When I began working as a youth director almost 10 years ago I was assigned two days out of the week in which I was to go to the hospital. The purpose of these trips was to check in on all of our congregants that currently found themselves in need of medical care. While the pursuit is a noble one, it was by far my least favorite part of the job. It isn’t that visiting the hospital in itself is an unenjoyable task, which it is, but rather that often I’d wander into a congregant’s room to discover that they had no idea who I actually was. Because I worked primarily with youth and because most of the individuals that found themselves regularly in the hospital were elderly patients who seldom made it to church, I was an unknown entity. I’d nervously slink over to the side of a hospital bed and announce to thinly robed and often barely coherent patients that I was one of their pastors. When I wasn’t tripping over the wires that literally supported these patients lives, I was awkwardly chatting up family members that wanted to know why such a young kid was sent to walk with them through the final days of someone’s life. There are people out there that are wonderfully equipped for this kind of thing, and maybe now at 31 I’d have a better chance of it, but in those days that certainly wasn’t the case. I despised the days I was forced to pace through the revolving door of the hospital and clip on my clergy badge.
Because I’m not working in the church any longer, other than moments to visit a sponsored child or deliver them for care, I’m rarely at the hospital. Even when I am, I’m not tasked with introducing myself to complete strangers. Rather another assignment has crept into my current role as program director, a particular task that I find equally disagreeable.
I hate going to the bank.
Everything that we do in the program involves this financial institution. We don’t hand money to children, students, or parents and as such we are constantly making deposits in school and committee accounts. Every cent that ends up supporting a child has to be filtered through several accounts.
Thusly, at minimum I find myself seated on a thin plastic chair in the bank’s lobby once a week. While our main bank is new and a stark contrast to the congested halls of many of the other government run depositories in Tanzania, it still houses its own share of problems. Long lines of people still weave their way around the bank’s interior and the queue seems to only exist as a starting point for fierce territorial battles once a teller opens up. Even more so the current system is overcomplicated and obtuse. To make a simple internal transfer, at least three separate forms are required. I was once told, some 2 years after arriving in Tanzania and having used the same bank religiously, that I could not make a withdrawal from my own account before bringing a letter that explained who I was and where I worked. On top of all that, when I do need to withdraw cash I’m forced to carry some type of backpack or bag to conceal the wads of bills I’m usually left with. There are no large currency notes in Tanzania, so even small amounts necessitate heaping piles of cash. There’s nothing beneficial or even safe about being the only white guy in town and hauling out large sums of money as a throng of passengers stare on. Even concealed in a backpack or bag, one can guess what one might be exiting the bank with. Both the bank and the post office vie for my least favorite buildings in town.
Because of the frequency with which I’m occupying the bank’s lobby, I’ve come to know and build relationships with almost of all of the employees. While I dislike the institution, I couldn’t be fonder of the men and women that work there. It is their smiling faces that keep me from stepping back in time and burying our organization’s funds in a series of mason jars in our backyard. From the onset of our time in Babati they were invaluable.
As such, when I received a call from the bank’s manager one afternoon several months after our arrival, I picked up the phone eager to greet him. The bank had been in the process of moving to a more centralized location in town and he was calling to invite me to the grand opening. A gleaming white three-story office space had been constructed along the main road and our bank would be occupying the majority of its lower floor. Because of these relationships and because fostering such partnerships is culturally important, I quickly agreed to attend. The day of the grand opening I asked Herman to accompany me and we walked through the center of town to the bank’s entrance.
We arrived and slipped through the metal gate that sealed the bank’s courtyard from the main thoroughfare. Already twenty-five or so people crowded around a large yellow ribbon that circled the doors. I listened as the worldwide President of our particular bank began his speech. As his voice trailed off and the group cheered a large ornate pair of scissors was carried to the entryway. He smiled and waved as photos were snapped before briskly snipping through the ribbon and flinging open the glass doors. The small crowd funneled into the air-conditioned lobby.
