Merry Christmas to you…

Christmas, for those of us who were raised in a Christian setting brings all kinds of imagery, for some there are the celebrations, the gift giving, the elaborate meals of turkey, ham, goose or whatever else, depending on your ethnic origin or background.  It is a usually a time for families coming together to celebrate, to light the bonds of friendship afresh, to listen to music that makes us think back to our childhood and simply wish those days were here again.  For others there is a deeper meaning for this season, the birth of the one in whom they have entrusted their life and fate, Jesus.

It was Christmastime and some of the stores had put up some decorations of lights and all and I was missing the snow on the mountains of the Cascades, the turkey dinner and the like, when I decided to treat myself and watch a performance of Ndere Troupe doing their African Tribal dances, and songs.  I went early and sat right up front at a table where I could have a most wonderful view of the performers.  I ordered some BBQ food, the place filled with up with mostly well to do Ugandan families and soon things got underway with the band playing and the dancers moving their limbs in ways that would probably do harm to those of us who come from the West.

 As I started to eat the food, I noticed a group of children dressed in sort of ragged and torn school uniforms, there were barefooted and awkwardly walked among the crowd.  One of the waiters tried so shoo them away, but a man who appeared to be a priest, due to the collar he wore.  After some discussion he led the children off to the side, away from the tables were some hastily arranged chairs were set up for them.  My attention moved from the dancers and musicians to the children.  I looked at their faces, their expressions that turned from awkwardness, feeling out of place, to one of smiles and enjoyment.  There was one particular boy that drew my attention.  He was slight of built, his clothes torn, his feet caked in the red clay of Africa.  His face was dusty with the dirt of the day or days, and yet his eyes sparkled with delight and his feet tapped to the beat of the music.  A little boy, about seven years of age, enjoying a moment in time, a treat for him.  I saw his face, he had become oblivious to the fact that he had felt out of place only a few moments ago, and he was lost childlike wonder at the things happening before him.

The waiter came to clear my table; I asked him if he could please bring the kids the soda of their choice, some chips and samosas and not to tell them who had ordered it for them.  He looked at me like I was crazy, but he took the order, walking away, shaking his head, wondering about the mzungu (westerner) who had ordered refreshments for kids he wished were not here since they were a reminder of the ache of Africa, the poor, the orphaned, the disenfranchised, the voiceless and in this setting, most of the Africans around me were affluent, drove nice cars and had good jobs with the government or in the business world.

When the food arrived, the over thirty children clapped in joy and I enjoyed it even more that I was able to do a little thing to give a joy for a moment. 

 I had been so preoccupied, watching the children that I did not notice most the performance of the dancers and band, but the time had arrived where they would ask the children to participate and enter into various dances. The orphan children on my right also joined in with a sense of abandonment and joy.  This was the night a little girl asked me to dance also, and at first the German in me said no and then I joined the kids and everyone clapped (write about this on another page).  When it was all over, we all stood holding hands and taking a bow.  The little boy I had watched earlier was next to me.  I turned to him, greeted him and shook his hand.  We talked and he told me that he had never been here before, but the Priest had brought them from his orphanage for a Christmas treat and he was overjoyed that he came.  His parents had died of AIDS and he had no family nearby since he came from the north of Uganda and so wound up in an African run orphanage that did not have lots of support.  I asked him for his name.  It was Emmanuel.  I thought how ironic life was.  Here was Emmanuel, a young Ugandan boy with a name that had a meaning that he might not even know.  2000 years earlier another unwanted boy was born in a village in Bethlehem, and one of his names was Emmanuel, meaning, “God with us.”