Hope Made Real - The Story of Mama Arlene and the Children of Urukundo

Trip #2—Trip Extraordinaire

I was surprised and pleased when I received an email from Pastor Jupa imploring me to come back to Rwanda with a team traveling from Virginia. This team included Yvonne whom I had met before. I gave it little thought. Another email was more insistent, so I called Yvonne to get the details. The Reston team was traveling to Gisenyi situated on the Congo border where they would be working with genocide survivors from Rwanda. I asked Yvonne if it was possible for me to tag along. I half hoped she’d say no. Then, I’d tell Jupa that I’d tried. Yvonne was pleased to hear from me. They needed ten passengers to qualify for a cheaper airfare. I was number ten.

It was 2002 when I prepared for a second trip. I informed my family and faith community, purchased mosquito repellant, sneakers, and clothes for travel. The funniest thing I purchased was a longline bra two sizes too big. My sister Joanne and my good friend Dorotha helped me tailor it to carry money. It bulged in strange places, but the money was secure.

The Reston team wished to meet me and ask questions because I had been to Africa and they had not. After my six-hour drive I was welcomed into the home of Mary Jackson, a gracious hostess who transported me to the meeting place, allowing me to relax after my long drive. Preparing to return to Rwanda was a joy. I looked forward to the planned January trip.

Christmas passed and the new year was upon us. It was time to go. That final night before the first leg of my journey I tossed and turned and was relieved when Sunday morning finally arrived. My last-minute preparations were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. It was only 7:30 a.m. Who would call this early? Patricia, my oldest daughter, as well as a wife, mother, and a United Methodist pastor, was on the line. She wished me well and said she would be praying for me. I was pleased to hear from her.

After Tricia’s call I finished packing odds and ends, and now with time growing heavy, I put on my coat to take myself to breakfast before church. Not wanting to eat at a restaurant alone I made myself coffee and toast.

Out the window snow clouds were gathering. I had gassed up and now crammed the luggage for Rwanda and the trip to Reston into my car trunk. Before I could be on my way, there was a church full of people who had planned a consecration service, complete with the laying on of hands, a first for me. I was hoping some of my family would be there, too. It would be reassuring to see them before I left on such a far trip. Opening the door of the car, I paused to send thoughts heavenward.

“Be with me through this day. See me safely to Virginia and then get us on our way to Rwanda.” I was ready.

At the first morning service, the church laid their hands and dedicated me to the mission. Ted, my oldest son, and his wife Sherri shared the consecration and holy communion with me. At the second worship service, Jacque, my youngest along with her family, my middle daughter Barb and her spouse John, and two of my granddaughters Laura, and Becki, along with her family, sat with me. I felt so honored and humbled.

Only one child was missing—my youngest son Jerry and his wife Janet. I couldn’t leave without seeing them. The road out of town veered only two blocks from their home. I stopped. We hugged and kissed, and Janet gave me coffee in her own personal mug to go. Now, having touched base with all five of my children, I left with peace of mind.

I carried their words in my heart, “We love you. Be safe.”

As you might guess, January is not the best month to travel the roads between Pennsylvania and Virginia. The snow that had held off all morning let loose. The heavy flakes of snow stuck to my windshield, making the wipers almost useless. I drove at a crawl following the taillight ahead of me. I breathed a sigh of relief as I exited off the highway. My host Mary let out an alleluia when I finally drove into her driveway hours later than expected.

The following day we departed from Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C. I did not feel as alone as I had on my first mission trip. The team from Reston was supportive and loving. I was grateful that they counted me one of the team from the start.

I took a deep breath as I settled into my seat and buckled the safety belt. I thought about Pastor Jupa and the children I had met in the refugee camps. My hope was to travel from Rwanda to Zaire to find the children. Traveling to Goma, Zaire, would be unsafe, but if I could find a way I would go. The children would be gone, but I hoped to see the leaders, Zachee and Thomas, and the women of the church, if the congregation still existed. I was also anxious to see the folks I’d met in Zaire, who were now living in Rwanda.

