Last Words
>> 10/21/08
Our final Sunday in Africa dawns gray and cool. A light but persistent mist descends from the sky. The elements match my mood.
The day is laced with mixed emotions. The desire to be home among family and friends coexists with sorrow that my time among a people I have come to love is coming to an end.
The morning’s speaking engagement in a small village will be my last. African hosts usher me to the back seat of the car which will carry me down twisting rough roads to a small village many miles away.
The driver is recognized immediately. He operates the restaurant in town and has been our host for lunch throughout the week. Since he speaks some English, I express thanks for his hospitality and for his services in getting me to the remote church.
Pastor Clement (above) rides shotgun and will serve as my interpreter. He is a quiet, unassuming individual. Observing him in a crowd is a joy. He listens carefully to others as if they are the most important people in the world. His face betrays the thoughts forming in his mind. Though gifted with intelligence he possesses something more vital. When he speaks words carry wisdom. Though advanced in years by Tanzanian standards his spirit is the embodiment of youthful vitality.
The previous week we shared an unforgettable afternoon stroll through the streets of Bukoba. He relates how English was learned through a biblical correspondence course. Through that means he also became a believer. In a land where learning opportunities are scarce he accepted responsibility for self education. From time to time he is called to teach other pastors in classes at the seminary extension program in Mwanza. We walk and talk and for a few hours he is my teacher as well.
The car lumbers over hills and through valleys. Clement prepares me for our destination. He notes that many people visit Tanzanian game parks and feel they have experienced Africa. “This is not true,” he says. “Today you are journeying into the heart of country. You will see the real Africa.”
Upon our arrival we are greeted by the earthy smell of open country and the sweet smoky aroma of the fire over which lunch will be prepared. Pastor Boaz (above) welcomes us as well. Though a cold drizzle is falling he methodically steps off the perimeter of the property as if visually establishing the boundary is vital.
He tells how the sheet metal roof was blown off the building during a recent storm. A portion of the walls caved in as well. The roof has been replaced but the walls are still in disrepair (look through the windows and perhaps you can tell that the top portion of the back wall is missing). The thick layer of straw covering the dirt floor looks freshly lain.
The temperature continues to drop as we wait for the adults of the congregation to arrive. In a place where not everyone owns a timepiece, starting and ending times are imprecise. People are not nearly as time conscious as they are back home. In many ways that’s a blessing. After an hour and a half it becomes apparent that they are not coming. Pastor Boaz looks disappointed and dejected as the service finally begins.
After a liberal time of singing and dancing it’s my turn to speak. A place to stand is chosen away from the missing section of wall to avoid the chilling breeze and the wind blown droplets landing on my Bible.
The congregation on this morning is composed of mostly children. I elect to tell a simple story from Luke 15:8-10. A woman loses one of ten coins and diligently sweeps the house until it is found. Neighbors join in the celebration once it is recovered. Members of my audience, used to straw covered dirt floors, will hopefully relate to the woman’s predicament.
A coin purse found on an evening run back in the States containing $17 serves as an illustration. My sadness in not being able to reunite it with its owner is related. I ask my listeners to imagine the sadness of the individual who lost it and the joy that would result if they could be reunited. In the same way Christ comes seeking out individuals for the purpose of reestablishing a right relationship between them and their Creator. The One who made us rejoices when that reconnection is made.
Clement matches my gestures and voice inflection precisely as he translates. At one point he pauses, looks towards me and says, “I will explain more fully to be certain they understand.” For several minutes he speaks passionately. He is as much preacher as interpreter as we work together.
When the service concludes church representatives (above) and the pastor’s family (below) present me with gifts. Some of them are hand woven. The time and care invested in their making is evident. I’m humbled by their generosity.
The most thoughtful present is a square of material made out of course fibers. The texture approximates two layers of burlap. Pastor Boaz shares that the traditional dress of his ancestors was made out of this semi-cloth-like substance made from banana tree bark. Their desire to send me home with me something which clearly speaks of their culture’s roots is moving. I hope to use the material as matting for framed African art.
When lunch is served, Pastor Boaz (with me above), Pastor Clement, our driver and I dine alone in the church’s interior. The children gather at the door peering in at their white haired visitor. One dish is made from a kind of tree tomato picked green and stewed. Rice and matoki (boiled cooking bananas resembling mashed potatoes) are available in abundance. Water and milk have been boiled together to steep tea sweetened with a generous amount of raw sugar.
The simmered chicken and I are locked in a battle royal. Full of stringy sinew and gristle, it is the toughest bird I have ever attempted to consume. When enough force is exerted to pry a morsel loose, juice flies in unexpected directions. My African friends strip the meat from the bones nonchalantly. They are as amused at my ineptness as I am in awe of their mastication skills.
