(written on September 29th)
It has been a long three months in Africa.
The days here seem to me like honey dripping from a spoon: they drip by slowly, oozing sloppily and disregarding any need for punctuality. Afternoons in particular are the most perplexing thing of all. They seem to defy science and space because each stretches out for an impossible amount of hours, making one afternoon feel like at least a week.
But now, despite how long it seemed to take, my time in Africa has ended. These last three long months have culminated in me sitting here in a hostel in Entebbe, Uganda on the eve of my departure from this continent. And what do I have to say about it?
(sunset over Kenyan cornfields)
Well, it’s no great secret to those that have been listening closely that Africa has stretched me more than any other continent I’ve visited on the Race. There are idiosyncrasies of this place, which may have delighted me at one point, that have come to exhaust me. Ministry, I’ll admit, is usually quite monotonous. And quite honestly, I’m sick of people yelling “Mzungu!” at me instead of maybe just asking me what my name is.
But oh, one of the great tragedies of the human condition is that we seem to begin enjoying and appreciating something only just as that something ends. It seems that only when the curtain is closing do we glance around us and realize just how special things are.
And I think that’s the case between Africa and me.
(Rwandan kiddos)
For most of the past three months, I’ve had to choose to delight in my time here. It hasn’t come naturally. It’s been an almost daily effort. But one thing the Race has taught me, perhaps more than any other experience, is that when one fights for something and puts in the hard work to achieve it, things taste so much sweeter when the fight is finished. When you find yourself standing after the battle, exhausted as the wind clears the smoke, things are so much brighter, so much clearer, so much more full.
If you put in the hard work to love people, to create a safe and healthy team, to be honest with yourself and the Lord, despite how it might be painful and in no way emotionally satisfying, there is a reward.
The reward isn’t something tangible, it can’t be neatly framed. The reward for one’s effort to fight the good fight is more of an aura of the soul – it’s a feeling that runs deep into the most cavernous place within, from where it bubbles up and overflows.
(Baby Faith, the cutest Kenyan baby)
On my last night in Rwanda we attended a church service as usual, and as I sat on the hard plastic chairs and observed the wild scene around me, I realized how much I was going to miss African church services. I looked around at the women dressed in colorful fabrics, jumping and dancing freely. I watched the kids clapping along, joyful and innocent. I looked at my teammates, all of whom had also joined the dancing and jumping and clapping, as if they had never known of another way to worship. And I thought about my experience on this continent.
Though it’s been stretching, though I’ve cried more in Africa than on the whole Race combined, though I’ve never been dirtier in my life, and though I’ve never felt farther from home – I’ve also never felt so free, so full, or so bursting with creativity, hope, and expectancy.
(Julia loves to dance)
Many years ago, I read an article about poverty, disease, and corruption in Africa. I don’t remember much from it, save for one single line, which was somehow burned into my memory for years and years. And at the end of the service in Rwanda, after the dancing had stopped, I stood before the congregation and recited that line that had been locked in my memory:
“Americans might know about God,
but Africans know how to believe in God.
Africans know how to trust God.
Africans know how to serve God.
And most of all, Africans know how to worship God.”
Somewhere along the way, without my knowledge or consent, this place and these people seem to have nuzzled their way into my heart. Their stories of faith and survival and hope have somehow locked themselves into my memory. So maybe I didn’t enjoy Africa all that much, but maybe that’s what it took for Africa to leave her impression on me. As the smoke clears and I look back at the battle of the last three months, I can appreciate this place so much more.
I’m leaving Africa tonight, but I guess Africa isn’t really leaving me. And I suppose I should’ve guessed that would happen.
