Today unfolded in a way I did not expect—and in many ways, it became one of the most full and meaningful days yet. We are approaching Celebration weekend now, and nearly all of the visitors have arrived. There is a noticeable shift in energy across the campus, a sense of anticipation building, layered with reunion, preparation, and joy.
The morning began as usual with breakfast at 7:30, followed by chapel. But after chapel, the day took an unexpected turn. My schedule had originally included a cultural experience, but plans shifted, and suddenly I found myself with several uninterrupted hours—from 8:30 until 12:30. That kind of space is rare here.
And it was exactly what I needed.
Space to Do the Work
I spent those hours catching up on field notes and working to upload them to the website, along with building out a resource page that I will leave behind for Rwandan Children. The process was slower than expected—technology here always requires patience—but the time allowed me to focus deeply and make meaningful progress. It felt grounding to pause the movement of the days and invest in something that will remain after I leave.
Sometimes the most productive moments come disguised as interruptions.
By the time noon arrived, my mind felt tired but satisfied in that specific way that comes from doing quiet, unseen work—work that won’t show up in pictures but will serve long after I’ve gone home.
An Unexpected Reunion
At noon, I headed to lunch, where the dining hall was noticeably fuller. A new group that had arrived in the early hours of the morning joined those who had come over the last few days. The room carried that familiar hum of overlapping conversations, introductions, and shared stories.
I sat across from a gentleman who began talking with someone next to me, and eventually our conversation turned toward one another. As we talked, we began piecing together connections—names, places, memories.
And then it clicked.
He was someone I had grown up around. We had been part of the same church community. He knew my dad. Our families had known each other well. Neither of us had any idea the other would be here.
He told me they had moved to Abilene seven years ago. I laughed and said, “It’s crazy that we had to come all the way to Rwanda to reconnect.” And yet, somehow, it felt fitting.
There is something sacred about the way God weaves familiar threads into unexpected places.
What are the chances that two people with shared history would find each other again—not in a grocery store or an airport back home, but across the world, at a school in Rwanda, on an ordinary Friday?
The Heart of Student Chapel
After lunch, I returned to my room for a couple more hours of work before heading to student chapel. This is always one of my favorite parts of the day. All of the students gather together, filling the fellowship hall with worship, music, and presence.
Today, the girls in the sewing program sang, as did the Bruce Choir. Their voices rose and blended in ways that felt both tender and strong. The room felt alive—full, vibrant, unified. We visitors sat together in the back, watching, listening, and yet it is impossible not to feel drawn into worship alongside them.
Student chapel is one of those moments where you can see the heart of this place most clearly. The songs, the prayers, the laughter, and even the way the students sit together all tell a story of community and hope.
Choosing to Stay and Finish
Following chapel, I had a bit of time before the evening’s cultural experience. I had originally intended to go watch student sports, but I felt a strong pull to continue working on the resource pages. There is a quiet urgency in wanting to leave something useful, something lasting, something that will serve the staff and students after my physical presence is gone.
So I stayed.
And I worked.
It wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t involve photos or big moments. But it felt faithful—to the call, to the work, and to the people I came here to serve.
Stepping into Celebration
Shortly before 5:00pm, François arrived with the cultural garments I was to wear for the evening. I put them on, adjusting the fabric and taking a moment to feel the honor of being invited into someone else’s tradition.
Then I headed to the field, where chairs had been set up in rows. As I waited, students began to gather.
Some were preparing to dance.
Others to sing.
Some held drums.
Others simply came to watch.
Slowly but surely, the space began to fill. There was a quiet hum—a building sense of excitement—as everyone took their places.
And then, the celebration began.
Dancing, Drumming, and Joy
The drumming and singing were powerful—rhythmic, layered, alive. There is something about Rwandan music that is not just heard, but felt in your chest, your bones, your whole being. Watching students I have greeted in hallways or sat beside in class step into performance added another layer of joy. These were not just performers; these were people I knew, offering something of themselves and their culture.
At one point, Ivan—one of the boys I sponsor—came out into the audience to invite people to join the dance.
And he chose me.
So I joined him.
We danced together, laughing, moving, fully present in the moment. Whatever self-consciousness I might have felt was quickly overcome by the joy of participating rather than just observing.
Stories of Resilience
After the dancing concluded, we transitioned to an archery demonstration. The boys showed how Rwandans have traditionally used bows and arrows. But what made this moment particularly powerful was the presence of a man who had lived through the genocide. He had used a bow and arrow to defend himself during that time, and he brought the very one he had used to show the students.
Standing there, listening to his story, watching him place the bow into the hands of this next generation, was deeply moving. It was sobering and sacred—a living reminder of resilience, survival, and the ways history is carried forward not just in books, but in people.
Culture on Display
From there, we moved to the long jump, where the boys ran and ran and ran, launching themselves again and again with incredible determination. Their energy seemed endless, their effort wholehearted.
Next, we walked to the area near the cows, where we watched a demonstration of how farmers cook potatoes in a fire pit while out working in the fields. The simple, practical process carried with it a story of daily life—of work, of nourishment, of community.
We ended near a traditional royal tent, set up to represent where a king and queen would stay. Here, students demonstrated daily traditional activities: grinding sorghum, making butter, preparing banana juice. Many traditional foods were already laid out, and we were invited to taste and experience.
It was immersive, educational, and deeply honoring of culture and history. Each station, each activity, felt like being handed a small piece of Rwanda’s story.
We all ate just a little, knowing that dinner still awaited us at the restaurant in the woods.
An Evening in the Woods
As daylight began to fade, we returned briefly to change into more comfortable clothes and then headed to the restaurant in the woods. The path felt almost magical in the soft evening light.
There, a musician and singers were set up, already playing music as we arrived. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming, a blend of celebration and rest. We enjoyed traditional food, including a goat meat shish kebab, and shared conversation around the tables. Serge spoke for a bit, offering words that fit the tone of the evening—grateful, reflective, hopeful.
After he released everyone to return to their rooms if they wished, a natural divide appeared: some of the older or more tired guests slowly started to head out, while most of the younger folks stayed.
The music kept playing.
And the dancing began.
Pulled into the Dance
I was initially standing back, videotaping the scene—wanting to capture the joy and movement, the laughter and light. Then one of the staff members from Yellow Elephant came over, grabbed my hand, and invited me into the circle.
So I went.
We danced for one song. Then another. And before I knew it, I was in the middle of the group—no longer just the observer with a camera, but fully part of the celebration. We moved together to the music, laughing, clapping, following the rhythm.
It was unplanned, unscripted, and completely life-giving.
Eventually, as the music paused and there was a natural break, I excused myself and headed back toward the guest house. The night air was cool, and my heart felt full. I got ready for bed with the echoes of drums, singing, and laughter still playing in my mind.
When the Day Gives More Than Planned
As I reflect on the day, what stands out most is not any single event, but the rhythm of it all—the unexpected space in the morning, the reconnection at lunch, the worship, the work, the cultural celebrations, the dancing under the trees.
It was a day that did not follow the plan.
And because of that, it became something richer.
Something fuller.
Something I will not forget.