Our driver urges that it’s time to leave once the meal is concluded. Some things are universally cross-cultural. Apparently the meter is running.
We pause momentarily for a picture with Pastor Boaz and his people and good-byes are spoken. The return trip fills me with emotions as mixed as those encountered earlier in the day. What difference can a message shared with a people you do not know on a single day really make?
The journey to this place is an act of faith. Time and talents have been utilized to the best of my ability. The outcome is entrusted to the One who made my presence possible. Who can tell what He will make of our encounter?
Another thought consoles me. If our encounter impacts these people even a fraction of the way in which my life is being transformed, then my efforts will not be in vain.
9 comments:
I am in awe of this and every story you've shared about your travels in Africa.
And that they wanted to send you away with something... wow. Certainly they must know that they were already doing that? It's so obvious to me.
Thanks for sharing, Craig.
I like how you share more of the story. What's it been, a year since you took the journey? This telsl me that you will not soon forget the impact and importance of your visit to Africa.
I hear that Africa is now the most 'christian' continent on earth and that they are sending missionaries to North America.
At the beginning I was confused. When did Craig go back to Africa? Did he? Or is a story being re-told. I think I am still confused.
"If our encounter impacts these people even a fraction of the way in which my life is being transformed, then my efforts will not be in vain." You bet that your efforts were not in vain.
How many of us get out of our comfortable bubble to give a hand to others? It's too beautiful what you've done.
My daughter saw a position posted by the UN in Nairobi, and got excited, not that she's planning on applying now (she is still serving in Peace Corps) but Africa speaks to her. I know that.
God Bless You.
JR -- It was obvious to me as well. I tell you, to have so little they are the most generous and gracious people I have ever met. The small gifts they presented were given with such great love. That’s so much better than expensive gifts given with little love. I am much richer for the experience. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed these posts.
L&W – It hasn’t been a year yet. The trip was made in the latter part of January and the first two weeks of February. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about Africa, its people, or something I learned there.
There is something about visiting a third world country that places all the complaining about the bad economy here in a different (and proper) perspective.
I understand better the second missionary journey of Paul. He went back to visit the churches that were started on the first journey. I often think about how the people and churches we visited are doing and long to be with them again.
There are so many things the people there could teach us here in the States. I hope before I’m done to have a post addressing some of those things.
LL – No, I haven’t been to Africa again. Yet. Just haven’t finished telling the stories of the first one. There are a few more entries to write and I have a feeling they will be more difficult to put into words. I’m just letting the stories out as they speak to me. But I probably should set a goal of getting them all down before the anniversary of the trip.
Planning is under way for a return. Right now it looks like that trip may be in June. Only problem is my daughter is getting married in June. So I don’t yet know if I’ll be able to make this next one. If not, maybe the trip after that.
One of the guys who made the trip to Tanzania is going to Kenya in November. You should see the light in his eyes when he talks about being in Africa again.
I got a letter from Clement this week. Among other things he told me, “Your letters are bringing great joy to my heart - some times a feel like my blood streeming in my nerves like when i was in my twenties.” What a privilege to have such friends in distant places.
I can relate to your daughter’s connectedness to Africa. It does have a way of getting into your heart.
It's always sad when the journey is over. Like with these last sentenses you really did say goodbye. But as with general life, one door closes - another opens. One path ends - another begins.
And I can't not mention how I laughed at the story with the chicken. You guys are so spoiled here! Well, I am too by now. In Russia we always said that our chicken (or cows, or sheep) die "on thier own", from age, malnureshment or disease. We also joke about "blue chicken" that they ran from Magadan (most East coast) all the way to Moscow to die and get to the store's shelf:) Trust me, I do know what it feels to chew on those!
We are spoiled here. Which is one of the most unsettling things about the time in Africa. It's difficult to listen to people complain about the bad economy here when you've experienced a culture where they don't have a fraction of what we enjoy.
Many people assume that being in a place where poverty is common place would be depressing. But few understand how depressing it can be to come back from that experience to a place where materialistic obsessions abound.
But that's another post.
Ditto on more depressing coming back. I remember your post on how, despite the poverty, people out there seem to be so much happier, and for such "little" things...drastic difference. Of course, there are individuals in each place of living, but in general, as a population, developed countries are very greedy and don't like to share (unless they'll be acknowledged for it). Good topic, get the post going:)
Yes Ma'am. I'll get right to work on it. Actually, I've already made some notes for that post. But I don't know exactly where it will fall.
By the way, since your citizenship thing is rapidly approaching, you are going to have to get used to saying "we" instead of "you guys." :)
I have enjoyed all the stories you have told about your time in Africa and can only imagine the impact it has made on your daily life. Thanks for another touching tale.
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