Category: missions

There were a sea of children when we drove up.  Running from all directions as if a bull-horn announced we were close two miles back. I wondered where they were coming from.  And where their mamas were. 

They stood in a pack and stared.  Mesmerized.  And to me they looked like the way children truly want to be – no shoes, shirts untuck, red dirt caked to their knees and dusting their faces.  Not confined by time or space.  Enjoying the day of sunshine and warmth and digging in the dirt.  Except that for them I knew days like these are like most other days.  Here digging in the dirt isn’t something the mamas have to bribe their children to do like back home.  The dirt is the prized toy.

There was one dress, though, different from all to others.  It was blue and silky made from chiffon or satin. The wide collar held embroidered flowers and pleats fell from the waist.  It was a fancy dress – a party dress.  It stood in front of the sea, torn and stained, full of work and fun, but still beautiful. 

Her little nose needed wiping and her face needed cleaning, but she still looked like she was on her way to a party with those round cheeks and perfect, small braided tight against her little head.

The next day just as expected.  Full of light and sounds of cock-a-doodle-doo.  The earth shows its glory no matter where it is positioned.  The sun rises just as bright and the sky hangs just as blue no matter what it’s shining upon. 

The children came back the next day from wherever they were coming from.  Some ran through on their way to school with their lunch pails clanging against their legs as they ran.  Others just came to be with us for one more day. 

I noticed her from afar as she walked up to where we were.  She could barely walk from holding her new dress off the ground. Pink and made of terry cloth covering only the essentials.  It was nothing like the party dress from the day before.  Today was different.

Today it was just a towel.

Look closely at her face.  Look closely in her eyes.  Does she know that today is different?  Does she know that she woke up without a dress to wear? 

We had a little girl’s dress.  And we gave it to her. 

The village we visited was in the middle of a cotton field. As we went off road to where we were building the hangar we drove right through it.  Dried up and withered.  Only left the prickly bolls.  The children came running.  Straight through those bolls just bare skin to the ground. 

We got out of our vehicles and came face-to-face. Face-to-face with the women and children and men. The people we were going to live with for the next few days. The people we were serving.

They reached out their hands, each of them.  I had an urgency to grab hold of them and hug them tight.  But I held back and just touched their hands.

Their eyes stared at us hard and long. Like they were looking deep within our souls. I wondered what they were seeing. I knew what I hoped they weren’t seeing.

The differences.  The opportunity.  The prosperity.  The wealth. 

I found myself wanting to tell them how beautiful and special and smart and talented they are because I felt like that’s what they were thinking about us. We were the Americans. The people with everything – literally. 

But my words of English couldn’t reach them. So I smiled big, patted their backs and held their hands, and said over and over again in French “Jolie” – “Pretty”.

I continued to look that first day in the bush. Look for the happiness I wanted desperately to see.
I thought there would be an oblivion to the world outside the dust and cotton and huts and goats.  The happiness must come from not knowing any better.  Not knowing what’s really outside of this land in Africa. 

In some ways this was true.  For most of them the image of their faces on our digital cameras was the first time they had ever seen the beauty of their faces.

But as they looked in my eyes and mine in theirs, it’s like they knew.  They knew what could be.  They knew what there was on the outside. 

I didn’t see happiness. 

I saw envy.

Not an evil kind just a kind out of desperation.  Their eyes were pleading deep down inside. Pleading for reprieve. 

We slept that night under the night sky and more shooting stars than I ever knew truly existed.  As I looked up at each one of them it was funny what I saw.  Focusing on just one star at a time I only saw one.  But when I moved my eyes just slightly away, that one became many. 

At the time I did not know it, but as the week went on I began to see something in those stars.

I was focusing on happiness as one bright shining star.  But turning my attention away allowed me to see the whole picture.

I invite you to follow along over the next few weeks as I unfold my thoughts from Burkina.  I am taking it slow because there is a lot to digest when writing one post.  It is hard and draining looking back and reflecting.  And it can’t be captured quickly. 

Read the before story and the other posts I’ve written since returning HERE!

And don’t forget to learn more about Engage Burkina and another wonderful organization Hope for Burkina.

Burkina Faso Overview from Living Water International on Vimeo.

On day two we set out for The Bush.  The trip was long, four to five hours, mostly on unpaved, dirt roads.  We took two vehicles.  One hauling all of the materials for “the church” – the hangar we built there.  The other with me in the very back.  Since I am so short.

No electricity.  No clean water.  No restrooms.  No showers.  No beds.  No houses.  And spiritual warfare.

We came to one village and stopped to talk to the pastor there. 

Side by side there was the savior and the nemesis. 