From Washington, we flew to Atlanta and on to London, then Johannesburg, South Africa. The team hired a van and tour guide in Johannesburg. I learned about the history of the Apartheid and the redevelopment of the city since the return of Nelson Mandela. I was pleased to visit Mandela’s home where he’d lived before his imprisonment. With unease, I sensed our guide was gearing the tour to a certain political bend. He wanted us to see only the new and improved South Africa. But we couldn’t ignore all that we saw. Some dilapidated houses and scantily clothed children we were not meant to see told a different story. I’d experienced the same thing in Goma. Volunteers came and went in a month’s time and did not get a full picture of what was happening in the country beyond the cover of their protected area.

The next morning our plane made a quick pick-up stop in Bujumbura, Burundi. Our destination, Rwanda, was a short three hours away.

This was my first time in Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. The Rwandan International Airport was bigger than I’d expected. From the top step of the ramp I saw Pastor Jupa waving to us from the top of the observation deck. I’ve always carried the fear that no one would be waiting when I arrived, so he was a welcome sight. As quickly as we waved in return, he was gone. We stepped onto the tarmac and walked up the stairs to the Immigrations and Customs Office. There were two people stamping passports, making it a quick process. We descended a long flight of stairs to the baggage claim area and Pastor Jupa’s wonderful welcome. He was apparently a very influential man because customs waved us through after checking one piece of luggage, and I know it wasn’t because of how we looked. We appeared travel worn and were showing the beginnings of jet lag. I wouldn’t have trusted us on appearance.

Pastor Jupa excitedly ushered us into the main terminal. He made introductions to our welcoming committee, consisting of Sinanga, Pastor John Paul, Reverend Mark, all of whom I had met before, and a new person—a woman pastor whose name I forgot. I was disappointed that Jupa’s wife was not there. I had met her in the refugee camp in 1996 and looked forward to seeing her again. I did not see her on this trip. Jupa explained that she was away caring for her mother.

Our hotel, The Sky, was not the best, but it fit our budget. Thank goodness local boys carried my luggage up the narrow winding steps to my third-floor room. Dinner was in a Catholic hostel, a religious house that catered to travelers. We were all so tired we could have skipped dinner, but Pastor Jupa would not hear of it. The Rwandan fare was delicious.

Early the next morning we loaded onto a bus and started for Gisenyi where we would be staying. The town of Gisenyi is Pastor Jupa’s home. The Gisenyi Province contained the churches that cared for the children we’d been supporting. We were to meet all four hundred orphans under their care. We looked forward to reading books, sharing stories, playing games, singing, and loving these children.

Rwanda is known as the land of a thousand hills, and the roller coaster drive from Kigali to Gisenyi felt like twice that many. We held our breath as the driver maneuvered the curves. It was a true test of driving skill. When we met the occasional car or truck traveling toward us, our driver stayed firm, expecting every other driver to get out of his way. I was glad I was not driving. A Chinese firm constructed the road in the 1960s, so it had been twenty-five years since the last paving. We traveled through Ruhengari Province. This was where Dian Fossey lived while she worked to save the gorillas of Rwanda. The movie Gorillas in the Mist was based on her life. The movie contained scenes of the terrain between Ruhungari and Gisenyi and the five volcanoes of the region.

The graceful terraced hillsides were many vibrant shades of green. They were tightly planted and cultivated. The terraces prevent erosion of the topsoil and crops during heavy rains. The hillsides were steep. It’s incredible that anyone can climb them and still have energy to work the fields. The panorama held tea, sorghum, potatoes, cabbage, tomatoes, peppers, beans, and other plants we could not identify. Everything seemed to grow in this fertile land. The colors ranged from a pale lemon green to a deep emerald.

“I can’t describe this. I’ve got to have pictures,” one of my traveling companions exclaimed.

Several times we had the driver stop so we could get a really good shot. Picturesque only partially describes it.

I tell others, “You have to see it in person.”

After a good night’s rest, the following morning we bounced over a rugged road in a four-wheel vehicle to meet the orphans under Pastor Jupa’s care. The children and several women came on foot to meet us....