africa days

You lay -half awake, half asleep- on your thin mattress, your teammate sleeping beside you. Roosters crow outside your window (closing the window doesn't seem to ever keep the noise out). You open your eyes as you hear pots clanging together and the smell of smoke burns your nose. Your green mosquito net covers the entire bed, and you begin the chore of pulling it out from under the mattress, like you've done every morning for the past 3 weeks.

You rummage around the room trying to be quiet (though it really doesn't matter due to all the noise going on outside). Alas, after a long search, you've found the roll of toilet paper and head outside. With your sleep-crusted face, you step outside into bright African sunlight. It's 7 a.m., but the Africans have already been awake for 2 hours. When do they ever sleep? Your flip-flops smack against the cement as you walk to the end of the courtyard, smiling and saying good morning to the African faces you have come to know and care for. "How was de night?" they ask you. "Good, it was good." you reply, though that's not necessarily true.

The smell of the squatty potty makes your stomach churn as you unlatch the bright blue door. The door opens and you hold your breath. No cockroaches, please Lord, no cockroaches. Your eyes scan the small cement area. Cockroach free, score! You breathe a prayer of thankfulness.

Back in your room, your roommates begin to wake up. You rummage through your disorganized suitcase, looking for a skirt and shirt that don't smell that bad. You hardly notice the wrinkles as you pull on your shirt and straighten out your skirt. You wash your face with water from a water bottle. Washing the grease and sweat and sleep off your face has never felt so good. Thank you, Jesus, for the refreshing, cleansing feel of soap and water on my face. You grab your notebook and your Bible from the end of your bed. You always know exactly where they are, because you never go a day without both of them.

You sit in 'your' corner in the courtyard and your Bible falls open on your lap. You have never craved Scripture like this before. It's refreshing, encouraging, strengthening. You've never experienced this until now, and part of you is almost shocked at how the Word can come alive. You journal and you pray-- for strength, for energy, for joy, for patience, for love. You pray to be filled with Him, because you know that your own strength is not enough.

The Scripture reading and prayer journaling must come to an end (you could do this all day, it seems). Breakfast is ready (an hour later than expected). You walk into the eating/living room to see your team -the people you love dearly- passing around bread and cinnamon and sugar. Ahh yes, the normal African breakfast, complete with the tea your taste buds just can't seem to get used to. One of your leaders pulls out her guitar. The sweet sound of singing fills the room as you sing praises to The Almighty. This is my prayer in the desert, when all that's within me feels dry. This is my prayer in my hunger and need, my God is the God who provides.. I will bring praise.

"We go? We go now?" Pastor Thomas's voice echoes loudly in the room. "Yes, we are ready." We've been ready for an hour now, is what you're thinking. Teach me patience, Lord, teach me patience. In Africa, there is no such thing as being on time (or being late). You walk outside of the house and already children wait to greet you, to be loved, touched, held, played with. You and your teammates pile into the van-- squished rather closely together. Personal space has become a foreign concept.

The ride is bumpy and long, wind and dirt blow through the open van windows. Children and adults alike stare at you as you drive by. "Muzungu!" the children smile and wave. When you reach the school, you are already tired. But the children are so happy to see you, their smiles are contagious. Little children come up to you, one after the other, shaking your hand, "How are you? How are you?"

You join hands and sing, "Make a make a circle.." and eventually a (slightly warped) circle evolves. And then there you are- you and your teammates- standing in the middle of this sea of kids. And you start to dance, and sing, and clap. At first, you feel extremely awkward. What do people think of me? But that wears off eventually.

The morning is completed with a Bible story and you hug these children goodbye and climb back into the van. Hands reach up to the windows and you shake them and high-five them before the van pulls away. You see the children chasing after you and it brings a smile to your face. Thank You for these children, and for their joy. Bless these children, keep them safe in Your arms.

The ride home is long, you are tired and hungry. As your van pulls up to the house, a sea of children wave at you. You get out of the van and immediately there are tiny, sticky little fingers crawling all over you-- your arms, your skirt, your back, your shirt, your hair. How long have these children been waiting for us to get back? You are exhausted- mentally and physically. God, give me the strength. You sit on the dirt steps, and children pile onto your lap. You play hand clapping games for what seems like ever. Tiny fingers pull through your hair, braiding and re-braiding it.

