Transitioning

     Its been a week full of walking around, shaking hands, cups of coffee, powerpoint presentations, staff call meetings, arranging offices, moving offices, Skyping family, playing pool, ping-pong, basketball, karaoke, and cluelessly roaming about during an Indirect Fire Attack. All in all, a whirlwind of events cascading about me whose only distinguishable sense of order has come from each events relative occurances being either before or after breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
     As far as Chaplain services that I am responsible for there are currently three ongoing events.  A Wednesday Night Bible Study, Sunday Morning Protestant Service, and a Sunday Evening Ugandan Service.  Wednesday went well, and I look forward to my first lesson in the drivers seat this upcoming Wednesday.  It will be like my Friday Night Bible Studies that I looked forward to all week back at home. (Minus some awesome cooking by my wife, which is why everyone else who attended it looked forward to it all week.)  Sunday morning service had around 50 people in it, and could have fooled me into thinking I was back home on American soil in the Post Chapel (except there everyone conceals the weapons they've brought to Church, here you have to say "Excuse me Sir/Ma'am but I think your gun is digging into my hip.")
     Sunday night has a lot of potential.  When I heard I would be leading a Ugandan Service (the Ugandans pull most of our outer perimeter security these days.) I expected it to be just that, Ugandan in flavor.  It turned out to be 20-25 Ugandans trying to mirror the morning service.  The Chaplain preached in English to glassy eyed seemingly non-comprehending congregants (which I suppose kind of mirrors most Churches back in the States as well) and then when the choir was asked to come sing, they had sheet music trying to pronounce the words to the same choruses that were sang in the morning service and with pained smiles they beat the lyrics out, and with barely contained winces we endured because it was obvious their hearts were in it.  After the final line grated to a reverberating halt and my neck muscles began to untense the Chaplain said "Do ya'll have one more you might could do for us?" Apparently they had not planned for another, so they thankfully set the sheet music aside and in perfect barbershop harmony sang the most hauntingly beautiful hymn in Zwahili that I have ever heard.  Tears came to my eyes quicker than if I was told a fresh pot of coffee had just been brewed.
     I quickly gathered together all of the Ugandan choir members and asked if anyone felt confident enough in the English language to be able to translate next weeks sermon into Swahili, and everyone immediatly pointed their fingers at one person (probably their equivalent to the lowest ranking private) and he said "I would be happy to Sir."  I asked if they thought it would help to translate the sermon and every head bobbed in unison, as they said many more Ugandans would come who could not understand  English as well.  I told them it was settled, the sermons would be translated each Sunday evening.  Then I added "And from this point on, only sing in Swahili."  All faces broke into big smiles.  Then the gentleman who got peer chosen as a translator asked "But Sir, did you understand the praise we just sang to God?" And I said "No, but I understood the Spirit, and I worshipped with you."  Next Sunday should be awesome.