Tourists flock to Africa to see wildlife in its
natural habitat, yet most of them stay in tourist lodges protected by walls and
fences and guards. But during our orientation, we experienced Africa’s wildlife
for real.
At Eleng’ata Enterit, in Maasai-land, in our
definitely-non-touristy camp, one day our director, Brian, told us the Maasai
had spotted chui—a leopard—near our camp during daylight hours.
We knew they wandered around at night, but they posed
a different threat during the day when people, especially children, roamed
freely—a tasty meal for a leopard.
Brian’s spare, monotone words, his tight throat, and
taut face showed us his degree of concern. He asked everyone to pray for
safety, and I rehearsed my friend Esther’s instructions on how to stare down a leopard.
God heard and answered our prayers
that day.
We had a choice of two routes from our
tent to the central gathering place. We could walk in the desert under blazing
sun, or we could walk in shade under fig trees.
Walking in the desert posed challenges.
Scorpions favored a path close to our tent and whenever I spotted one, I
stomped on it because I remembered how my son suffered from a scorpion sting
when he was a little boy.
So, there in Eleng’ata Enterit, after
one stomp, unfazed, the scorpion usually skittered around on the sand to get
away—or maybe to position itself to sting me—but by then the scorpion and I had
engaged in a fight to the death, and I made sure I won.
One day while I walked in the fig trees’
blessed shade, the sun’s rays filtered through the leaves and highlighted a
fine sprinkle of raindrops. Rain! What a blessing there in the desert. God had
said, “I will send down showers in season; there will be showers of blessing.
The trees of the field will yield their fruit and the ground will yield its
crops. . . .” (Ezekiel 34:26–27). Thank you, Lord, for rain!
Then I realized rain wasn’t falling
anywhere else. I stopped. I looked up. I saw a colobus monkey high in the
trees—emptying its bladder. Suddenly the hot walk in the desert seemed the
better choice.
Groan! All I ever wanted was to live
in a little white house with a picket fence and a rose garden.
I’d always imagined I’d be a traditional,
quaint grandma like my grandma, the kind that sits in a rocking chair and knits
baby blankets.
But no. I was not the quintessential grandma
I’d always hoped to be.
Janet Bly’s poem
captures my life:
I
would rather
You know whose “pulsing hand keeps
driving me over peaks and ravines and spidered brambles.” It’s God’s. With
Dave’s help.
They’ve led me over bumpy, muddy
trails and up steep hills and around unexpected turns.
But what an interesting life it has
been! (From Chapter 2, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
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