Tombstones and Banana Trees by Medad Birungi Read Free Book Online Page A

grew to like Jesus, to like the things He did and the way He acted.
    Deborah also taught me that if you sin against God He will punish you, but if you ask for forgiveness He will forgive. She taught us to repent every day and to pray every day for food. When those prayers were answered she was always quick to remind us to thank God. I was only little, but those experiences in her home are the roots of my faith. And I am especially grateful for the lesson she taught me about Judas’s suicide and how it led him to the ultimate place of no return—hell. Later on that one story would come back to me, with her exact words flooding my mind as I contemplated ending my own life.
    I always encourage parents to teach their children the Word of God. You never know what will happen or what will return to their minds in a moment of rebellion later on in life. Thanks to Deborah I began to see the links between the Bible and my own life. I was a shepherd boy looking after goats, so the story of David was a great encouragement. Even though I was not sure whether my Goliath was my father or just poverty in general—and I was powerless against both—I was greatly encouraged by the thought that I might grow to become more than these humble beginnings suggested.
    The story of Joseph was another favorite. Tricked, abandoned, separated from his father, and falsely accused, Joseph was nevertheless eventually restored and highly favored. Could it be that there was more to my life than the sorrow and suffering that pinned me to this valley?
    It was in these hills that appear to be folded over themselves that I first sensed God was calling me. After too many times of getting caught in the thicket of banana trees by the jigger hunters, I discovered a new hiding place: the church. The far edge of our land stopped at the bottom of another hill, and on top of it sat a church. The jigger hunters used the fact that the good people were all in church on a Sunday morning as cover for their malevolent acts, but I could turn it to my advantage. By heading straight for the church I found safety. When I stopped trying to hide myself and looked to God’s people for support, I found it. The church was my refuge. Literally.
    Once in the church, I would attend Sunday school. It did not take me long to tear my eyes away from the door and relax a little. I found the stories that they told fascinating.
    Joseph, David; they were my favorites.
    And Moses, too. The priest was called Moses Bagyendera, and he was a good man. He led us well, and after the services I used to go to look after his goats. One day when I was ten as I sat beneath the eucalyptus trees at the back of our compound, I had an immediate sense that I wanted to be a priest just like Moses Bagyendera. During those days the church in Uganda refused to baptize the children of women who were not married in church. The children would have to grow and make vows for themselves first before they were baptized. Nevertheless, my prayer was simple, and I meant it wholeheartedly: “Lord, let me be a priest like Moses.”
    Thirty-two years later that prayer would be answered.

Chapter Four
    Sending for Jesus
    It is true that grief brings its own unique kind of pain. To the person who mourns, the weight of tears can be overwhelming. But even in the midst of the deepest sorrow there is the potential for a certain distraction that comes with the rising sun. Even in the darkest moments, light can still shine. As life continues to advance, eventually grief begins to thaw, bringing with it the faintest glimmer of hope and rebirth.
    Grief is painful. But there is no ache quite like the ache of extreme poverty. To wake up and know that today will hold the same hunger, the same sores, the same humiliations as yesterday is an ache that stands alone in its cruelty. To know that your life is closer to that of your animals, that you share their food in the day and their floor space at night robs you of