My love for this particular Continent began during a childhood that was decorated with both times of trial and times of peace.
My heart was still tender when God first introduced me to Africa. One day, a television commercial aired in between the cartoons I had been watching. The commercial featured graphic images of children who were surviving on only dollars a day. Instantly, God’s love for the least of them filled my heart. I ran to my mother’s side to ask if we could give some money to one of the children on the television. She said “no.” So, I came up with another plan. I demanded that my mother have another child, but not just any child. I wanted my mother to give birth to one of the impoverished children from Africa. My mother tried to explain that my request was impossible to grant. But how do you describe such a thing to a small child? I was so upset at her reply that I refused to speak to her. I kept silent for an entire week!
As I grew in stature, that precious childhood calling continued to nudge at my heart. In my early teenage years, I shared my strong conviction with my mother and new stepfather. “Someday, I’m going to become a Missionary,” I announced. “I’m going to own an orphanage in Africa where children will always have a place that makes them feel provided for, nourished, welcomed, and loved!” Immediately afterward, I began caring for children within miles of my own doorstep, children who had also come from broken homes.
At age eighteen, that same urgent and undeniable desire to go to Africa inundated my heart once again. Being Catholic at the time, the obvious decision was to enroll in the Catholic Church’s version of the Peace Corp. For months, I drove an hour south of my home to participate in a program that trained laypersons in mission work overseas. Finally, I was going to Africa, or so I thought. One day, the head Priest revealed my two-year assignment. Imagine my confusion when after months spent learning about Africa I was selected to go to Papua New Guinea. Papua New Guinea wasn’t what I had envisioned. Instantly fear of the unknown gripped me tight. Since there was no way to change my assigned country, I resigned from the Lay Mission Helpers Program. Africa would have to wait.
Five years later, I graduated from college and officially began my long career in Social Work. By this time, I had been working with vulnerable children for years. As a Social Worker, I mostly cared for those who had been raised in unstable homes, like me. This career was not only deeply wounding, but it was also healing too. Over the years, I remained in the social work field. Meanwhile, I held on tight to the hope that one day God would use me to ease the aching heart of a despairing child in Africa.
On July 28, 2000, at age 29, God orchestrated a short-term mission trip that allowed me to experience Africa firsthand. In the months prior, I had moved back home to save money. $3,300 for one trip was a lot of money and I simply couldn’t afford to pay rent while saving such a large amount. My parents graciously allowed me to live with them, rent-free.
Africa turned out to be even more of a surprise than I ever could have imagined. We first landed in Johannesburg, South Africa. As I wandered around the large airport, I noticed that the stair railings were all freshly polished, shiny, and gold. The marble floors also looked glistening and brand new. As I tried to take in my new surroundings, an unexpected disappointment suddenly gripped me.
For over two decades, I had anticipated those poor-stricken images I had seen on the television as a child. Never had I imagined that the airport would be structured just like one of our shopping malls back home. Now, I was staring at novelty shops that were overflowing with expensive souvenirs. With every step I took, my heart sank deeper still. This certainly wasn’t the underprivileged country that I had always envisioned. As we continued to make our way through the airport, I couldn’t help but gaze at all the fair-skinned people. “Had I just flown thousands of miles to see a place that appeared even richer than where I lived back home, a place full of people who looked just like me?” I wondered.
Disappointment had just begun to overwhelm me when our next airplane arrived. Soon we were on our way to Nairobi, Kenya. From Nairobi, we took a small commuter plane to Mombasa. As we flew over village after village and unpaved road after unpaved road, that hope-filled smile returned to my face and a warm feeling returned to my heart.
Once we landed in Mombasa, our large group of travelers split into small groups. One by one, we crammed into the back of small buses with no seats and nothing to hold on to. “Hold on,” the driver ironically called out. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride.” He wasn’t joking! We laughed and hollered with joy, with every single pothole. With such excitement in the air, no one cared that we were crashing into one another and bumping heads. This only made us laugh even louder.
Soon we arrived at the village of Kikoembero. We were warmly greeted by hundreds of people with full-face smiles and a song in their hearts. After formal introductions, our leaders decided that we should turn in for the night. I was still so excited to finally be in Africa, that I simply couldn’t fall asleep. So, I stared out of the worn piece of plastic hanging from the door frame. With such a large opening, I could peer straight outside.