Lunch is ready and so you stand up and peel children from you as you head inside. Rice and macarone, again. You imagine the taste of a turkey sandwich-- toasted whole wheat bread, green lettuce, cold turkey meat from the deli. You sip your warm water from your plastic Aqua Sipi bottle. The plate of fresh mangos and pineapples gets passed around the room. You can't remember what it's like to eat at a table, balancing a plate on your knees has become so normal.

The afternoon is warm and sticky as you lay on your mattress, talking to your roommates. You talk of home, and the families that you miss. You talk about how you're so sick and tired of crowing chickens. Someone tells a joke (it may or may not have involved something about a muffin) and the room is filled with laughter. You read Scripture to each other, strengthening and encouraging. This is the body of Christ. You pull the small bag of goldfish out of your suitcase. You've been holding off, trying to save these until you were absolutely desperate for them. The bag is passed around the room and smiles spread across faces. Goldfish crackers have never tasted so delicious. Thank You for cheesy goldfish that taste like home, and friends to share them with. 

You head out for afternoon ministry-- going house-to-house in the community, talking to the people, and praying for them. You walk the streets, being careful to avoid the cow dung and careful not to trip over the rocks and bumps in the road (or get hit by the bicycles flying by). The children, they follow you everywhere. You sit and talk with people- the woman who owns a sewing shop, the man who plants maize for his family, the Muslim women. You walk the streets, see the mud houses, the children's shoeless feet, and you want to cry. Are you here God, even in the midst of this? You see the joy in the children's eyes, the friendliness of the people. Yes, I see You God. You are here, You have not left these people alone.

2 hours pass and it is 6:00. You come home for the day and you are utterly exhausted. You kick your dust-coated shoes off and lay on the mattress, sticky and dirty. You pull out your package of wipes, this is your shower for the day. Thank you, Lord, for citrus-y smelling baby wipes. Behind your neck, in your ears, your face, your arms, your nose.. the dirt doesn't stop coming off. Clean is an unknown feeling these days. Your roommates sit beside you, doing the same thing. You compare your dirty wipes, seeing who is the dirtiest and who used the most wipes. Eventually you call it quits, that's as clean as you're getting.

You lay down on your mattress, counting down the hours until bedtime. It is 7:00 and dinner preparations have yet to get started. This is Africa, you learn to be flexible. You gather with your team back in the eating room. You can hear the children outside, calling the names of those in your group. Don't their parents wonder where they are at? Jesus, keep them safe. You worship. You pray. You debrief the day.

Dinner comes around 10:00- macarone and rice. Chips (or french fries as we call them in America) if you are lucky. Usually cabbage. And some form of meat, most likely a chicken one of the members of your team killed earlier in the day. The Africans get a kick out of seeing the little white girls kill chickens. You are so tired you can barely taste what is going into your mouth. Tonight it is a struggle to keep your eyes open. The power flickers and goes out, someone comes in with a lantern. Its warm, yellowish-red glow is comforting.

You head to your room, groping in the dark trying to find your flashlight. You find it, and thus begins the search for the toilet paper. You and your teammates make your nightly trip to the squatty potty. You open the door and mentally prepare yourself for the cockroaches you know will be in there this time. The blue door opens again, and you walk up the steps. I can't do this again. God, I can't do this. Help me. The encouraging voices of some of your teammates (the girls you have come to love so dearly) surround you as you close the door. You pray as you stand (fine, let's keep it real- you squat) there, peeing on the antennas of the cockroaches. God don't let them crawl back up, please don't let them crawl back up.

You walk back to your room to grab your toothbrush and water bottle. Tonight you actually do brush your teeth, the minty freshness burns your mouth. You crawl into bed and tuck the mosquito net underneath the mattress again, leaving one end open so your friend can get in when she's done journaling outside. Thank you for her, Lord. Thank you for her patience, and kindness. A smile spreads across your face as you think of how you will probably roll onto her in the middle of the night, and she will push you off of her. And you will play fight in the morning, pretending to be incredibly irritated at sharing a bed when, in fact, you don't mind at all. Sharing a bed only brings you closer.

You turn your flashlight on as you pull out your journal and Bible. You write, by the light of the flashlight, about the day, about how you miss home, about the things you love in Africa, about what God is teaching you, about how God is changing you. You write and write, but it seems like you can't record it all down. There's so much you have to say, but your fingers are tired. It's midnight -or after- and your mind cannot think anymore.

You turn the flashlight off. The sounds of Africa surround you- music, people talking a language you don't understand, a baby crying. You close your eyes. Thank You for the strength to make it through another day, thank You for these children, thank You for our hosts, thank You for my team. Thank You Lord for Africa.