One Team Member's Reflection of Tanzania…..

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.