reflections from an African porch

I can still see my breath hang briefly and vaguely white in the air as I sit around 8 a.m. in the screened-in porch of the Gobelo House where Dr. Mylin and I are staying.  (“Gobelo” in Tonga, the local dialect, means place where wise decisions are made and Dr. Mylin and I like to think – or hope! – that we’re worthy of residing in such a place!)

After another wonderful breakfast of warm porridge, toast with PB&J, and papaya, some students are off to do rounds with the physicians in the Children’s Ward at Macha Mission Hospital, while others have climbed back into bed to steal a few more hours of sleep.  Others are sitting quietly in the warm sun with their own thoughts, or are studying, or reading.  I’m sure a few have wandered into the village or taken a leisurely stroll down to the dam.  Some have gone to the dressmaker’s house to survey the progress of their order.  And I steal a quiet moment on the screened-in porch, continuing to soak in Africa and marvel at God’s handiwork in this corner of the world.

Groups of children happily walk by on the road a few hundred yards away, chatting and giggling to each other as they make their way to wherever they are going.  There go a few village women, citenge’s wrapped tightly around their waists, water jugs balanced expertly atop their heads, obviously having made their morning visit to the local well.  One of the beautiful women who works at the MIAM campus walks up the path, her hands full of colorful blankets and towels, slightly curtseys as she greets me, then enters the house across the way.  Her quiet, yet brilliant, service is easily overlooked, but keenly felt as she, and so many others, cares for us so expertly, and so humbly.

I hear the sound of cowbells in the distance and can imagine a herd crossing to some field, or some village, or some roadside as they make their way to wherever they are going.  The roosters continue their crowing (they never seem to stop!) and are joined by a chorus of birds chirping their good-mornings.  A gentle breeze picks up and the banana tree waves hello to the lemon tree while the bright blue sky greets the morning sun.

I think of privilege, of temperature, of peace and quiet, of spaciousness and solitude, of joy and laughter, of pain and struggle.  I think of how seemingly simple and easy this beautiful place is in so many ways, yet how devastatingly complex and difficult in others.  I think of home, with its lists and bustle and noise and I wonder what it will be like to go back there – to that place and pace.  I stop myself and settle back into this quiet moment, back into Africa and her hard yet welcoming arms.  And I thank God for the diversity, complexity, and beauty of this world and of this place.  I pray we all continue to soak in it, to splash its dirt on our arms, to let its sun kiss our faces, and its people fill our hearts, learning the lessons it wants to teach us, while doing the work of actively participating in its beauty.   Dear Lord of Africa and America, let it be so!