A Ugandan Celebration

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!