“There’s a lot of fruit in Africa,” she tells me.
“Really? I thought we would be eating mostly carbs.” I say.
What did I expect to come out of Africa? I confess I expected to live in a hut and smell like a monkey, or what I thought a monkey would smell like because I had never actually smelt a monkey. “Africa changes you,” “they” tell me. “How?” I ask. They always smile and say, “it just does.” And I look at them with awe, wondering how much “they” have changed. I expected Africa to be a very holy experience, where we would go and share Jesus with those tribal people with sticks in their nose, and God would pat me on the back for a job well done.
I expected to not like Africa. I was afraid of it. Mostly just afraid to wake to the reality that people are hurting and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I want to be someone who faces her fears, or maybe known as someone who faces her fears. I want to be someone who has tried to make a difference in the world, even if I doubt how much my part actually does.
Did Africa change me?
It’s hard to process three months of life so different than I have ever known.
It’s hard to process internal change in the midst of so much external.
I think that I loved Africa.
It was hot at times.
It was loud at times.
I was sick at times. And those bus rides were horrible. And I certainly don’t miss people yelling “Hey Muzungo!” at me. But I think I loved it.
I think of Pastor Johnson and Victory Outreach ministries in Uganda, and how we became family with the staff of Alpha. I think of feedback under the stars and singing African praise songs to the God who made the night sky. I think of jack-fruit and porridge that burned our throats. I think of the tears of the prisoners when they came forward to accept Jesus. I think of the prayers of those who are ‘living positively’ with HIV.
I think of Bishop Maurice in Kenya, and how he still called us weeks after we left. I think of the beautiful ocean and those awful sunburns. I think of prayers at the hospital and preaching in the city center. I think of eating cow-intestines while the monkeys laughed while watching us from their trees.
I think of Pastor Emmanuel and Reagan in Tanzania, and their tears as we talked about grace and love to the people who answered the doors we knocked on. I think of the Maasai village and preaching until midnight. I think of all of our hearts breaking while hearing the Maasai women’s lives. I think of the church who were ‘born-again-again’ because they realized that God loved them. I think of the incredible wind and storms, especially the lightning that lit up the sky and crashed onto the mountains of Tanzania.
Looking back on Africa, I think of God’s provision, faithfulness, and humor.
There’s a lot of fruit in Africa, she tells me. We did eat a lot of carbs. I did talk about Jesus to people with sticks in their nose. God is always proud of me, but I think that the pat on the back was more a healthy dose of humility to the brain. And I probably smelt worse than a monkey, because they don’t actually smell as bad as you might think.
But, yeah, I loved Africa.
