Friday

Most days here we embark on a ministry in which we don't quite know what to expect. On Friday we teamed up with Chantal, a young lady "evangelist" from the local church, to go on a street evangelism expedition. Chantal was a charismatic lady who spoke excellent english. We followed her into a neighborhood beyond the main throughfare, through muddy backtrails that entwined tightly packed living quarters. Large dirt ditches often flanked our trails, making the trek a bit treacherous. We approached a group of youngsters in their early twenties. A couple of them carried stacks of used clothes that were likely to be donations from the West. Street kids such as these sell them for a pittance-- Rwanda is filled with secondhand clothing-- reminds me of Jaqueline Novogratz's anecdote about seeing her unforgettable green sweater of her childhood pass by as she was jogging one day in Tanzania (?). Another guy had a bowl of packaged peanuts (sold as a street snack), while several other loiterers gathered and sat in the shade, resting from the sun that was unusually hot that day. It seemed foolish to disturb them and start talking as though we can share anything relevant to them. But Chantal had the boldness of a lioness. She greeted them and said a few sentences in Kinyarwandan. They were unexpectedly welcoming and responsive; one thing that I've come to appreciate about Rwandese is that they are great listeners. When you are engaged in conversation with them, they give you your due. But before we knew it, Chantal was motioning for us to speak. This came a bit earlier than we expected or hoped, and I mentally scrambled to full attention to start speaking. These are the moments when you desperately try to act natural, when your lips seem to move and say things, but you're not quite paying attention because you're actually wondering, "What exactly am I doing here again?" We do a standard introduction of ourselves, and Morid shares about the story of the train conductor who had to sacrifice his son for the sake of the lives of the passengers on the train (it's a longer story). Train conductor? Have they seen a train before? Rwanda doesn't have any railways. Taxibus would have been more appropriate. At any rate, we share the word, and it's the moment of truth: the invitation to a life with Christ (i.e., the train conductor... or is it the son?). At this point it feels as though there's really not much else we can do, and there's no turning back. I just hope we didn't confuse them too much as we ask if any of them would like to welcome Jesus into their hearts....
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We then take a left onto another dirt trail; as we pass a cement house, I spy a group young guys sitting on a terrace, smoking and passing around bottles of brown juice. Chantal stops and says, "This is a bar. I think we should go in here". Okay, whatever you say. We follow her in, and we strike up a conversation with six or seven of them at the entrance of the bar. Before we could go any deeper, Chantal interrupts and says, "There are more people inside. Let's talk inside". Alrighty then. So we go in. It's filled with guys, not the bad news types, but guys just hanging out, getting a bit of an afternoon buzz. We start again. The bottles-- they smell like fermented banana beer-- keep making their way around the group. After the introduction and a bit about why we were there in their bar interrupting their happy hour, we open it up for some interaction. A guy asks Morid whether she have ever been drunk. Now we're getting personal. Morid starts to pour out her heart, sharing about laying down life's burdens on Jesus, how God is not a stern judge, but a loving, forgiving father. The atmosphere turned, dare I say it, sober....
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It was time to get back; we had spent about 1 1/2 hours in the neighborhood. On Chantal's notebook was a numbered list of people who accepted Christ that day: 12. 5 from the first conversation in the shade, 7 at the bar. Amazing! How did that happen? But it was true-- their glowing smiles and sincere expressions of gratitude reflected what we felt in our own hearts. We were filled with awe at what God had done.

The stuffy heat of the day lifted as a colony of silvery clouds bobbled past above us. I had brought my rainjacket just in case....