I'm Seeing Colors

God blessed us Sunday morning. I had expected a hot day, sitting in the newly-painted church building sweating like a gladiator, trying to pretend to pay attention to a slowly-preached sermon so the people could understand. But, when Bumper took the pulpit to preach the sermon, the rain came hard. For the first few minutes his voice was drowned by the dripping droplets of the dampening rain. The rain slowed down, and eventually stopped. Bumper's voice could be heard, and God's through him. Speaking slowly, Bumper explained to the congregation that God essentially wants to marry us. The relationship God desires is a relationship of purity, love, and overflowing compassion. Christ has prepared a place for us. In His Father's house. In Heaven.

The unity in Christ that bonds us together is truly amazing. Sunday morning showed me that.

When the service was completed we were served lunch by some of the women in the congregation: the eternally familiar rice with dried fish and beef. After the meal we were forced to say goodbye to David and his splendid wife Deborah. At this point in my journey I felt something, but it wasn't the poverty or the pain or the hopelessness that spurred this emotion on, it was the feeling of loss as I waved meaningful relationships away (hopefully this was only a temporary goodbye, because I would much like to return to Africa and get messed up again). I sat in the van, after signing my phone number away to at least 20 kids, and played peak-a-boo with the beautiful children. Our driver, Jimmy this time, entered the car. We shoved off from Makurdi, desperate to maintain the Christ-bonded relationships with David and Debby.

Time flew, as it does so rudely, and we rolled into the hostel before I could gather my thoughts. We showered and went to the Fretheim's house for dinner.

I felt surprised that day. I had been in Nigeria for a week and practically fel nothing. But then, upon departure of Makurdi, I was (slightly) overtkaken with sadness (only for a short while). Even as I sit in the coffee shop now I look back on those three days with intense nostalgia.

People have frequently asked, since I have been in the states, what was my favorite part of Nigeria, and when I don't give an answer to shun the conversation away, I tell them that the three days in Makurdi blessed me the most, three days of sweat, scarce electricity, and no running water. I was forced to enter a realm that far outskirted my comfort zone, a realm of mystery and insight into a life so foreign to me, an existence without decadent side-dishes like video games, facebooks, and air-conditioning. My eyes caught a glimpse of the majority, the lense of poverty, the lense of the hard life. I complain about work. I complain about my car. I complain about my iPod. On top of that I don't give thanks nearly enough for the many material blessings I have. The Nigerian Christians we encountered were the complete and utter paradox of this American life: they lacked everything, but never complained. They had nothing, but gave thanks for everything.

Most people hate Mondays, as they should (I include myself in most people here). Mondays in Nigeria didn't seem so different. I was slightly bitter about having to leave Makurdi, because my heart rejoiced in the bonds forged there, and my mind revelled in the maturity it felt. My sour attitude might have permeated that Monday morning, but as is the case for most things, the anticipation of a let-down Monday was far worse than the actual Monday. In fact, this Monday proved to be one of the best days of my adventure.

The events of the morning didn't exactly foreshadow the bright day of joy which unexpectedly lay ahead: while we were gone a few members of our group were confronted by immigration officers and, because this had never happened, our group was ill-prepared and didn't have their passports. Consequently, the office of immigrations requested (commanded) us to visit them with our passports on Monday morning. So we did. When asked where our passsports had been made, I whispered to Bumper that I had received mine from a Target (he didn't find this funny at all). After about an hour of questioning and checking papers the office let us go and we returned to the hostel for a short rest and preparation for the day.

Our first visit was EMS, a school for the local Nigerian staff member's kids. Because this was a school for Christian kids (well-behaved, Christian kids), our ministry was slightly different. I think the children ministered to us more than we did to them.

An hour or so into the fun I found myself in a crowded room of vivacious colors: the children had prepared an assortment of entertainment for our group: songs, dramas and dances. I sat in a white lawn chair to the side of the performaces, near the corner of the room.

"I'm seeing colors."

A scribbled phrase in a leather journal crafted into words the affections of my heart.

After the painting of children we visited the Transition House, a place for boys from junior high to high school to get educated, both spiritually and intelectually. I saw colors and now I felt God. Music, like God, can unify people, breaking barriers of language and race, nationality and culture. Shortly upon our arrival I engaged a young man named Timothy in conversation, and soon found him to be an amazingly faithful servant of God:

Timothy did not know how old he was. When his mother became pregnant his father, because of anger, left her. Two months after giving birth to her son, Timothy's mother left him with his maternal grandmother. After six years of poverty with his grandmother, Timothy was forced to the streets when she passed away. The streets became his home, and days rolled into months, years. Time lost itself. At some point on the streets Timothy was thrown into jail. Two years in jail for a boy younger than 16, because he had. no. family. No bail was put forth. When his sentence was served Timothy found his way to Transition House, and now aspires to be a worship pastor.

After a game of basketball Timothy fetched his guitar to lead the Transition House in worship through music. During our conversation I somehow spilled to Timothy that I played the djembe. My eyes sparkled a few minutes after the basketball when I was asked to play percussion for American songs Timothy would lead us in. As I sat, pounding the drum, beating my hands to numbness, my heart felt the fingers of God. I looked with confidence into Timothy's face, playing the guitar and shutting his eyes, allowing the Holy Spirit to manifest itself through song.

God uses music in my life, and in everyone's life, to sway the heart.