love encounters of many ones that will see AK47s and rocket launchers put down; pens, tools and talents picked up. Kind and loving may not have been holding an AK47 or a rocket launcher, but his stones in his slingshot… They would have freakin’ hurt. 

Love won. “Aaaaahhhhh, I love my life!”

PS: I had two, really perfect photographs to accompany this blog, but two computers and slow internet later, I decided to post a pictureless blog.