One by one another series of speeches began inside, first the bank manager, then the assistant, and so on and so forth. When it seemed the dialogues were reaching their natural conclusions, the manager again sauntered to the front of the crowd. I watched him scan the faces of those in attendance before his gaze met mine.
He began again. “Now that the staff has spoken, it is only appropriate to invite our valued customers to share as well. Mr. Scott, please come forward and explain what the opening of this new bank means for Tanzania and Babati. We wish to now hear your speech.”
It should be noted that at no point had anyone even remotely suggested that I would need to speak that day. In fact, when I accepted the invitation, I did so with the understanding that I was attending a simple snack luncheon. The ribbon cutting and president’s speech had been a mild surprise in themselves. The invitation for me to now come forward and begin my own discourse was a complete shock. But, if I could mumble through a few lines of dialogue with a complete stranger in a hospital bed, I certainly could spew out a simple speech at a bank opening. I walked to the front of the room, my jeans and t-shirt now a glaringly poor fashion choice in comparison to the fancy suits I found myself surrounded by. My pale complexion was already enough to spotlight my existence in a room full of dark Tanzanian faces. I shook the president’s hand and turned to face the expectant audience.
And I began.
But I didn’t talk about the fancy new building. I didn’t complement the shining walls or glistening tiles. I didn’t congratulate the leadership for one of the few air-conditioned buildings in town. I didn’t wax poetically about new queues, fancy screens, or additional seating. Rather, I talked about the one thing I actually liked about the bank, the people. I thanked them for being patient with a foreigner who spewed out guttural chunks of Swahili. I complemented the smiles that greeted me each time I found myself wiling away hours in the lobby. I acknowledged my appreciation for each time an individual had sat next to me and slowly and calmly explained forms and processes to me in the early months after our arrival in Tanzania. And I meant it.
I concluded my short treatise and received a long and quite uncomfortable hug from the president. A few more words were shared before we were dismissed and treated to a brunch of samosas and warm Pepsi.
You know it’s interesting, when I look back at the time I spent visiting folks at the hospital I’m struck with a certain reality. I can remember stumbling through bedside prayers and holding weak IV pierced hands. I can recall awkward chitchat with surrounding family members and nervously glancing at the clock to see if enough time had passed to constitute a visit. But more than any of that, what I often find filtering back into my memory some 10 years later, are the smiles that met me each time I self-consciously entered a room. In the middle of an event that I had made all about my own needs and fears those smiles stood out as tiny symbols of hope. It’s funny how bearing our teeth at someone else can put him or her at ease. But it’s amazing how often a grin offers up islands of hope to someone in the midst of their own emotional storms. In my hospital days those smiles were what kept me coming back. Those smiles were offers of grace, silent assurances that although I may have nary a clue as to what I’m doing, everything’s going to be ok.
During my time at the bank in Tanzania the same holds true. A long queue is somehow bearable when a sincere smile is waiting at the end. Filling out a thousand forms is somehow manageable, when an equally frazzled bank employee is laughing and smiling alongside you. And when you’re a young missionary that is just trying not to screw up the program you’ve been entrusted with, those few smiles mean all the difference.
After we had finished our small meal on that opening day, I mentioned to Herman that I needed to withdraw some cash before we made our exit. He walked with me to glass partition of the teller’s window and I slipped a check into the small tray that ran underneath. The teller smiled back and began pulling bills from his drawer. Because little business was done that day the individual bundles of money still remained zip tied and fastened together. Herman and I watched as he struggled to remove the packaging.
I glanced down to see Herman pull something from behind his waist. He was smiling as he brandished a knife and made eye contact with the teller. The young man behind the glass smiled back and Herman calmly slid the knife under the window. The teller sliced open the bundles of cash and just as calmly returned the blade to Herman. He returned it to its’ holster and I laughed as the teller handed me my cash.
Sometimes a smile can even make brandishing a knife in the bank a gesture of goodwill. At least in Tanzania.
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