Right away, I noticed one particular man. He was sitting alone at a wooden picnic-style table under a single light bulb where a swarm of mosquitoes had gathered. The “night watchman,” as he was called, had a long barrel shotgun by his side. I desperately wanted to stay up all night, chatting with him. I had so many questions! Yet, I had a feeling that I should wait until morning. And, so I did.
The next few weeks were filled with excitement, joy, work, and learning. Although it has been almost twenty years since then, surprisingly, I can still clearly remember those early conversations. One morning a group of young children gathered by my side. I could tell that one specific child was drawn to me. Yet, unlike the hundreds of children back home, this child wouldn’t latch on. He wouldn’t even touch me. So, I asked why. The young group of boys shared their beliefs. “We were told that if we touch a white person, we will bleed.” They all nodded in agreement. I smiled as I bent down and extended my hand. “That is not true,” I said. Then, I stretched my hand out a little further. Each child took turns shaking my hand. A few days later, to their surprise and wonderment, that same group of boys watched as I welcomed a little girl about their age onto my lap. This was the same child that no other person in the village would touch for fear of contracting lice, scabies, and gangrene. God was turning everything this small village knew and believed on its head. And soon after, He would do the same for me.
First God orchestrated that a group of young women walked for miles to obtain water for us to use. These girls carried heavy buckets of water on their heads, just so that our group of travelers could take a sponge bath and have clean clothes to wear. Wow! I wasn’t used to such an incredibly loving and sacrificial gesture.
Next, God prompted the women in our host village to cook a special banquet for us. The villagers made sure to offer us the best food they had. It was only after we had eaten, that we learned about the meal we had enjoyed. This particular food was usually only cooked on very special occasions. The villagers even gave up their only animal, a rooster to add meat to our stew. Unbelievable!
Then, a few days later, God sent a child from another village to reach my heart. The small child asked me if I’d take a walk with her. I immediately said, “Yes.” As we walked along the unpaved clay dirt road towards her home, the sweet child proudly spoke about her life. A smile remained on her cheeks the entire time.
Then, as we neared her home, we stopped for a moment. To my surprise and wonder, out of her scarcity, this innocent child offered me a priceless gift. A single piece of fruit!
While these moments offered more love than I could have imagined, still the memory that I cherish the most consists of one extraordinary man. Our host village and the surrounding villages were filled with Muslim believers and my travel companions were all Mormon. I was still a practicing Catholic at the time. So, in reality, none of us were following the Jesus Whom I know today. Now that I too am walking hand in hand with my Savior, this particular story is even more precious to me.
Each day, God orchestrated that a Christian man walk five miles just to speak to me. Minutes into our first conversation, the man said, “I am the only Christian in my village. It’s so nice to have someone to talk to about God.” Every day for weeks, the Christian man appeared by my side. Although I mostly answered his questions about what it was like to live in America, deep down, I knew that there was something special about him. I felt an unfamiliar peace and comfort in his presence.
Over the weeks, I began to wonder, “What kind of love prompts a person to walk five miles to speak to a stranger?” Looking back now, I can see how God was using each person in this village to plant a tiny seed of hope in me. Through each smiling face, I had seen that God’s love for me was much more than I could’ve imagined-enough to last a lifetime.
After only a few weeks of visiting Kenya, my fellow travelers and I left for Tanzania. Under the guise of a safari tour, I found an even deeper appreciation for the people of Africa.
The first night we arrived, we took a short walk from our hotel room down the street to a food stand. As we took in our new surroundings, once again, my heart grew with excitement. So, the next day, we ventured out a little further. As we approached the downtown area, I took a moment to notice all that was happening in our new environment. One instance grabbed my full attention. A group of heavily armed men wearing military uniforms was trying their best to guard a small cluster of young boys. The boys were holding tiny clear bottles filled with a milky white substance. The look in these children’s eyes reminded me of the many drug-addicted eyes I had seen back home. Curiosity overwhelmed me. So, I asked one of our guides to explain what I was seeing. For the first time in weeks, the joy that I felt turned into unimaginable sorrow. “Children are the only ones small enough to fit down the long dark holes. They are sniffing glue to avoid feeling scared as they obtain Tanzanite,” our guide said. I had no idea what Tanzanite was, and I was too afraid to ask. I cried myself to sleep that night.
The next day, our group participated in a sightseeing tour. Since this wasn’t my cup of tea, I decided to take another opportunity to get to know the locals. As God would have it, I made quick friends with a local member of the Maasai tribe.
