Ex. 17:3-7, Psalm 95:1-2, 6-7, 8-9, Rom. 5:1-2, 5-8,
John 4:5-4

In September of last year, I went to a Catholic Women’s Retreat. It was a much needed moment of reflection away from the busy life of motherhood, family, and social demands. We had a wonderful weekend learning about “The Angels Among Us”. There were hundreds of women covering a wide age range and various life backgrounds and vocations. As we were learning about God’s gift of angels, we had compelling presentations from inspirational speakers touching topics of personal and family life in general, while providing real-life humor-filled wisdom. The hosts suggested each participant write the name of a person acknowledged as an “angel” in one owns life for random drawings. I thought about so many loved ones, that it was so hard to decide on one name. As my birthday was near, I remembered a family tradition we had. Our mothers would be celebrated at each of their son’s or daughter's birthday. Then as my heart kept bringing back memories of my mama, I wrote her name.

In my early age, I remember the loving care of two wonderful women, my mamma and grandma. In our large family, I grew up sharing a heritage from both Rwanda and Burundi, countries in central East Africa, where a culture of generous hospitality, songs, and telling stories prevailed. Our days included reading the few available books and household chores after the school day. A playful atmosphere was the norm for children’s education and passing on family values. An afternoon friendship at the playground would quickly turn into a forever family relationship. Another valuable part of life there was that the greater part of the population claimed to be Christians, Catholics in predominance. That summarizes the kind of childhood lifestyle we had just enjoying simple things.

Yet, there was recurring socio-political unrest, about a ten year cycle that threatened massive killings and claimed thousands of lives, causing people to be displaced from their homes or simply becoming refugees, one generation after another, and leaving a feeling of suspicion of our neighbor.  A sad reality to learn as a child, but moreover I imagine, as a parent or a guardian to a child (victim or eyewitness of bloody violence), it was tremendously difficult to try make sense of the palpable threats and answer your child’s question: Who am I?

It was one evening in 1988, toward the end of summer vacation, where students in the neighborhood were gathering in one home to put together school supplies, enjoying the last weeks before school started. But parents were so tense, it seemed like the time had stopped. They were desperately trying to get information about a massive slaughter happening in the Northern part of the country. The unique source of information was a radio, repeating the same news about violent tribal warfare between Hutus and Tutsis.

My mother sent all the children to our room, commending us to start praying the rosary without her. She said remember in your intentions our relatives living in the troubled locations and ask Our Lady to stop the murders. For the first time, I saw my mother and three of her friends, sitting in the living room, checking the home phone that was disconnected, hopeless and in terror, with no plans. Interrupting the heavy silence, I asked which group our family belonged to, as I was anxious we would be killed too or would have to flee. Or even worse, were we members of the murder’s group?  My mother brought me apart and whispered to me this, I will try to translate as, “You are neither a Hutu nor a Tutsi, you are a princess. You are above these conflicts. You are a child of God. Now, go join your peers for the rosary.” As I look back, I recall that on occasions of weaknesses, my mother would comfort us saying, “Remember you are a child of God. The rest matters less.” How I wish I would have correctly caught the whole message, but only the word princess was highlighted in my mind. I translated it as someone who has blood lineage to a king or a queen and carried the duty to perform noble acts, be generous, and provide protection. My description was so erroneous and this lead me into a position of controlling, judging, and guilty of self–righteousness.

Growing up in a place where a person has to be cautious to reveal an identity at the risk of losing your life is challenging. Yet, God put me on the path where I encountered people from different places and different backgrounds. Whenever I get a chance to carefully look and listen to each of them, I am surprised to somehow relate and discover the revelation that we all long for a more profound and true definition of ourselves. An identity that God created us for love. An identity that God gives or restores in us through the sacraments. This is an important reality that I came across in the teachings as we were preparing for the baptism of our youngest and I am so grateful.

The Women’s Retreat I referred to at the beginning became a moment to pause and a source for receiving God’s abundant graces with less distractions. It was an occasion for meditations and appreciation of the loving and inspiring people God surrounded me with in this life journey. And also, this was a time of silence, challenging my life expectations.

I continually pray that God, our Holy Father, in his infinite kindness, will open my eyes from my slumber to his wondrous truth and light about who He wants me to be at any stage of life. O Lord, open my ears from distractions that I miss not my Savior when He wants to meet me and talk with me. Holy Spirit, open my heart to receive my mission. Be my guide to run (like the Samaritan women) and tell my folks about Jesus.  As I will witness to my brothers and sisters, not as my futile own task, but I know that it is for the glory of God our Heavenly Father.

Mia Gatoni is married to Marc Ntibandetse, blessed with three beautiful daughters. We found a home at Holy Family Church, forming together with the other parishioners and Christians all over the world the Body of Christ.