So up until now I had not really experienced Africa, I thought. We're stuck in this conference and can't really SEE anything. And I had heard too many men talk. I wanted to talk to the women and hear how things really were.

The conference organizers had put people into small groups, and we were to "make practical recommendations on the post-colonial church in Africa."

So… there wasn't much to do, right?

My group was great. We had a Burundian woman doing HIV/AIDS work, a Tanzanian man working with Youth for Christ, a pastor's wife, two young Kenyan girls, a Ugandan pastor, a white Zimbabwean who taught at a Christian university, and some others along the way.

But the most memorable for me was Moses.

Moses was not like Moses in the Bible. He did not have a speech problem, nor was he afraid of speaking. He spoke and spoke, and spoke some more. He always talked about the problem of corrupt pastors in Uganda. And granted, he had some incredible stories to tell. There was one woman who was promised a "faith healing" from HIV/AIDS if she gave her car to her pastor. So she was "faith healed", believed she was healed, and stopped taking her meds. And she got sick. She got really sick. And she sued the pastors. And the case is still in court.

So there was no disagreement with Moses that this was a problem. In fact, I, as one of the Westerners, thought we should move onto what needed to be done. After all, if it's a problem, it needs to be solved right? Mm-hmm.

So I decided to compare notes with the white Zimbabwean. "I think we might have finally been getting somewhere at the end there," I offered as we were getting more tea.

"Yeah," he said. "Well, the thing is, that's how Africans make their point, is by story-telling. So every time he tells the same story, he's making a different point."

Lightbulbs and Hallelujah choruses – I was experiencing enlightenment!

I had heard this before, but my stereo-typing mind had always pictured a tribal elder sitting around a campfire telling stories about ancestors. Yet in a sense that's exactly what was happening, in a very every-day way, in an urban setting about current issues, which for who-knows-what reason I had not imagined…

"Oh," I said.

"Yeah. And also, he's the elder, so he has the right-of-way in conversation."

"Oh," I said.

And Marius gave me many more tips like this throughout the conference.

But now, the women had been asked to all go to a meeting during lunch. Oh no, I thought. It's another women's thing. So while I was busy fearing an arts-and-craftsy cry-fest, some women explained the activity we were going to do. And despite my annoyance with American buzz-words used during the explanation, the activity was exactly what was needed. We basically were given some questions to discuss, and then would switch tables to be able to discuss with more people. This gave each woman a voice.

What I found out was incredible. Most of the women described the woman's role in Africa as the pillar, or the trunk of a tree. She is the one who remains strong, because people depend on her. When asked what they wanted, it was mostly for participation from the men. They wanted neither micro-managing nor absenteeism – they wanted partners to engage with, and the space to discuss issues. A woman named Grace pointed out the lack of bitterness from these women and the complete desire for teamwork and cooperation.

And that's when I lost it. I couldn't hold back the tears because I have been through so much less and have been a much bigger brat over it.

But my day wasn't over yet. I started talking to Claude, the conference organizer, who asked if I wanted to go into the capital, Kampala.

"Sure!" I said. I wanted to see the place we were in!

Well, that wasn't exactly what we were going to do. We went to a church of ex-patriots, people who had left their home countries to live in Uganda, mostly doing aid and development work of some kind. They were gathered that evening at their church to hear Brian McLaren speak, who is also my favorite author, and who was at the conference as one of the original co-conspirators. But my favorite part was after the talk.

Earlier that morning, a young man named Trevor had shared his story. He was from Sowetto, the largest township in South Africa. He had been through apartheid and the end of apartheid, and now was experiencing reconciliation. "I hate it when" he said bluntly, "people say they love black people. This woman came up to me once and tried to give me a hug, and said she loved black people, and it felt so fake. What I would rather happen is this: I met a woman once whose son had been killed by some black people. She said that since she never knew who it was, she just hated all black people. And when we were talking, she asked if I could represent all black people for a moment, and she apologized for hating me. That's what I would rather have happen."

Trevor was awesome.

Trevor noticed that there were exactly three black people in this church.

"Excuse me," he said as he stood up at question-and-answer time. "But I was wondering if I could ask the church a question. Why are there no Ugandans here?" All the ex-patriots looked at each other, and no one had an answer to this question.

An elder came up after church and tried to explain that "it's different", but I don't think Trevor thought it was.

We got to know each other a little better on the ride home. A church in Johannesburg that is 81% white had hired Trevor to help the church become more integrated. And I think he's the right man for the job.

I also met Caleb, a 24-year-old father of 75 children. That's right, he started out with 15 street kids, and built a home (now a few homes) for children that are "in between" while finding relatives to take care of them.

I asked Caleb if his girlfriend was ready to be a mother of 75, and he said yes.

So had I experienced Africa that day? Well, I can tell you that things were sure getting a whole lot better…