Tommy touches down.

After about twenty-four hours of boarding announcements, stewardess questions and in-flight movies, I arrived in Uganda with my classmate and summer cohort George at about 9pm yesterday. We gathered all of our luggage (praise God), and before I could begin to read the collage of cardboard signs held by the anticipating mass outside, our supervisor—Father Joe—emerged to give us a welcoming embrace. We loaded his pickup truck with our bags, drove through Entebbe and Kampala, the capital city, and arrived at Father Joe’s parish two hours later. I was happy to discover the route to be paved the whole way. Another priest and a brother woke up to welcome us, and we retired for the evening after a late night snack of bread and tea. Thank you for your prayers for safe travel.

We’ve been given today off to recuperate and unpack. George and I walked around the school complex for a bit this afternoon. There are about 950 total students who attend the primary and secondary schools. I’ll find out soon what I’ll be teaching. It looks to be a challenging task—there are about seventy students per class! Tomorrow, we’ll officially become acquainted with the school, beginning with daily chapel at 6am (!), and we’ll meet a committee who will assist us with any questions and problems we have. Wednesday will offer a unique experience. We’ll gather outside of Kampala with throngs of people to celebrate the national holiday of the Ugandan martyrs. The day commemorates the martyrdom of faithful Ugandan Christians more than a century ago for their refusal to worship the king’s idols. There will be no American succinctness that day: mass begins at 10am, and will last more than four hours, only to be followed by more speeches. I’ve been told people will be there on pilgrimages from Kenya, Rwanda, Ethiopia, and all over Africa.

Building relationships here is like exercising an atrophied muscle. I’m so used to ending interactions as soon as the common ground has been covered. Once the first prolonged pause arises, someone generously creates an escape (“Well, you’ve got work to do…”), and the day can continue. Here, though, I can’t escape to my cell phone, my car, or my pressing schedule. There’s no day that’s so important that it takes precedence over relationships and their entailments. Prolonged pauses are incorporated into the rhythm of conversations here with the same openness as outsiders are incorporated into living community. The warmth and charity of my new Ugandan friends provide an exercise in learning the extent to which we’re not “to neglect to show hospitality” (Heb 13:2).

(The red brick building in the awkward picture above is where the parish’s three priests live. I’ll take my meals there. It has a parlor with a tv. Before dinner, I’ll join the priests and others to watch the news. The blue house is where George and I are living, called “The Duke House.” We each have our own room with a desk and a bed, with a common bathroom joining us.)