You cannot escape her.
As you step off your plane and onto her land, she immediately overwhelms your senses. The sights, the smells, the sounds…it is a new and stimulating experience. The eerie stillness of a Nairobi night is much like the aura of Africa herself—vast, unknown, uncertain. You drive through the streets, struck by the paradox that is Africa: small pockets of wealth (advertisements for Sony LCD televisions and BMW cars) surrounded by immense poverty.
You forget what you see and close your eyes for much needed sleep.
The next morning, you board a plane to yet another unknown place. As the small plane takes off, you wonder what more does Africa hold. Where will this ‘large mosquito’ drop me off?
And then you land. And you are immediately greeted by smiles. Verbal communication is nearly impossible without a translator, and thus interaction becomes feeble attempts at Didinga, or laughter, or your own smile. As you ascend the mountain to the compound, children are eager to tickle your ear with grass, hoping to arise a giggle from a koaja (white person); the koajas, however, are eager to make it up the mountain without passing out.
You cannot be unaffected by the people. Their beauty and joy overflow, and your arrogant American mind wonders how it is possible for joy to exist amidst such destitution. You have never seen poverty like this, nor could you even fathom it in a place like America. And then you see them worship. And pass the offering plate—no money, just three avocados. And then you know. Their joy is the joy that can only come from the Lord, a joy unknown to those of us who have been raised with all of our daily needs met. In this war-torn place of utter poverty, He is the only hope that the people can have. They cannot depend on a government to provide or protect, nor on what their own hands might create. In Africa, in Sudan, He is the only thing worth depending on.
And so you go about your week, trying your best to live the culture as you crave the conveniences of home—showers, beds, electricity, macaroni and cheese. The days are long and hard, and just like America did in her pre-electric years, you sleep when the sun sets and rise when the rooster crows. Each day, you greet the ‘Peters-Roses-Elisabeths-Josephs’ with a smile and an ‘abuna,’ and each day you are struck by how hard they work to make you feel like family. Their care and service to you is humbling, and at times, overwhelming.
By the end of the week, you have grown to love these people. But here, you cannot trade email addresses or even mailing addresses; you know that when you board that plane to go home, you will have to love them from afar. As the plane takes off the grass airstrip amidst smiles and waves, you leave knowing that God seems more real in this place. His presence seems closer to His people here, and you know it is because their only hope is Him. They are sans distractions, the modern conveniences that disillusion our need for Him.
And while you are excited to come home, to take a shower, to devour pizza, you feel that a part of your heart was left in Africa. Now, you cannot forget what you saw. Your heart continues to beat for her, for her people. You long to know their joy, to be immersed in it. More than anything, you long to know the God they know, the God who is Creator, Father, Protector,
Sustainer.
"Many are asking, "Who can show us any good?" Let the light of your face shine upon us, O Lord. You have filled my heart with greater joy than when their grain and new wine abound. I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety." [Psalm 4:6-8]
