Last weekend, two of my colleagues who are cousins (S & G) lost their grandfather. They are from the southwestern corner of Uganda, almost all the way to Rwanda. As is normal here, a group was organized to go from New Hope in support of our sisters. I decided to go with them, because S is one of my closer friends here.
I'm glad I went for the funeral. I wanted to be there for S
and G, and I’m glad I was. But I’m also grateful simply for being there and
being able to experience the testimony to this man’s life. And I wanted to
share the experience with you.
S & G are part of a western Ugandan
tribe, so they speak a different language than the one spoken in the area where
I live and work. So I understood even less of what was being said than I would
have if it were in Luganda (the language I know tiny bits of). But a couple
other of my fellow staff who went with us are from that area, so they helped
translate some of what was spoken.
The man (I didn’t even catch his name!) who passed away was
107 years old; he had at least nine children, and there seemed to be close to
20 grandchildren there. Funerals in Uganda are normally big community events. I’m
bad at estimating numbers, but I think there must have been at least 500 people
there by the end of the service.
The grandfather accepted the Lord at the age of 7, and
evidently spent the next one hundred years serving Christ faithfully. He was
part of the Church of Uganda, which is Anglican. They had at least six pastors
there to take part in the funeral, as well as a small choir with some beautiful
local instruments. Between each part of the service, the leader would
spontaneously break into a short hymn and the choir and attendees would join in.
I really appreciated that – it felt like such a joyful celebration.
It is evidently customary at funerals in Uganda for someone
close to the deceased to relate the story of their last days/moments on earth.
I’ve noticed this at three of the five funeral services I’ve been at – and the
other two I wasn’t there for the whole thing. In this case, one of the
grandfather’s two surviving daughters explained what happened. I didn’t catch
much, but he evidently had been sick for a couple months—mostly in the hospital—and
finally an infection claimed his earthly body.
For him to have lived to 107 is really amazing in Uganda,
where the life expectancy is about half that. Evidently he has a couple sisters
who are still alive; they were there but didn’t speak because of their advanced
age. As I said, this gentleman is survived by two of his daughters. A third
daughter, S’s mom, died some years back. He also had six sons, but all six died
before him (two in the past year, I think). Each of the sons' widows was there,
though, and one of them spoke for the group. She told about their father-in-law’s
generosity towards them – and she’s the one who got choked up while speaking.
The sister to S’s grandmother, who had also died before her
husband, shared a bit as well. I think one of the things that especially
blessed me was seeing the apparent unity in the family. Of course, I am not
very familiar with their story – but what I saw yesterday seemed difference
than what I often hear about here.
Last month, I listened to nine Ugandan women talk about
their family background – and about half of them had a father who practiced
polygamy. In a culture where bearing children (and lots of them) is considered “proof”
of one’s manhood/womanhood, men often have children by multiple women – whether
or not they are really married to all/any of them, and whether or not the man takes any part in raising the children.
During the car ride, we heard a radio talk show discussion
about whether a person should let his/her spouse and “side dish” (a term that I
eventually figured out meant a romantic interest outside of marriage) be
friends. It basically took for granted that of course one would have such a “side
dish,” the question was only if a man would let “his woman” (wife) be friends
with her. It was such a demeaning conversation to have about women – as if they
were just objects to be used as it pleased the man – especially in the way
those terms were used.
That stood in such contrast to what I perceived about the
man whose life we went to celebrate. There was no mention that I picked up on of
other wives, half siblings, or similar family fragmentation. Instead, it seemed
like this man was an example to his children and grandchildren – an example I
saw fruit of as I watched them working together to prepare things for the
service.
The grandchildren had shirts made with a photo of their
grandfather, and under it were the words of 2 Tim. 2:7, about fighting the good
fight. That’s also what the pastor preached on briefly. And the testimony lives
on – one of S’s brothers is evidently a pastor, and he came and took the time to
pray for our group before we started our long journey back.
The funeral service is often held in the family’s compound
(their yard). In this case, the seating was in the open area between four
houses – the grandfather’s house on one side, with three of his son’s homes on
two of the other sides. Afterwards the body is usually buried in the family’s
matooke plantation (an area where they grow a type of banana), including a
cement topper.
I had been to three such burials already, and always I have been
struck by the contrast between the family’s wailing and the hymns sung by those
less deeply affected. At my first Ugandan burial, I wasn’t expecting the loud
sobbing, and it really caught me off guard. This time, I was waiting for it –
and it never came. The hymns were sung, the prayers were said – and I’m sure
the emotions were there, but they weren’t given the same fierce expression I’ve
seen before. This may be mainly because the other funerals I have attended have
been for people who died too early' – in fact all three of the others were my
age or younger. But it still seems a difference that I noticed.
S & G stayed there with their family. After a death like
this, there are meetings to have and discussions/decisions to be made. So please
keep them and their family in your prayers during the coming days.
Our group of 12 had left New Hope at about midnight and
driven through Wednesday morning about 8.5 hours to reach the village where the
funeral was. We were early for the service, which started at about 1 p.m., but
it gave us a chance to relax a bit. Coming back took more like 10 hours because
we made more stops. It was almost 2 a.m. on Thursday when I fell into my bed.
So it was a LOT of traveling. I couldn’t help but notice the irony that my
first three trips between Dallas and Entebbe each took about the same amount of
time as the traveling we did yesterday. But as I said, I’m very glad I went. And, it is a beautiful area with lots of rolling hills - very different than our mostly flat area here!
