In my pastor’s shoes: When the sheep stray

 Prim K. Tumuramye

‘Mummy, tonight I am the one to play the big drum!’ Deborah announced as soon as I opened my bedroom door.

‘But I thought you are the one who has been drumming these past two weeks. Why don’t you allow another person to drum?’ I ask, knowing that approving this request will cause appeals from other dissatisfied members of our household congregation.

A few years back, I had bought a relatively small drum as a home artifact. The children recommended that we could get better value for money from the artifact by using it as a music instrument than a mere decoration. I obliged.

Then the fights started. The struggle on who could use the small drum became common place. At the beginning of this year, when I got wind of the news that a dear friend of mine, Aunt Connie was enroute to Kampala through the Masaka Highway, I requested her to buy for me a sizable drum. Anyone that has plied the Masaka highway knows that there is a stretch that has all tribes of drums. Connie, being from a tribe that knows how to melodiously engage the drums to produce heart warming music was the perfect pick for the role of procuring the drum. She asked how much I was willing to pay for a drum. I told her anything, I was not going to pay an arm and a leg for just but a drum.

‘Madam, I am not buying the drum for Nkobazambogo competitions. Just buy a drum someone can beat, and it produces sound. Please don’t call me again to ask which type of drum I want.’  I told Connie over the phone following her incessant calls asking for the drum specifications.

Well, realizing that her request was getting on my nerves, she went a head and bought for me the best type of a drum, from her report. Till today I do not know what makes a drum fall in the ‘bad’ category, so I just keep the faith that I have one of the best local drums in my home.

A few days after the thirteenth presidential address on Covid -19, we had our routine family prayers. In the coming years, I predict that Covid-19 will be a pivotal reference point in terms of mentioning historical timelines. I remember how I would ask my late maternal aunt about life in the past and she always found a way of relating historical timelines with major events like hunger, locusts and war. In future, I guess I will be telling my grandchildren stories laced with pre and post-covid timelines. I pray, that I will live to tell the story!

‘This is now time for testimonies!’ our adopted daughter Akiiki announced after we had sung a few songs.

We gave our testimonies, in order of sitting. The beauty of a small congregation is that everyone participates, lest they are misinterpreted as being in the opposition camp. Then it was Akampa’s turn. Sitting at the end meant he was the one to give the final testimony.

‘I thank God for protection. Coronavirus has not yet reached our home (as though he is waiting for it), I thank God for daddy and mummy…’ and on he went for one full hour.

His testimony had stories, expectations, rantings of things that hadn’t gone on well – talk about using your testimony to send customised messages to different audiences in the congregation.

We all started to turn uncomfortably in our chairs to signal the lad that we had had enough of the testimony. Young man was not budging at all! Seeming oblivious to our visibly uncomfortable facial expressions, he went on to thank God for past, present and future victories.

‘I thank God that when we grow up, we will leave this home, have good jobs and our own children…’ we all burst out laughing in unison. It is at that point that he conceded and ended his testimony.

The father, who is the lead pastor having been away, I was the next in line. I had seen how everyone kept looking at me pleadingly, kind of to insinuate, ‘why don’t you just order this guy offstage?’

But is that the way the pastor should respond to sheep that are straying? I deliberately looked the other side to see how this would end. I didn’t want to be blamed that I cut short people’s testimonies.

From disputes of who oversees the beautiful big drum to congregants who want to use their testimony time to talk on and on, I realized that my seemingly problem-free pastor could actually not be having a smooth ride shepherding us. Just like my pastor, I need both categories in my congregation.

The night after enduring the one-hour long testimony, as we gathered for family devotion after dinner, Akampa made a disturbing declaration.

‘If you don’t give me the drum tonight, I will give my testimony for one hour again!’ he announced.

It is at this point that I realized that one of my sheep is reading from a different script – I cautioned my congregation on being swayed by earthly things like a mere drum.

Senior Pastor Tumuramye Dickson, the synod needs to sit soon!

                                                      ©Prim K. Tumuramye

Prim is a Christian, wife, mother and Communications Specialist at Compassion International. She is passionate about reading, writing, youth mentorship and intentional parenting.