I learned and experienced so much in such a short amount of time during my stay with this beautiful family. It’s hard though, because when I try to describe it, words just don’t do it justice. (Actually I feel like I have this problem a lot, trying to explain anything about life and what I am experiencing here). And because I can’t fully explain it I end up not wanting to write anything at all. But I’m learning that’s ok to have moments that just can’t be shared with anyone else. There is something special about experiences that only Jesus understands, secret moments that are between me and Him alone.
At the same time, I know this experience is not really about me. It’s about Jesus, and what He’s doing, and to not share it would be a really sad thing. So from my eyes and with imperfect words I’ll try to express a very small part of the story of life that God is writing here.
The time with our host family was spent simply by living life with them. Which meant...going to the fields with Haruna and watching as he pounded dried rice grass against large metal barrels, so that the grains of rice fell into a big tarp in the middle of the circle of workers. Going to the market to sell onions, garlic, and matches with Poupuala. Walking through the narrow rows of market stalls and stands with her 10-year-old daughter Bentou, selling plastic bags for people to carry their food. Taking bucket showers under the stars, sleeping under a mosquito net, and learning Dioula (the main language spoken by many Muslims who live in town). Sitting on wooden benches and talking with people as they pass by on the dirt path that crosses the yard, on their way to the fields or the market. Eating meals of kabatoe (dense balls of dough made by boiling corn flour and water and stirring it until it turns solid), attieke, and rice with different kinds of sauces from one big community dish or bowl. With our hands of course.
One time in the middle of the night I wake up in our too-hot room between Courtney and Bentou. I try to avoid arms and legs as I crawl to the edge of the bed and under the mosquito net, so I can step outside and get some air and use the bathroom (aka, pit latrine). As I open the door the warm night breeze hits me I have to stop to take it all in. Where I am and the beauty of the night around me, the kind of moment that makes you think, how did I get here? The fireflies make the tall grass and green plants on the edge of the rice fields sparkle like the stars in the clear sky. The air still smells like campfire, from the fire under which dinner was cooked in a big pot, and the night hums with the sounds of crickets and people singing and dancing somewhere nearby to the steady beat of drums.
Because Haruna and his family are Muslim, we were also able to observe Ramadan with them. For the whole month, they fast from sun-up to sun-down. Our last full day we spent with them, we joined them in their fast, waking up at 4 am to eat a big breakfast of rice and sauce. When they went to the mosque to pray, Courtney and I sat on a straw mat on the ground in our room, reading our Bibles with flashlights and spending extra time with Jesus before the sun rose. And later that night, we celebrated the end of the fast with them at sunset with fufu (fried balls of mashed up beans) and 3 different kinds of dishes that they had prepared. It was a really neat thing to get to experience. All the others days except for that one though, they wouldn't hear of us going without food, and fed us often with spaghetti sandwiches and heaping bowls of attieke. About every 3 hours they made sure we were given some kind of food, and portions at the main meals for us alone were enough to feed a family of 6.
The last day of our stay, Haruna continued to teach us more words in Dioula. (In any moment of down-time during the week, he took it upon himself to teach us this language that sounds nothing close to either French or English by rapid-firing common Djoula words to us. Which varied between being very overwhelming and very funny).
"Duniya, the world", he says, and then uses it in a sentence. “The world is very difficult. Oui, le monde est difficil, c'est sa,” he repeats in French with a serious face. I ask him how to say the word for hope. He thinks about it for a minute, like he’s trying to figure out if there is a word for it in Dioula. Finally his face lights up. “Jighi,” he says. He explains that, "For example, I have hope in you. J'ai 'Jighi'. Or maybe you have hope in your family, or your husband, or your friend."
My heart skips with excitement, because I know where my hope is. I tell him simply, "My hope is in Jesus. How do you say that?" Haruna has heard about who Jesus is from missionaries who had held a Bible-story telling group a number of years ago. "Ah yes, Jesus is for all the world," he says with a grin, and he teaches me how to say it in Jioula, pronouncing the sentence slowly and multiple times so that I can copy it into my notebook on my lap.
I can't keep the smile off my face. Nn ta jighi bay Jesus. My hope is in Jesus.
Before we leave, Haruna thanks us for visiting his family out of all the people that we could have stayed with in Abengourou. (I love that opening your home to others is considered an honor for the hosts in this culture.) He tells us that here is very different than when we live in America, and to take the lessons we have learned here in Cote d'Ivoire with us wherever we go. But I’m learning that even though living here is nothing like what I am used to, as people we are more the same than we are different. And, "Don’t forget Africa," he adds. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
No comments:
Post a Comment