Looking Through God's Window

The last few days I’ve had quite a lot of time to feel sorry for myself. And, when I wasn’t efficiently distracting myself with books, journal writing, or gchatting with friends on the internet, I found myself dragged into despair. Here I am, wanting to help and be out in the community and I’m stricken with a relatively mild case of malaria feeling sorry for myself in a fittingly blue room in the Cross Cultural Solutions compound.

So it’s not surprising, then, that Sunday morning my depression was noticeable. CCS staff and volunteers were going to church… did I want to come? My heart tugged at wanting to get out of the building even though my body was screaming to just sit still on the patio. As a compromise, I hired a bajaji, a Tanzanian taxi type vehicle which looks more like remnants of Mister Toad’s Wild Ride at Disney World. Nick who had recently twisted his ankle but probably could have walked to the church rode with me for company.

The church was a really unique experience and surprising to me since I teach in a church. But it was just one room, cement walls, with a couple 8 by 11 drawings of Jesus on the cross hung about the room. People were dressed in their Sunday finest with local women sporting beautiful outfits, bright colors, and their nicest jewelry. Children were not only welcome they were abundant – through the aisles, wandering the building throughout the music and service. Church here is interactive… I found it instantly captivating. There are no hymnals, no Bibles unless you have your own, yet people were reciting scripture together and singing Jesus’ praises. Hands clapped, feet stamped, and bodies moved side to side and I felt myself surrounded by people who were really praising God.

It didn’t take long for me to become infatuated with a baby, not more than 5 months old behind me, in a long green dress with big deep black eyes. As I turned to make a little face at her, her Babu, or grandmother handed her across the pew to me. Thrilled but taken aback, I held the baby in my arms and felt meaning, purpose, and happiness seep back into my veins. The baby girl just stared up and me, curious to see this white mzungu with long brown hair. The latter quickly became a plaything, and the baby wrapped and twisted my curly brown hair in her fists and in her mouth. If I wasn’t so happy and laughing to the point of tears streaming out of my eyes, I might have been bothered, but truthfully I couldn’t have cared less.

While my heart was alive my body was still hurting and as our group left the church some 2 and a half hours later (with the service still going on) I collapsed thankfully next to an acutely aware Nick who caught me and kept me from hitting my head. I was immediately surrounded by church well-wishers, men and women who were worried. CCS staff explained – she has malaria – but she will be okay. Edna, one of the housekeepers finally said to me “Dana, they want to pray for you. Is this okay?” I said okay somewhat dumbfounded at the question. No sooner had I shakily replied yes did I see why.

Women grabbed my feet, men grabbed my hands, women touched my knees and elbows. All started to pray out loud. Through the murmurs of my broken understanding of Swahili I heard God, Jesus, malaria, and the word mzima which means good, or to make better. I was breathless at both the strangeness of the multiple people praying out loud and the total unselfishness and true caring that I observed from these total strangers as I lay on the dusty concrete at the front of the church. Here I was clutching my Italian rosary in a pair of nice Gap jeans with strong medicine in my system and a safe healthy lunch upon my return to CCS, and these strangers were just praying for me like I was dying. I’ve never experienced a thing like it in my life. I mumbled asante sana – which means thank you so much – but I was truly at a loss for words.

That’s the thing about these sorts of trips. Even the most unplanned, unpredictable, unfortunate event has brought me to a unique cultural understanding through these experiences. I feel very lucky and very happy to have 5 weeks to still embrace the people of Bagamoyo and try to give them even half of what they give me every day: love.

And it’s amazing when you’re down on yourself and you’ve spent fits in self-pity and prayed out loud hoping for a change that even when my body still wouldn’t recover, God lifted my spirits out of the sadness and reminded me again how blessed and loved I am, even by strangers in a remote corner of the world.