The beans make a “ping, ping, ping” sound as I open my hand and drop them into the pan.
Cassie is across from me, holding a tiny baby, finding new ways to entertain her. Andrew is next to me, sharing the Gospel with one of the Muslim women in the corner. He’s doing a great job, which I’m thankful for, because it frees me up to share the Gospel in other ways.
I pick up another brown shell and crack it open with my fingers, letting some of the beans fall into my lap. Skirts come in handy for that sort of thing.
I’ve always felt closest to God with a little dirt on my hands, so my heart is happy to be sitting here in this mud and cement room in this mud and cement house listening to the rain attack the metal roof, drowning out our words at times. That doesn’t really affect me, since I’m not speaking. Sometimes I feel more like I’m sharing the Gospel when I’m just sitting there with someone, helping them crack open beans, then I do when I’m giving a speech. The woman and I don’t say anything to each other. We just keep reaching down to the floor, picking up more beans to crack open into the pot. When they’re all gone she says, “Thank you.” That’s the extent of our conversation, but I hope she felt loved for a few moments today.
Two of the women agree to come to the church service in the afternoon. It’s my turn to preach and I have no idea what to say. I’ve been reading in 2nd Corinthians about Christ’s power being strength in our weakness, and about God comforting us in our troubles. I speak about that, but the entire time I am really preaching to myself. This month got off to a bit of a rough start. It took four days to get here. You can read about that in another blog I wrote, but I don’t want to talk about it here. Partly because I’m trying to not be angry, and partly because I don’t want to have a panic attack thinking about how I am going to have to do it all again at the end of the month.
Tanzania is beautiful but hard. When I see the corn fields and the dirt roads and the tin-roofed buildings I try to tell myself that it’s just like being at my grandpa and grandma’s house. And I love my grandpa and grandma’s house. I’m looking for the blessings, because there are a lot of them, as always. I have my own bed, and a ceiling fan, and we have a rather spacious house this month. And I’m with people I love. And God has been so faithful, keeping us healthy and safe. And you should hear the people sing at the afternoon church services. Unlike some of the other African church services we’ve been to, there are no microphones or drums or keyboards with obnoxious beats. We’re all just under a tarp next to Pastor’s house, and it’s just their voices. And I get to listen to them sing while looking out at a corn patch and a gravel road and a big sky. That’s beautiful.
And for ministry I get to sit under a tin roof, listening to the rain and the beans make a “ping, ping, ping” sound as I drop them into the pan.
