Safari

When I was little, I had a deep fear of Africa.  I had once heard a reference to "darkest Africa" (probably someone quoting Joseph Conrad) and in my youthful mind I took that to mean that the sun shone very dimly there.  Even as a child I was solar-powered and the thought of not seeing bright sunshine every day struck fear into my heart.  My limited knowledge of Africa also included the fact that the Sahara desert was there and that it was full of wild animals.  (That Africa had elephants was its only plus and not even my love of that particular pachyderm was enough to induce me to want to travel there.)  Put it all together, throw in some adventure stories I'd read, and this is what I knew about Africa: if you went there you would die in the middle of the desert after you got lost and your camel shriveled up from dehydration.  If you were lucky you'd get kidnapped by a tribe of bedouins, sold as a slave, and wind up in some dusty village getting speared by a native.  Or you'd get juju'd to death.

I was very, very afraid.

This was unfortunate for me because the feature of every missionary story told in Sunday School was Africa.  It seemed that if you wanted to be a missionary, that was the place you went.  I was all for serving God because I really, really loved Him but I was petrified down to my core that He was going to make me go there.  One day I asked my mother about it, afraid she'd tell me that this was one of life's hardships and that I'd have to deal with my eventual exile and death.  I remember her smiling just a little as she told me that not every missionary went to Africa and that God would not send me there if I were that scared.  "Honey, He'll prepare your heart if He wants you to go there.  He won't make you go like this."  What a huge relief!  I was so glad to be standing there on our stone driveway in the full sun, knowing I'd never have to leave the comfort of my house to get speared by hostile tribesman.

Whew.

A few years later my youngest cousin Holly was severely burned while carrying a cup of hot tea upstairs to my aunt, who had the flu.  She tripped on the way up, splashing boiling water all over the side of her face and shoulder.  I remember getting the phone call.  I remember the way the bandages wrapped around her poor little head and neck disappeared into her shirt when we saw her next.  I remember her face shiny with salve.  Mostly I remember sitting in the quiet darkness of the living room, absorbing the news that this small girl, one half of a miracle set of twins, might be permanently scarred.  I couldn't bear that thought so I bargained with God, offering Him the thing that cost me the most.  I knew He wouldn't want the locket I treasured or even the stuffed animal I'd had since infancy.  I was old enough by then to know that God doesn't want things.  But service, that was something I could see Him wanting.  So I promised Him that night if He would heal Holly without a scar on her face and neck, I would go to Africa and be a missionary for at least two years, longer if that's what He wanted.  It was the only thing I had that I thought God could truly want.

Looking back I can see how misinformed I was about God, not to mention Africa.  As an adult, I know Africa is a continent, not a country (crucial to my minsunderstanding as a child) and I also know that as a continent it is anything but homogenous.  I also know my chances of getting eaten by a wild animal or speared by someone is pretty slim provided I use my common sense.  And I don't think I'll be traveling across the Sahara by camel anytime soon.  As an adult I know that God is not a bargainer.  I can just imagine His pained sigh as I prayed with fear seventeen years ago.  There wasn't any need for that; He would have healed Holly just for the asking.  Any price that needed to be paid was paid long ago, and not by me. 

Here's where I'd like to point out that if you met my cousin today you'd never know how badly she was scalded all those years ago.  She has a relatively small scar on her shoulder that I know bothers her sometimes.  But her face and neck are pristine.  And I've yet to set foot on any part of the continent of Africa.

Last weekend our church hosted the West Africa Partnership Summit.  Africa came to me, in a sense, particularly Ivory Coast, Senegal and Togo.  The pastors I met in November came back again, spoke to us again through translators, and were in turn revived and refreshed by our hospitality.  It was a beautiful time of fellowship for all of us.  We greatly enjoyed serving them and hearing from them; they were in turn happy to be here with us, giving us perspective on their very different lives.  Their struggles are so very different from my own and yet at the heart of the matter we have so much in common.



As I listened to one of the pastors speak, I thought about the idea of the global church.  It occured to me that these men are my brothers even though we look nothing alike, don't speak more than a handful of common words, and have met only a few times.  According to what I believe, I will be spending eternity with these guys.  It made me wonder who else I bump into on the street that may be my brother and I just don't know it.  It's a good basis for thinking about people; how can I treat anyone as "less than" if they are my family?

I haven't felt afraid of Africa for a very long time but this weekend, for the first time, I actively desired to go there.  I'm not sure when a trip will happen; my time's not as free as it used to be.  But I'm sure now that my mother was right; God has prepared my heart for Africa.  When I go it will not be with reluctance, because I feel I must; it will be because I have the desire to love the people there.   I have made the most important journey right here at home, from fear into freedom.