Tionana (until we meet)

There is a place in Africa where children play outside

where dust floats high upon the air and colors red the sky

where mother’s work is always done with babies on their backs

slumbering still and sweet protected in their wrap

there is a place in Africa where laughter soars on high

where little hands reach up to hold the stranger’s walking by

where smiles are one true gift to give and hand on heart say all

where songs are sung with every word as from the lips they fall

there is a place in Africa where golden suns abide

where settings are more powerful than daybreak can provide

where night unfolds a full array when all the work is done

where dreams of wildness in the bush allow the lions to run

there is a place in Africa where once my feet did roam

and where a piece of heart will stay with those who call it home

there is a place in Africa

                   where children play outside

Songs 6000 miles away

On a dusty hill in Zambia sits a small chapel of old ragged red brick.  Though the door to the chapel has a lock on it, with a slight push the old weathered boards would give way.  The rusty hinges no longer can do the job so the door must be propped open with a rock.  Most of the window panes are broken or missing from many years of weather, children playing, or thieves.  The lace curtains which once had a quaint beauty, now hang ragged and yellow from age.  Yet they still hold some gracefulness while slowly swaying from the breeze entering the open window panes.  The benches are crudely hand carved with uneven legs which sway with a start when sitting.  The communion table must be covered with a small hand stitched table cloth to keep the flies from feasting.  The song books are tattered from years of use before they were donated to the chapel.  The pages are torn, yellow, and many are missing.  The binding hangs delicately by a few threads and struggles to contain what is left of the pages.  There is no air conditioning, no heater, no water fountain, no classrooms, and if one finds themselves needing to use the restroom, well you must go down the hill to the outhouse.

But early on a Sunday morning in this small chapel, when the benches hold more people than can handle, and the breeze is blowing through the broken window panes, and the tattered song books are opened, and the voices are raised in harmony, there is a feeling of being close to heaven. 

With eyes closed in meditation of song, with hands tapping the heart or folded in humble prayer, with faces toward heaven and tearful eyes, with natural harmony beyond comprehension, the voices raise the roof, move the clouds, and the songs soar to heaven. 

I pray that I may not lose the joy of songs 6000 miles away in a small chapel on a little dusty hill in Zambia. 

 

Through the dust of Africa

The plane ride is longer than one body can take.  The hut has no hot water.  Spiders and biting ants share the bed. You must stay on the path at night and watch closely for “the snake”.  Every piece of clothing, including what is packed away, is covered in red dust.  You find that breathing the dust will send your sinuses into a tail spin.  The afternoon sun along with the dust will dehydrate you very quickly.  And bottled water is always room temp because there is no ice. A cold drink is a 45 minute drive into Lusaka or across the road in the shanty town where you dare not tread alone as it is nicknamed Sodom & Gomorrah.  So where is the joy in this place called Africa?

It is in the people.       

It is in the smiles of every good morning with a hand over their heart or a firm slap of a hand shake.

It is in the laugh as they try to teach me the language.

It is in the quiet pride they show for their jobs.

It is in the humility of their eyes while showing me the dress they made to sell.

It is in the abandoned wildness of their dance.

It is in the complete fullness of their soul while singing.

It is in the wonderment of each child wanting to see their picture.

It is in the curiosity and innocence of learning the Bible.

It is all that we have forgotten.

May I never shake the dust from my sandals of this place called AFRICA.