The savior pouring out from the well as clear gold.  Clean water from a well drilled by fellow Christians. Water that nourishes and heals and gives life.

And a mama waited for this clear gold.  Carrying her jugs and her babies.  After traveling for who knows how long.  On a bicycle.  All to save those babies.

Our purpose was solidified.


To bring water. 


Water in the physical, maybe.

But if not, Living Water. The eternal Savior. 

And from here we continued to The Bush.  And I continued to search for happiness.  Please continue to read my journey here as I share it in the coming days.  Or start from the beginning.

It was Sunday.  Our first day there. The sun came up as bright as possible and stayed that way all week – except for at night when hundreds of stars took its place.

A wall surrounds the missionaries’ house and the team center at the LAC (Lycee Alliance Christienne) where we stayed.  The LAC is a school in Ouagadougou that has partnered with Engage Burkina and Christian and Missionary Alliance.

Walking outside of the wall and on our way to church I got my first glimpse of up-close life in Burkina.

There was no grass but some trees.  Clothes hanging on the side of walls enclosing people’s homes – homes made of straw and clay and stone.  And more orangish colored dirt covering the ground.  Some people were laying on the ground under the trees.  Others were walking to church, too.

The school cafeteria wasn’t very far away from where we slept.  For now this is where the LAC has church.  A church building is something that the missionaries and pastors are currently in prayer for God to provide.

I immediately noticed the women.  And their clothes.  They were beautiful.  Colorful fabrics wrapped about their waist and elaborate head dressings covered their hair.

We couldn’t understand what the pastor spoke about that day.  It was all in French and the distinct language of the tribe there.  But through the music and the faces the message was clear. 

This day a special group of women attended the service.  A group of women from the Dorcas House, a Christian community for women who have been shunned by society for various reasons.  They sang for us, and it was a sound I could have listened to for hours.  A different sound.

Later I learned that these women walked a few miles to church. In the sun.  In the heat.  With temperatures in the 90’s.  There and back. All to come and worship our Lord.

I couldn’t help but wonder how much I would endure to attend church. And then again, now all I have to do it open up my computer to hear the Word preached.

My first sense of guilt came over me.

How truly faithful am I seek God’s call to be in fellowship with other Believers, to hear his Word preached, and to praise him?  Is my convenience more valuable to me than my God?  How far would I walk to attend church?

The questions began that first day.

We walked down the stairs of the plane and it was already dark and hot.  A bus picked us up to take us to a building with one double door.  Everyone from the plane was going through that door.  In no order.  Without a line.  This is their airport. 
 

Now one carousel delivered our luggage from the plane.  They’ve upgraded since our church’s last trip to Burkina Faso.  Before they rolled it in on carts and threw it in the middle of the floor.  You had to get there quick if you wanted the luggage you started with.

Walking outside it became obvious that we were different.  The eyes were magnetic, long reaching, and hard.  But very friendly.  Immediately we were swarmed by Burkinabes wanting to help carry our luggage – for money – or sell us a calling card. I later learned that they were legit.  Needing work of any kind.  Needing an income. 

The air was dark and thick and hot, but as we headed to the LAC, the place where we stayed, it could not hide the desperation.  The paved road was enclosed by orangish dirt on both sides. At 10:30 at night people were sitting outside under coverings held up on four sides by two-by-fours.  Lots of people.  I asked why there is so much loitering so late at night.  Their huts have no electricity.  So they hang out of the sides of the road under the buildings with electricity.

The streets looked like a flood ripped through the landfill disbursing the trash onto every foot of land.  It was everywhere.  But for some it was their treasure. 

Three months after graduating college I sat in front of that classroom – apart – and stared out at twenty-eight faces, sitting neatly in groups of five, staring straight back at me. Their look was one of anticipation. Anticipating me to do what I was trained to do – teach.  Except that in that moment I had nothing.

Four years of learning theory and philosophy and pedagogy became meaningless words on a page.  All I could see were those faces and behind those eyes worlds that I never learned about.  Ten years worth of life filled with experiences that had nothing to do with two-digit multiplication or subject-verb agreement.  And it was my job to connect the two.

Sunday morning will be my first full day in Burkina Faso.

I have read the statistics.
I have learned about the culture.
I have seen the pictures.
I have heard the stories.
I have made checklists for packing.

Or have I – really?

Is there anything I can do to prepare myself for those faces?  Those faces who will look out at me in anticipation?  Starving for Hope, the Hope that is promised, with no tangible evidence that it exists?

My job is to connect truth and experience. 

Or is it?

What I am about to see, hear, and feel is impossible for me as a human being to take in, comprehend, and respond to.  It can’t be done, and it’s not my job.