‘How do you describe Africa to someone who’s never been here?’
Pam asked me that after our first night in Swaziland, and
I knew she wasn’t talking about the scenery. I was acutely aware of that nearly
forgotten ‘Africa’ feeling washing over me the moment I arrived in
Johannesburg, a feeling that had held my thoughts all the next day as we drove
over the South African hills and on into Swaziland. The beauty of this place
is stunning, but that is only a small part of it. There’s so much more to
it all, and really, I don’t know that I have an answer to the question – I can
only attempt to describe how it makes me feel.
It’s like life melts away from you. That’s the simplest
explanation I can think of. Whether you miss home or not, have huge things on
your mind or not, there is something there in front of you that simply eases
all the other thoughts in your head into their rightful place of priority,
which is the ‘nothing to be done about it right now’ section of your brain, as
you simply take in what is now. There is a peace (but not the serene type) in the
very air you breathe that seems to come from an inexplicable purpose and
meaning to things, a purpose that exists without pressing upon you any kind of
panicked urgency. The beauty of the landscape, the joy of the people despite
poverty, the laid back culture – all of this seems to mix inside you and around
you to the point where you know that just beyond our physical realm these
things are a substance to touch and hold, and if you could only step over some
threshold it would be…I don’t even know what it would be, but something more…like
waking up to a new reality, but a reality that makes so much more sense because
it makes this one seem but a dream.
As in so many things, the only response to such an
atmosphere is to express it through creativity, art, and music. As such, song
itself becomes a physical force here, something you can swim in and breathe. The
people here sing from a place inside I don’t even know how to connect to. When
the African voices all around me rise up and join to sing praises to the King
on Sunday, and it seems that the walls and rocks and the dirt itself is
worshiping the creator…no words, even ones of song and praise, dare form in my
mouth, for my voice would be an ugly thing in this place. My eyes close in
order that I may feel and hear without seeing, and my soul sings out from the
deepest part of me while the only outward expression my body can find to
respond to the intensity of it all is a few small tears pooling in the corners
of my eyes.
This is worship. This
is God’s presence. This is His creation.
This is the point of
contact that is always just outside our realm of existence.
This is Africa
