Coming home to a foreign land

Last week E and I returned home from a trip to South Africa. He had a conference there, and since I telecommute, I decided I could work just as well from a hotel with Internet connection in Cape Town as from my townhouse in Khartoum, so we were off! Plus, we would have the nights and weekends to do some exploring . . .

We'll definitely share more about the SA trip as we get the photos and video together. Suffice it to say for now that:
Animals were seen.
Arts and crafts were purchased.
Wine was "tasted."
Table Mountain was climbed (yes, that's a good story for another time).
Fun was had.

But what I wanted to write about today was the experience of coming home from one exotic destination to another foreign location. There is something so sweet about arriving in a place that is so different from the culture you grew up in, and yet that still begins to feel like it too is your Home. It really gets you thinking about what Home is after all.

I mean, technically, it should be where my family is. But If I spent my time here thinking of Summit County, (and Denver, Los Angeles, Fayetteville, or the Twin Cities) as our only home, I think I'd end up feeling dissatisfied with the present, achingly nostalgic, and just generally antsy. On the other hand, if I can start to think about a multitudinous concept of home, as a place where you live (for the time being), and where there are people you love and who love you . . . then a whole world of Home can open up.

And that's the experience I've been having this past week. Things are familiar, but still strange, comfortable, but still surprising, ordinary, but extraordinary. We're reaching for our cameras again, everything seems freshly noteworthy.

An image from our home here for you to "take home" with you:
When you greet people here, you can get into a seemingly endless exchange of questions, check-ins, blessings on your health, your family, etc. It's great really. But when you don't have facility with the language, or if you happen to be speaking to a Sudanese person whose native language is one of the 80-some non-Arabic languages in this country, then what can you do to be culturally sensitive?! (I mean clearly, when the exchange of greetings can go on for many minutes, it is not a minor part of the culture of communication here!) Not to worry, there's a gesture that seems to be another foolproof way to get a smile and connect with the people of Sudan - from the kids playing ball in the street to the ancient man on the stoop on the corner: you make eye contact, smile gently, and put your right hand on your heart. If you know a word of greeting, great. If not, it's ok. This gesture seems to say it all.

Sunday Mornin'

What really got me was when, after shaking hands with our neighbors during the Sharing of the Peace, everyone looked around at those who were too far to reach physically and waved brightly with both hands.

This morning's church service was held in the Catholic Basilica just up the street from our home. We drive by it several times a week, and have often appreciated it's neoclassical charm in the midst of the many aluminum, glass, and steel sided modern buildings going up all over Khartoum. We've passed it many times, but today, we decided to go inside.

As we walked in, we were both surprised at how full the pews were. Perhaps we've grown cynical about the state of Christianity in the United States, feeling generally estranged from much of the population that call themselves Christian, and watching the attendance at local community-based progressive churches dwindle in the shadows of of the ballooning suburban megachurches. The growth of Christianity in Africa isn't always at the front of our minds, but if today's service was an indication of anything, it is a force not to be underestimated.

We sat down, and as the bells in the tower began to ring in the start of the service, the most peculiar howling rose up alongside. I listened perplexed for a bit, and then remembered the gangs of street dogs out in this, and nearly every, neighborhood in the city. Apparently they had some praising to do this morning too . . .

When the first hymn started, my heart sunk. Oh no! I thought this was going to be in Arabic, but I'm not understanding a single word in these lyrics! Then, when it ended, and the first prayer began, I realized that, yet again, I had failed to pick up on the Sudanese dialect (or perhaps it was really a more distant Southern dialect that I hadn't yet been exposed to anyway?!). As the service processed, I limped along, catching words and phrases as I could. I consoled myself, thinking: At least if I don't understand every word, I can't get caught up in the battle of semantics I find myself fighting so often in English language liturgies. I didn't have to worry about overuse of patriarchal, hierarchical, or exclusivist language this morning - all nuances were pretty much lost on me. I was just going for recognizable vocabulary most of the time.

The highlights of our experience today would probably include:

• the string of blinking green and white fairy lights wrapped around a rough wooden-stick cross near the chancel


• the priest preaching from right behind the altar, right at the center of sacred power, rather than the available pulpit or lectern on either side???


• the stadium-style Hammond organ that accompanied the hymns


• forgetting (momentarily) that I was any different from those sitting around me while we listened and prayed together (until I looked down and saw the shockingly white skin on my hands again)


• and certainly the pervasive sense of welcome we felt as, after the "Sharing of the Peace, we followed the model of our neighbors, and looked up and around at the other congregants beyond our reach and waved to them, mouthing "As-Salaamu alekum, wa alekum as-Salaam" to all within sight. This was a community whose cups of welcome, hospitality, and desire for peace runneth over.

Just another Sunday mornin' here out here in sunny Sudan . . .