So…it’s the
morning after arriving home from Tanzania, Africa. Scratch that. Just looked at
the clock. It’s afternoon here; it’s 10:30 tonight TZ time. Although I’ve been
up for 8 hours, my body has no idea what time it is, when it should eat, when
it should sleep. My head has no idea what to think besides, “What just
happened?!?” In the 7 days I was on Tanzanian soil, it never sunk in that I was
really in Africa. Hopefully telling the story will help me realize that I
really was there. And so, with that bleary-eyed thought, I will try to express
through written words my experience in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.
It’s no
short journey from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Tanzania, Africa. I arrived at the
airport at 7:30 am on a cold November, Friday morning. Our entire team met in
Atlanta, most of us never or barely having met before, and continued our trip together
from there. When we finally landed in Tanzania it was about 10:30 pm Saturday,
TZ time, having skipped 9 hours on the clock. It was hot. It was HOT and HUMID.
The black sky looked exactly as you would expect it to in Africa, with wisps of
clouds illuminated by the bright, full moon.
Next, we
squeezed a huge plane-load of people into a hot airport room and handed our passports
and a $100 dollar bill to a man for VISA approval. No. Not the
spend-now-pay-later kind of visa. The let-you-into-the-country-for-$100-dollars
kind of visa. We waited until our names were called and our passports were
returned, plus a visa page, minus $100. While I waited in the absolute slowest
line ever to have my passport/visa approved, the rest of the team gathered our
luggage which, by the literal grace of God, bypassed all inspections. That was
great! Because it was LATE by then, we were TIRED and HOT, and we still had a
hotter journey to the hotel to accomplish.
There was a
quick stop to exchange dollars for shillings (a thousand shillings equaled
about 60 cents), a struggle to fit 15 women and 45 pieces of luggage/equipment
onto a bus with significantly smaller capacity (we ended up renting a cab/van,
too), and our journey, both physically and otherwise, within Tanzania had
begun.
It was
impossible, even on the dark streets, to miss the poverty. Everywhere we looked
there were make-shift shops along roadsides, spilling over with people. Some appeared to be grabbing a midnight
opportunity to accomplish tasks, carrying huge loads on their heads or from
poles across their shoulders. Others
seemed to be enjoying the company of their community. The streets were dark, minus the lights from
small fires, candles, and headlights. It
was Broadway, NYC, minus money, electricity, and “real” buildings. The Tanzania version, maybe, of a “city that
never sleeps.” Or so it seemed to me.
Some time passed,
maybe 30 minutes or more, before we pulled through the gates of our walled-in
resort, leaving behind the darkness and poverty. This was upscale Tanzania, reputed around the
country for its luxury. Though it was
“morning” when we arrived, it was still hours until daylight, so it wouldn’t be
until after a little sleep that we would get to take in just where we were.
If you are
curious, our rooms were nice, though not fancy.
Air-conditioned, unless the maid shut the electricity off. We had
mosquito nets, geckos, and copious amounts of nightly pesticides to protect us
from bugs. The water only shut off once, though my room lacked enough shower
pressure to even wash sand off my body. We made it work, creatively at times,
and truthfully, we were comfortable. I slept well every night. The missionaries were delighted with their
accommodations.
Daylight
came quickly, and as my roommate and I pulled back the curtains to see the view
from our room, we gasped in equal delight and surprise. Just in front of us
were Caribbean-blue waters and palm trees framed in by brilliant colored
flowers. THIS is Africa?? WOW.
Downstairs
we found that the grand “lobby” of the hotel was a massive, open aired space,
as was the large dining room, with ocean breezes blowing through and
breathtaking views of the Indian Ocean. Everywhere, there were beautiful dark
faces smiling and serving us.
Wait, wait,
wait. THIS is a mission trip?? I know what you are thinking; I was thinking
that, too! But please understand; we, Pure Joy International, were there to
pull missionary women off of the mission field for a few days. Our mission
field was the ladies, and this place was the background of their much needed
rest and restoration. But first we did
need a couple days to acclimate! And so we walked the beach, swam in the Indian
Ocean, snorkeled from an uninhabited island, and rested…, so that we would be
refreshed and ready to receive and love on the women who would soon join us.
