You remember those knot-in-your-stomach
times when the rubber hits the road, when you know you’ll be tested and tried.
You had trained and studied and
prepared, you had prayed and worried and prayed some more.
And the day came when you had to
see for yourself
whether your training and
preparation were enough—
whether your faith was adequate,
whether God was adequate,
whether you were adequate.
Well, that’s where Dave and I were—on
the threshold of our big test—one that would last three weeks.
You see, we and our fellow
orientees had been in training for two months and the time had come for us to
see how well prepared we were for the third and final phase of our orientation: Each family would be on its own, scattered throughout remote African villages. We would no
longer have the comfort of living alongside our fellow orientees. Our
directors, Brian and Jenny, would leave the area.
But someone in our group needed to
be in charge—in case of an emergency—so Brian called a meeting and had us vote.
Our fellow orientees chose Dave to
be the Samaki kubwa, the big fish.
So, we all loaded up our tents and
supplies and left Maasai-land. I remember our stay there as a mellow time, a
serene time, a gentle time—for the most part anyway. I had enjoyed the quiet,
the clean air, and the slow, simple lifestyle.
Our handful of vehicles headed toward
the Taita Hills—a mountain range at an elevation around 7,000 feet—in southeastern
Kenya, close to the majestic and famous Mt. Kilimanjaro. We left the desert and
entered a lush, verdant region.
Before we all went on our separate
ways on our own, our group congregated in Dembwa at the base of the Taita Hills,
a small town close to a main highway and a bustling civilization. Town and
regional officials welcomed us with lunch and speeches. And in good African
style, both Dave and Brian gave speeches, too. (See photo below.)
We had gathered in the yard of a
new elementary school with six or eight classrooms and, since Dave was an
educator, he was curious about the classrooms. Since the children didn’t have classes
that day, we stepped inside one room.
Concrete floors and walls kept the
temperature nice and cool, but the school had no electricity—teachers and
students depended on sunlight through windows.
The classroom was furnished with a slate
blackboard and rough-hewn desks and stools.
A world map hung on the wall—the classroom’s
only educational material.
The room had no textbooks,
dictionaries, or anything else. In place of books, we noticed pencils and thin
tablets in which children had written lecture notes from their teacher.
We found it hard to grasp the
poverty displayed in that school—it seemed unthinkable—but we also knew the teachers,
students, and their families placed a high value on education. They were doing
the best they could with their meager resources.
On that day, little did we know
that this school was superior to many others across the continent.
And so, with a knot in our stomachs
and with wonderings if we’d stand
the tests,
and curiosity about what awaited us
in the Taita Hills,
we were off on yet another adventure.
How good to know God was with us on
it.
“The Lord Himself goes before you—ahead
of you—
and He will stay with you.
He won’t leave you alone, He won’t forsake
you.
Don’t be afraid. Don’t be discouraged.”
(Deuteronomy 31:8)
 |
| Dave and other speech-givers in Dembwa |
No comments:
Post a Comment