Hosanna Hosanna Hosanna

April 1, 2007 Photo of St, Francis Hospital – Mutolere taken from Parish Church –on the hill
Dear Friends

It is April 1st and how I would love to play a joke on you but I am not fool enough ,I could get away with it so many miles away. So, instead I’ll tell you of my week in Uganda, Africa.: I now have a hot shower and trust me when I say HOT!. There seems to be no middle ground in this country
I also have a refrig and a microwave. I didn’t want a microwave but I got one anyway, according to the Administrator of the Hosp.,” a sophisticated one” that can cook anything-ha.. If anyone has any tips on how to cook tender meat , hard boiled eggs or anything else , please tell me ASAP..

Today , Palm Sunday, was a treat. I attended Mass at the parish church, instead of the hospital chapel . I didn’t have my camera and would not have felt comfortable using it, but I’ll try and paint a picture for you.

OK, here goes: Imagine hundreds of men, woman and children climbing a hilly road to attend Mass at 8:30 am Palm Sunday. Most are dressed in traditional African dress ; many colors and fabrics draped around them and adorning their heads matching scarves. Many of the woman had another blanket wrapped from their backs and tied in front . This blanket held their safely tucked baby who could have been born yesterday or be as old as three years. .
. The older woman and men carried well varnished sticks about six inches thick, that they use for support as they climb the two mile hill to the church. A few motorbikes , numerous people walking their bikes and maybe two cars zip by us. Sr. Justine,( remember Sr. denotes being a nurse not, necessarily a religious sister) my supervisor, carries her adorable 17 mo old daughter Olivia while I carry the palms to be blessed (BYOP- It’s “bring your own palms” in Africa.). Half way up the hill Justine and I trade bundles.
Everyone greets each other pleasantly in spite of the distance or incline, while I, with Olivia on my hip, try not to embarrass myself too much with my huffing and puffing-ha
What is, obviously, a social occasion to the Ugandan people feels like a pilgrimage to me. I am expecting to see a vision of Jesus or the Blessed Mother at the peak of this journey, but happily settle for a pew with a back support on it.-smile.
Since I was the only muzunga (white person) in the crowd, I did not go unnoticed. The children flocked around me as if I were a celebrity, while the elderly shake my hand and bow seeming to want a blessing.. Their response is understandable when you see their statues and painting of Mary and the saints: never has she been so white and blond hair? Come on, will somebody tell these beautiful people that Jesus and his Mom probably looked a whole lot more like them then me!
Ok , now we are in the church and they take Justine, Olivia and myself to the first row to sit with the religious sisters (no blending in here). The church is adorned with palms and everyone is waving theirs in the air singing “Hosanna, Hosanna”, To my left are rows and rows of children singing and waving their palms, each dressed more festively than the next. Imagine the dresses American little girls wear , maybe once, for first holy communion or a party. Imagine a couple of hundred of those dresses in every color and every condition—it matters not. They may have dress shoes on or flip flops but most are barefoot. To the right of me are older children who are in the choir dressed in white dresses or matching green skirts, shorts(for the young boys) with green paper crowns on their heads to celebrate Jesus’s entrance into Jerusalem. Shortly after the scripture readings , the children (on the right side) file up to the altar and gently, at first, begin to sway to the music. Then the swaying turns into dance and it is wonderful!!!
As the Mass continues in their native language –Rufumbria—I am mesmerized by the music, the singing, the dance and the reverence. Truly God is in this place!!! The collection baskets are woven and decorated and not passed around but held by the altar boys while the entire congregation files up to put their shilling or two in the basket. At the end of the liturgy,. the children, again, sway up to the altar, followed by anyone , mostly the young children and woman, who join them in the swaying. .
. Then just when you think it is over the music changes and the tempo picks up and all the children and woman start really dancing , actually jumping up and down. The Priest looks on approvingly as little tiny children and elderly woman in traditional garb and walking sticks, start jumping up and down., barefoot on a cement floor. It is glorious, rousing and if you don’t feel the Spirit there, you’ll never feel it..
Leaving the church is like leaving a rock concert, gobs of people leaving at once, but without the fear of being trampled as it is all in slow motion. No one seems to be in a hurry for this special time to be over. Each grandmother must be acknowledged, each tiny child hugged, each visitor greeted. Carol, at the Mission House, used to speak of hospitality, this is Hospitality with a capital H..
I think coming down the hill was more challenging than climbing up, with rocks to skid on and bikes and motorbikes flying by, but again no one seemed to notice, they were too full of the Spirit and community to notice.
I am home now feeling quite full myself:. I know I am not Ugandan , but I share their religion, and for a few hours I was a part of something “not of this world.”
HOSANNA HOSANNA HOSANNA
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