“First we’ll go to Hoima, then we’ll go to Kyangweli to get the meat for Christmas then come back to the Masindi house.” Rachael’s dad spoke in his rich Ugandan accent as he shared the plans for the day.

More than happy to go along with the plans, Rachael and I piled into the four wheel drive Prado ready for another day of hours spent in the car. After tagging along to our organizations’ “Central Region Conference” to provide the child care, we decided to stay in Uganda an extra week to spend the holiday with her family, and the first order of business was to get meat for Christmas.

Not knowing much about where we were going, I began to wonder if we were close about three hours and five dirt road turns later as we drove deep into the African bush. Especially when we started driving over sorgum plants to the left while hawthorns scraped the other side of the car I became curious about our destination. After a first stop off to the first plot of land, and passing dozens of mut huts dotted throughout the land we came to the hilltop overlooking Alberta Lake, Uganda’s western country border in an area known as Kyangweli.

We delighted in the baby donkey suckling from his mother, then delighted again when we found fresh born baby goats still covered in blood, one shakily tottering around, the other not yet standing up. As the mist billowed in over the escarpment and onto the rolling hills in the distance I found myself standing in awe of yet another breathtaking African landscape.

We romped around with a baby pup as we noticed some men rounding up the goats herding them into the pen with the flicking of sticks and clicking of lips. I chuckled as two tiny goats jumped back through the holes in the fence, but noticed they all but ignored by the men. After a few minutes Rachael and I approached as the men chattered away in Renyuro, Rachael’s dads heart language. I turned to Rachel with a few comments of my own, “Oh! They just have the rams, they must be analyzing the slaughter stock. They’ll only slaughter the male goats since you don’t need as many of them to grow the herd.” Not realizing the foreshadowing of my own words, we laughed at the men who appeared to tango with three especially fat looking goats, holding their two front hooves together in the air.

“I wonder what they’re going to do with those?” I asked Rachael while I off handedly heard the man holding one of the goats read off it’s serial number.

“That one is for the employee’s for Christmas.” Rachael’s dad commented to the man reading the number…

Oh. OH. MEAT FOR CHRISTMAS. I whip around as the reality of our trip begins to dawn on me. “RACHAEL! MEAT FOR CHRISTMAS!” We realized together what was happening as the men lead the other two goats out of the pen, picking up a large carving knife and a machete along the way.

We couldn’t watch. But we couldn’t turn away. We settled for a safe twenty foot distance as the throats of two proud rams were slit in silence. One at a time, they hung the goats up by their legs and began to skin the animals. The guys had more fun watching us watching them than should have been allowed. After a while, we grabbed some oreos to munch on while they finished the job. About an hour later, the head was twisted off with a sickening crunch and the skin laid out in the grass. As flies descended on the fresh skin, branch readied and the second goat was hoisted up. About then, Rachael’s dad came by and informed us we were heading to her cousin’s for dinner less than a kilometer away. We got there as they were starting the rice in the sufuria (pot) over the open fire while the matoke (green banana) roasted over the coal stove wrapped in banana leaves. Dina, one of Rachael’s cousin asked us if we heard the music on our way over in the car.

We had! Very rhythmical beating drums pounded as voices rang out in a chanting song. We left the compound with Dina to investigate the cultural celebration happening in the nearby village. It didn’t take long to traverse the three hundred yards through tall maize stalks and sweet potato fields to reach the village. Heads turned our way and children left the circle of celebration in the center of the village, eyes wide as they studied my different colored skin. Two drunk young men approached and greeted us in Swahili, only to be shocked as their greeting was returned. They lingered behind us until I felt a hand testing the texture of my strange colored hair bun and I turned around with a strong, “Hapana. Kwa heri.” No. Good bye. Eyes watched us as we watched them.

The adults continued their song as children in grass skirts and grass around their faces danced in their midst. A man walked around the celebratory circle swinging incense. As the music picked up in beat and rhythm, I heard Dina next to me whisper, “They’re praising the gods now in celebration.”

The plurality of her word choice stirred my heart. They weren’t celebrating Christmas.

“She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins…and they will call him Immanuel which means God with us.” (Matt 1:21, 23)

This was not the “gods” they were discussing.

I had agreed to stay with Rachel as she visted her family after the conference for a few reasons, one, to enjoy getting to know my neighbor, duplex sharer, fellow Michigander, coworker, and friend better. Two, to see some of the kinds of places my students live when they’re not at RVA. What I didn’t anticipate was three: a stirring in my heart as I experienced and empty joy. Standing in a village of an unreached people group watching them dance, sing, and pray for rain to a god that would never hear them, wondering who might go and tell them about Jesus, especially at this special time of year.

As our night continued, we enjoyed our dinner, then bounced through the dark across two-track roads and sped through smooth red dirt dusty one lane roads before finally coming back to a tarmac two lane highway. Before coming back to our comfy two bedroom home with showers and curtains in a more urban area, we stopped off at five different relatives homes, in each place leaving behind a piece of love and an even bigger piece of freshly butchered goat. At grandma’s home we left a quarter of a goat AND the live chicken that had been bouncing around in the trunk. Seeing the joy of some of the relatives as the words, “We killed a goat for you!” were spoken with enthusiasm brought warmth to my heart, even as I missed the cold of a freshly fallen storm.

I’ve been missing family and some American cultural Christmas, but I was just texting with my sister as she reminded me that Christmas isn’t about the parties, the ugly sweaters, the cocoa, the snow, the lights, or even the cookies. It’s about Jesus coming to be our savior. It’s about his gift to us, which is why we give to others, even if it is a freshly butchered goat. So tomorrow morning, I’ll brush out my curls for some fluffy blonde hair in a room full of dark braids, put on my nicest outfit I packed and sit through a service where I don’t know a single word of Renyuro, seeking only the love of Christ as he gave the greatest gift of all, his only son, for ALL people. Whether they’re in a huge drywall home, a middle sized cinder block home, or a tiny mud hut. God gave Jesus for us all, and THAT is why we celebrate with parties, ugly sweaters, cookies, or roasted goat, matoke (mashed banana), chapati’s (think halfway between tortilla’s and naan), gifts and love.

Merry Christmas to you from Uganda! ❤