It is hot and humid night.  My windows are open, allowing a gentle breeze into my bedroom.  I walk over to the door to the balcony.  The door itself is wide open, but the barred gate would keep any intruder out.  I see the glimmering lights of Kampala in the distance; tonight I can even see Lake Victoria shimmering in the moonlight.  I glance at my watch and it is approaching midnight, and yet the city, the town, the neighborhood is not asleep.  My faithful Askari however is (guard, night watchman).  I can hear his reassuring snoring sound drifting up from underneath the balcony.  There is a little stone bench where he finds rest while guarding me.  His bow and arrows are beside him.  I always wondered how he would defend me against robbers who are armed with guns and machetes.  Fortunately I never had to find out.

African night sounds, drums from a distance, down near Entebbe Road where every night a group of people gather to play drums, have some of the young girls dance, and talk about life, hopes, dreams and the new lottery system that just came to town, all the while drinking some home brew out of a common pot.  I have sat there with them and laughed and talked until early morning discussing Africa, the old ways, the new way of life, and change how it comes and what we fear and hope about it.

People were walking along the lane just outside the fenced yard.  Music with its typical ding, ding, tinny sound blares from a house nearby.  Laughter of people enjoying themselves, celebrating life, since life is often short in Africa, so one might as well celebrate each moment.

I hear the fluttering wings of bats overhead as they were headed toward their home in my attic.  The sound of a bird enters this night symphony.  Why was he not asleep?  A gunshot pierced the thick, humid night air, not too unusual.  Bugs galore around the balcony light. The sweet scent of flowers from down in the garden.  There was the orchestral sounds of crickets joined in a buzz by thousands of other insects.  The sounds of the nights brought comfort to me, quieted my soul from the cares of the day, the things I had to do, the dust of much activity.

Africa was not asleep and neither was I.  I grabbed a book and sat down in a comfortable chair.  The power was on again and I could read.  The book was “Steppenwolf” by Herman Hesse, the story about a man who had withdrawn from life, was afraid of life and of love, of loving and being loved.  I had read some night as a young boy many years earlier at a time when I used to fear the night.  Was afraid that tomorrow would never come and that all the evil things came out at night.

Now, years later I have learned differently.  Evil can happen day or night.  Good can come in the darkness and germinate its seeds of love and grace in darkness, just like the tulips used to do their sprouting in the darkness of the cellar of that ancient house in Germany.  Light can shine in the midst of darkness and no darkness can put out that inner flame of hope and faith.  That radiant trust that in the darkness there is the seed for another day, more life, and if this light does go out, there is that life that is beyond the sphere of the world as we know it.

I received a call the other morning from a friend.  Her son had died in her arms at a very young age.  The misery of diabetes with all of its complications.  He was filled with hope that week.  He had just met a woman who was willing to give him a kidney, a part of herself, her life, she wanted to share, to make a difference in the life of another.  She had never met Tom or known him, but heard his story.  The blood types matched, a tissue sample was next, but then came the sound of the night, the night of the soul, and Tom went to another life, another realm.  I am sure he did not know what was on the other side of this dimension of the life of here and now, but like all who goes that way, he received the empowerment to make that journey.

 I awakened to the sound of my curtains fluttering in the wind and the sound of African rain.  I had fallen asleep reading my German novel while sitting in the comfortable chair.  I walked back to the balcony door, looking at the lightning flashing in the distance; through it all I could hear the call to prayer from the nearby mosque.  Church bells soon chimed in, yes, the night was almost over, morning would come, Mr. Musesi and his sons would come out for morning prayer.  The sun would rise and soon school children would be walking up and down the path next to the house.

Every night before I go to sleep, I quietly sit gazing out over the Puget Sound.  I look at the lights of the Arco Refinery in the distance; I can hear the cars below me in the street.  A siren here and there.  The splashing of my fountain and yet like in Africa, there is an inner stillness that floods my heart.  There is a quietness of spirit. 

There are things I like to change; there are things I wish would happen.  There is a place that my heart longs for, adventures and things I have not yet done, and yet I have learned after listening to many a night, that morning does come again, the sun shines again, and even in the midst of darkness there is an inner light.  “I know not what the future holds, but I know who holds the future,” was a song I heard in the 60’s, I still hum it today...jon