Baskets of Grace

After rafting last weekend in Uganda, my friend Josh and I planned to stop in Kisumu on the return trip and spend sometime with our dear friend Anselm at his ancestral home. This is where he grew up and went to school; it is where his mother, sister, and niece still live. Because of some bus complications, our planned arrival at 10 pm Sunday night was delayed until 6:00 am Monday morning (loooong story). When we finally reached Kisumu around sunrise, Anselm met us in town, and we made the hour long journey to his home together. We walked up, up a ridge to his home where we were warmly greeted with smiles, embraces, and a beautiful mixture of languages. We had never met Anselm’s family, yet they embraced us as though we had always belonged with them. We were quickly welcomed in for a breakfast of roasted maize, bread, honey, sweet bananas, and tea. Everything had already been prepared for us by our hosts, and it was a delicious end to a long journey.
After breakfast, Anselm showed us where we could sleep, but I chose to sit outside with him and his family instead. The sun was warm, and we sat in the grass as his mother wove a basket nearby. The late morning brought with it a brief thunderstorm, so we gathered inside and listened to the sounds of the rain. For lunch, we had ugali and sukumawiki (my favorite Kenyan meal) and washed the dishes out in the front yard.
In the afternoon, we visited nearby relatives (uncles, aunts, and cousins) and were warmly welcomed into each home. Later, we climbed to the top of the highest ridge, looked out over the entire valley, and glimpsed Lake Victoria in the distance. When we returned from our hike, it was nearly time to head to Nairobi, but Mama Anselm insisted that we take supper first. She had already prepared a dinner of chicken stew and rice, which we happily ate. As we then stood to leave, she presented us with the beautiful basket that she had woven earlier in the day and proceeded to fill it with fresh pineapples, sweet bananas, and ground nuts to sustain us on the rest of our journey. She then said a prayer over us in Luo, and though I could not understand her words, I felt both embraced and protected by her care. I said thank you many times, but it hardly felt like an adequate response.
Throughout the day, I wondered: What have I done nothing to deserve such gracious hospitality, how can I accept it? There have been times in my life when grace seemed an abstract concept, yet at Mama Anselm’s, it became a tangible reality: Grace is a warm welcome; it is hospitality; it is woven baskets and fresh pineapple and roasted maize. Grace is walking up a mountain in the sunlight; it is a prayer for protection spoken over us. Grace is a Table that is already prepared at the end of a long journey. I am thankful for the reality of Divine grace felt in the embrace of Mama Anselm.