Category: community

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. 

Am I supposed to be excited? What is supposed to be going through my head days before being transplanted into a different space – a space that seems to have stood still over thousands of years and I picture like I did this morning with my Bible in my lap reading Acts. 

This day has been prepared. This day to go to Africa.

There is nothing Africa needs from me.  I am just the surrendered vessel carrying Jesus to a place where his feet aren’t welcomed.  Standing with fingers facing out and space to be filled reaching up.