That is where the real story begins, with the missionary women.
Forty-nine
women (one had to back out at the last minute) arrived over the course of a few
hours. From the moment they arrived, we began serving them, though it was
difficult for most to even allow that. It is their habit, their calling, their way
of life to serve. To be served, that is an entirely unfamiliar place for them!
So we took suitcases (or just backpacks for some) from them, escorted them to
their rooms, and encouraged them. “Relax! Rest! Let us take care of YOU for a
few days.
I first
began to understand the need for this retreat upon the women’s response to
Vickie when, that first evening, she told them, “Ladies, I love you, but I want
you to know, I am NOT impressed with you.” Forty-nine women applauded.
Forty-nine women were grateful to hear that
for a few days, they did not need to measure up to anyone’s expectations. I was
beginning to see: these are not just missionaries, these are very ordinary
women called to extraordinary lives. My heart and my eyes were opening to a new
perspective and a new understanding of the challenges of living under the title
of “Missionary”.
Most people
would agree that the title “missionary” conjures up images of faith, foreign
lands, foreign languages, teaching, serving, praying, and leading great lives
of faith, service, and sacrifice for the sake of God. Maybe, like me, you hold
them up to a pretty high level of admiration. Maybe you also consider them to
be…I don’t know…better at life. More faithful. Wiser. Better parents, with
better children. They can probably do most things better than I can. They are
missionaries, after all. They are just…better.
And part of
being better means that they can handle more pressure, than I can. They can
withstand bigger challenges because they have bigger faith. They can endure
tougher circumstances because they are, well, they are missionaries. It’s what
they do! It’s what God called them to do!
If you are a
missionary and you are reading this, please forgive me! I understand so much
more now.
These women, these ordinary, extraordinary women…they are
just like you. They are just like me. They do not have any kind of special skin
which is thicker and more able to withstand the personal blows.
They have good days and bad. Days they love to serve and
days they are empty. Days they enjoy their husbands and days they just fulfill
their vows. They love their kids, but
their kids go through the same battles that yours or mine do, needing
instruction and discipline. Yet even missionary kids do not always want it and
do not always learn from it.
And protecting your children from threats as real as
violence or malaria is no small undertaking. Missionaries can suffer profound
disappointment, genuine depression, loneliness, fear, doubt…just like you. Just
like me. Just like all of us.
One favorite moment with these women was watching them open
their favorite bag…each bag made and filled by women in the USA who long to
send love to these missionaries, though they’ve never met them. The
missionaries were overwhelmed—over whelmed by gratitude.
Those bags were filled with things like….
Chocolate, Cheese-itz, parmesan cheese, canned pumpkin, tampons (yes,
TAMPONS)…. There were Lego toys, protein bars, drink mixes, Fritos, etc.
I learned a lot from them while I was there to serve them.
They refreshed me, as I watched them be refreshed through fellowship, Bible
study and worship. They laughed a lot. They cried a lot, too. They got real.
They were open. And there was hope and healing and joy restored to them in so
many ways.
And then
they left. So did I. Only I took a series of long plane rides back to my comfy,
easy challenges in the USA. They? They returned to the mission field some to
areas so remote that they are the only one of their color in town, some to
areas where they are veiled beneath the customary clothes of Muslim cultures.
Back to lonely, hard, hot, difficult places.
Back to places where the needs of the people are so massive, so immeasurable,
so potentially hopeless at there seems to be no end, no solution. But. They go.
Because they believe in the Gospel of Jesus Christ and that He sends them.
They
go because the Gospel of Jesus Christ needs to be lived out, taught, spread
among the nations. They grow to love “their people”; they return to continue
serving them. And because they’ve had a few days of rest, because they have had
their own spiritual tanks refilled through prayer and lessons and worship and
fellowship, they return happier, lighter, better….I went to Tanzania because I
wanted to serve. I’m still processing what I gained, not because I have any
doubt that I did gain, but because I gained so much that I am unsure of just
how to sort it, store it, use it…Missionaries. Missionary women. Ordinary in
every way. I get that now. Real. Imperfect. And yet…and yet…they are on the
mission field. I am not. I can’t help it; I’m still impressed by them, more
than ever before.