Soap Beards, Eating Spaghetti with Hands, and Jesus

Mwatum – a sweet friend of mine. She is thirty-two, has five children and another on the way. We spend our time together generally over a meal, as we share whatever life may bring our way.

It had been several weeks since I saw Mwatum. The last I heard from her, she was out of town, where she sells mandazi (African doughnuts) in the bush, as it has better profits. She promised to call when she returned. Usually Mwatum is gone for a number of days. Two weeks had passed. Still no call. I tried calling with no answer, so I decided to go to her compound unannounced. Mwatum is a Muslim. I do not know what the repercussions are for being friends with me. I do my best to keep them minimal. She only recently got a phone of her own, which meant I try to announce my comings.

As I approached her compound, I could hear her children shouting, “Namilo! Mary!” (my Karimojong name is Namilo). Her younger children and I created a bond when I came by the compound months earlier. They were to be washing their clothes. Unsupervised, they decided laundry would be more fun with soapy beards. Seeing me, they quickly wiped the soap off their face. Being the oversized kid that I am, I went over to the basin, scooped up a handful of bubbles, and gave myself a beard. We have been friends ever since. Today I am welcomed onto the compound and ushered to a chair, completing a circle of women.

In many African cultures, including the Karimojong, it is typical for people to eat off the same plate. It is also common to eat with your hands. As I join these women, I instantly note the plate of spaghetti noodles, beans, and greens. No sooner than I sit down, Thomas (Mwatum’s youngest) has water for me to wash my hands. I am expected to eat. I am not a master at eating with my hands, but slowly I am perfecting my skills. I do take a moment to thank Jesus that we are eating spaghetti and not rice. I don’t know these two friends of Mwatum, and I am thankful their first impression of me is not me attempting to pick up rice and put it in my mouth gracefully… because I lack the grace to do so! Although the plate is half empty already, I am told I must pray for the food. I laugh to myself. In what world does a Muslim insist a Christian pray? The first time it happened, I said, “Mwatum, you know I pray to Jesus, right? He is the only one I will ever pray to”. She understood, and still insists I pray. Today, like all the other times, I pray for the food and that God would be glorified in our time together.

Her friends dominate the conversation. When they find out I have a brother, one tries to convince me that it would be good if I gave her to my brother to be his wife. I am continually amazed at how many women try this line. I tell them that I can’t give my brother a wife, but he needs to find one himself (Dean, you’re welcome). The three women start talking about me in Ngakarimojong. Today I don’t have the energy to try and figure out what they are saying. That is when Mwatum interrupts in English, “Eh! Namilo knows the language. So, don’t talk about her. She knows what you are saying!” Mwatum is always a confidence booster for me in my language learning. She challenges me when we talk, and she stands up for me. Usually she makes me prove what I know. Every ounce of me prayed she wouldn’t today. Thankfully she did not. This did not stop the fact that they were talking about me and not to me. Instead, they just switched to English. “Eh! She is so free. The whites don’t usually eat our food. They don’t use their hands. Namilo is just free.” English is much harder to tune out.

Thomas found a chair and came to sit next to me. I would guess he is seven years old and currently is missing most of his front teeth. He has the smile of a future heart breaker. I know my heart melts every time he flashes me a smile. I turn my attention to Thomas, as the women continue to talk about me. We greet. We giggle. We have a good time. By the grace of God, our conversation dulls in time for me to hear Mwatum talk about how different I am from other people – all people, not just other white people. “You know,” she says with enthusiasm, “she doesn’t go to the clubs, the discos, the pubs, what. With her it’s just Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” No one realized I heard these words. I smiled and let the words refresh my soul.

As Mwatum spoke these words, God spoke to my heart. “See,” He whispered with tenderness to my aching heart, “you are My mirror as you live in relationship. And that is all I am asking you to do with Mwatum. Be faithful in it”.

Moment to moment, I find myself praying, asking God what I am to do. Rarely does He give me tangible things – buy food, provide for a need, build something cool (I have a strange love of hammers). Rather, I am to be His example by living in relationship. Americans like results, notable progress to show what we are working for is making a difference… or maybe it’s just me. As I continually ask God what I should do, I am saying that I am not doing enough and in a way, trying to take control. All God is asking me to do is be obedient to what He asks of me. He isn’t asking me to provide amazing results of changed lives to track my obedience. The truth is, I cannot change anyone. God is the only one in the business of changing lives, and I would fall flat on my back in failure if I tried. I need to lose my “results” mentality, and trust God to do His job.

I thank Jesus for giving me the chance to hear Mwatum’s image of me. She sees Jesus. What more could I ask for?