Sometimes, manual labor is the best kind of ministry. It allows you to get dirty- really dirty– the kind of gross that’s a mixture of heat exhaustion and overworked muscles and persistent, rocky, red clay. Right now we’re digging a hole for a latrine, a place for the children at the new preschool to empty their bladders in a slightly more hygienic way than the fields where they run around and play.
Here are some things to keep in mind about Nsoko in May: sure, it’s “practically winter,” but it’s hot. That sun blazes down with an incredible intensity the whole time it’s in the sky (which, granted, isn’t too long in the winter, with sunset around 5:30pm). We came to Africa knowing it would be winter, and hearing how cold it would get. I’m not going to lie, I was expecting long, shivery nights and occasionally warm days.
Stereotypes exist for a reason. Africa is hot. End of story.
So here we are, mid-morning, already sweaty from a failed P90X session, trudging out to the back of the school yard to dig a hole in the fierce African sun.
Sometimes, though, this is the best ministry.
During our time here, we’ve seen a lot. We’ve watched preschoolers, starving and sick, scared of white people and waiting for their one meal a day. We’ve sat with women who have lost all of their children- one stately lady couldn’t even tell us the names of her many dead kids. We’ve talked to people who have devoted their lives to Swaziland, but who are overworked and overwhelmed with the many, systemic problems that can’t be solved because one person fed an orphan or bought a purse.
When the burdens of Africa are more than I can handle, pouring myself into shoveling might be the only medicine. The latrine will help only a few, but those few that it helps may go on to be the ones that save this place. They may not be willing to listen to the big white people telling them that Jesus loves them, but they might remember that we loved them enough to care about their well-being. They may not understand the Gospel today, but after years of being intentionally poured into by the long term people here, they may end up being the ones sharing the good news. They may be only kids today, but one day they’ll be adults, and it’s my prayer that on that day, they are ready to stand up and say, “Enough is enough. Africa is our home, and we will not stand for its abuse any longer.”
Put your back into it, really feel the muscles burning as the sun beats down, relentlessly strong, overwhelmingly powerful. Africa needs people who are willing to work, people who won’t let a few rocks slow them down, who don’t mind the sweat in their eyes, who are willing to give their all- swing after swing after swing, watching the dirt pile almost imperceptibly creep up next to them.
Africa needs us to pray, on our knees, even when it’s hard, even when it hurts, even when it’s humbling and daunting and has no end in sight.
Where do you stand? Will you join in the work? Will you be one to make a difference?
Evan with the kids
