When we arrived at the church we were quite taken with the building. Air conditioning is a ridiculos thought, so get it out of your head. The plot of land was large and the church existed on the land with several other buildings: a school, a house for the pastor, and a house for the groundsman (more of a hut). The land had a gradual slope upwards so that the back of the plot was higher than the front. The inside of the church was plain: one big room (sanctuary) with two rooms at the front, right and left of the stage. The ground was worn cement, and would stay that way. We painted the interior walls with white plaster, and we painted the bars behind the windows black.
After about 30 minutes of painting or so the Bad Boyz soccer team arrived and helped us paint. The job was done quicker but a litle sloppier (not that great of a paint job according to America's illustrious, kingly, extravagent standards) thanks to the 20 or so Bad Boyz who showed up.
When enough had been painted for the day we went back to Gidan Bege to wash off and get ready for the night of evangelism that lie ahead of us. The second two nights at Makurdi were set up to where an outside movie showing would be put on by the Nigerian staff, free of charge. The Nigerian man who was leading the church at that time asked an 18-year-old kid from America to say a few words to the 150 or so people who had gathered there for the move.
The kid, a boy, rose from his chair after the movie and timidly shuffled to the man holding the microphone. He awkwardly walked towards a clearing in between the crowd and the screen, holding the microphone too close to his mouth, so that screeching feedback could be heard from the speakers. He cleared his throat and began talking. The message the boy delivered was honest and sincere, but a weakness penetrated his tone. Due to the humbling circumstances of being in the midst of such joy despite pain, he felt as if nothing he could say could possibly influence these people. I began shaking as I felt the cold metal of the microphone in between my palm and my fingers. I have never been an amzing public speaker, but I am not afraid or dismayed by large crowds. But God is big, He was big and He was looking at me from that crowd. What do I say to God and a group of Nigerian people who, against all odds, find joy in life? How can I possibly communicate anything but pure encouragement to them? So that is what I tried to do, and I'm not sure how well it went. Now, if I had been asked to write a letter to the Nigerians, I would have been falling because of confidence.
I know it seems repetitive and dull, and perhaps a bit whiny, but I still couldn't feel. I could not put together the situation: the poverty throttled so many aspects of hope, and I didn't seem to be affected.
The next day followed a similar pattern: painting until the early afternoon and then a movie showing. After we finished painting Audra and Cici came down from Jos and we were to have a special celebration with the 24 boys from Gidan Bege. Our American group purchased minerals (cokes, sodas, pops) for the boys as a treat and Deborah prepared a large dinner of rice and chicken for the 40 or so people that were gathered for the celebration. We returned from the church as the dinner was being prepared, so we washed off as soon as we got back (pouring buckets of water repeatedly on ourselves in the shower). When I escaped the shower I wandered to the opposite half of the compound, the orphan's half. I walked into a scene from Heaven: the boys (ages 6-17) and a few of the adults were dancing in a circle and singing songs of praise to our awesome, awesome Creator.
When my jaw returned to it's closed position I trotted back to the other side to get my camera. I snapped picture after picture of this amazing sight, trying to grasp a moment of joy and take it home, which turned out to be impossible. I sat down on a bench and put the camera down, watching the beautiful children and sitting in awe of my Lord, and the capabilities He has to transform normalities into Heavenly parades. I beamed with joy.
It was saturday, and after the dinner we went to the church for the movie production. When the movie reeled to a close Papa spoke inspiring words to the crowd and I saw the unity Christ can accomplish. The next morning was Sunday, and Bumper wass set up to preach.
"But I still haven't found what I'm looking for." Bono is one of inspirations, to the point that I own his 170$ Armani (RED) sunglasses. Extravagence, I know. Despite the joy I began to feel those days in Makurdi I still hadn't found what I was looking for. I didn't want joy, I wanted to break down. I wanted to cry. I wanted to ask God why and I wanted to take a sad song and make it better. But God wasn't letting me get emotional.
Another struggle that began to surface on the trip and hasn't lost it's poignancy is the issue of reality: what is real and what isn't. If you've seen the move The Truman Show that is exactly what I am talking about, and this if this sounds ridiculous in a few sentences it's because you haven't been to Africa. But, especially after Blind Town, I began to struggle with this. As I sit in this wonderful, air-conditioned coffee shop listening to the Beatles I struggle to believe in the existence of the Leper Chief and his wife. I honestly struggle to believe that are alive, festering in the cement rectangle with nothing to live for. No fingers. No toes. Daylight fading. Speech slurring. I do not know if they exist. I can't put it together. My mind cannot wrap itself around the fragments of pain, suffering, loss, and desperation. It can't piece the puzzle of reality. I am Truman, and the Leper Chief is another man in a cast revolving around my pathetic existence, and his wife played a great supporting role. Bravo, bravo. Where are the credits? I need to know that God is there. I need to know that man won't burn in hell for nothing. I need to know whether or not that man and his wife exist. I need to know that the point isn't me. I need someone to tell me that God loves people and that the hopelessness is just a bad dream I had. Because how can I sit here and do nothing. Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing nothingnotnjhg nohtihnig nothingnothing notnghing nothingnotjgh g nothing notningnothingnothjikngnojt ng nothikngont kh nothing jothjign nothing nonthging.
If you cut below the surface of any American that are just as torn and tattered. But that man, that chief, has no hope. He has no hope. No hope. Hope.
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