Before my trip to Africa, I had spent weeks learning Swahili. I didn’t know that I would need to speak the Maa language too. So, I enlisted the help of an interpreter to aid in the conversations I would have with my new Maasai friend. Once again, I had so many questions! Thankfully, my new friend was all too happy to share his Maasai life with me. “We must kill our first lion at age fifteen. It’s a rite of passage.” He said. “Our children learn to drive a 3,000 lb car at that age. Then, they try not to kill anyone on the road.” I replied. We both laughed. “We knock out teeth to make ourselves more attractive to females.” He said, anticipating my reply with a smile. “We spend thousands of dollars at the dentist. We even go to bed at night with whitening gel on our teeth just took look more attractive.” I responded. We both roared with laughter as our eyes filled with joyous tears. This back and forth sharing continued for hours. Even with all of our differences, not before long, this stranger felt as close as family!
As my time in Africa came to an end, I began to dread my return home to the states. Sadly, my arrival back in Los Angeles was even more of a rude shock than I had expected. I cried for weeks every time I saw a Starbucks Coffee shop or watched as clean water flowed from a showerhead. I couldn’t help but think, “We take so much for granted!” And, each time I glanced at a photo from my mission trip or caught a smoke-filled whiff of the hand-made straw hat that was given to me as a gift, I broke into a terrible fit of tears. “Why had I returned home?” I kept asking myself. At one point, I became so depressed that I phoned my godmother, hoping that she’d talk me off the ledge. She did. I spent the next decade deeply missing Africa!
Then in 2008, at age 38, through a bitter trial and subsequent and utter surrender to Jesus Christ, God began to heal my shattered heart. Afterward, I felt led to walk away from a life of comfort. Instead, I devoted myself to a life of prayer and service to the poor. Since I knew firsthand what the radical welcome of Christ meant to a broken and lonely heart, I couldn’t wait to joyfully share the gospel with those who had been rejected by their families and pushed to the margins of society.
Back then, I was financially successful in the eyes of the world. And, in America, good citizens aren’t supposed to turn away from successful careers and affluence. Even if you have great faith in God and a hugely sacrificial heart, you are not to quit climbing that company ladder for any reason, especially a spiritual calling! So, I knew that I would receive some pushback for this decision. Even so, I pressed on and became a full-time volunteer Missionary!
Since then, God has used me in amazing ways. First, He immersed me in the struggles of my neighbors. Next, He sent me to those in power to warn them to come down from their thrones. Then, He used my arms to embrace those who were isolated and lonely. Finally, He used my legs to walk alongside those who were walking alone.
Recently, God orchestrated an incredible experience. In the day and time of the world in which we now live, it has become commonplace to connect with strangers over the computer. One day, God placed a desire to swing the door of my Facebook page wide open. Remarkably, this one gesture would lead me all the way back to Africa. Through God’s Holy Spirit, I was about to tap into a massive population of young adults who desperately wanted to know more about my LORD and Savior.
One by one, young adults were sharing their incredible stories of survival and endurance with me. Many had been raised in orphanages much like the one I had dreamt of owning as a child. Once again, true love of life was on display! I saw the joy I had once seen in person shining again through the faces of those who rushed to my side. And, while their heartbreaking stories left me feeling emotionally raw and on my knees immersed in prayer, still my heart filled with gratitude for the unbelievable gift I was being offered; love so inescapable, grace in action, and joy of heart. Thank You, LORD, for creating Africa! Amen.
Post Script: As I wrote this story, my heart truly began to long for Africa. So, I reached for my Africa photo album. I had just begun to flip the pages when I discovered a handwritten letter. The letter was written just days before I left Kenya. Written in both English and Swahili, the letter read,
“Dear Minister.
Goodbye minister.
If you really love us,
remember us dear.
Do not forget us dear.
We will meet again.”
"Mgeni mpendwa.
Kinaheri Mgeni.
Ikiwa unatupenda sisi,
Utukumbuke sisi mpendwa.
Usitusahau tutakutana tena. "
I had a strong feeling that I was to include the contents of the letter in this story. So, I began to type. A few days later, while reading my morning chapter of the Bible, my eyes welled with tears. The pages of my Bible had fallen open to Ezekiel, chapter two. In this chapter, God is calling Ezekiel to rise and receive his commission. God’s Spirit had entered Ezekiel for a purpose, to make him a minister. With tears overflowing, I immediately began to thank God for not only allowing me to minister to Africa, but for also allowing Africa to minister to me.
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