Charity No.2: Manjacaza, MZ

Between my previous trip to Uganda and this past month’s trip to Mozambique, I’ve been vaccinated for everything from Hep A to Yellow Fever, yet I still managed to come home with a doozy of a cold. Excepting a fever, I've had all the symptoms of malaria, so my psychosomaticism has been in crazy mode the past week or so. (Confession: I went out last Tuesday – braving all malarial symptoms – solely to buy a thermometer. And I may have checked my temperature hourly. JUST TO BE SURE!) But my temperature has stayed consistently normal for me (usually not higher than 97°), so I think I’ll probably survive. Huzzah!

In the meantime, it’s been frighteningly easy to slip right back into the old PA routine, like nothing ever happened. I’m generally not one prone to large swings of any type of emotion – I’m not expecting a Hallelujah Chorus to start following me around or anything – but I do think it’s important to reflect on my time in Mozambique. What did happen and how does it change things?

Well, to be honest with you, I am still figuring that out. That’s why I’ve been home for two weeks and barely written a peep about it. ;) So rather than give you a day-by-day journal account of the trip - I tried to write one of those for Bert and only made it to Day Three! - I've decided to do an experience-by-experience account instead. A “highlight reel,” if you will, of moments that really stuck out to me and are somewhat indicative of the trip as a whole.

(If you need a quick brush-up on where and why I went, you can read some background here and here. I am going to assume you’ve read those and jump right into things. ;)

I’ll start with the photo I posted early last week. This was taken in a small village called Manjacaza. Manjacaza is in the bush. The way-far-away bush. The “only place that didn’t serve us Coca-Cola” bush. That's how remote they are. Even the American capitalists can't find them. ;)

We were camping in a not-quite-so-remote part of the bush (i.e. Coke was aplenty) about three hours away and arrived in Manjacaza via our two Speed the Light 4x4s sometime around midday. (Time is mostly irrelevant in these places, so I judged things by mealtimes. It was before lunch. ;) We’d come for a church service, which started when we arrived and was held underneath a large shade tree in the center of the village. As the guests, we were given molded plastic lawn chairs. Everyone else sat on bamboo mats.

Like church services in the States, theirs started with music – my favorite part of any African service. I love how they sing. I love that they sing. I love that everyone – boy, girl, man, woman – belts each song out as loud as they can – regardless of skill – with absolutely no sign of embarrassment or self-consciousness. I wish we sang like that here.

And I love that they dance. Let me tell you: the older women in this town could really break it down. And they did. All the time. For every song and for any reason. It was absolutely fabulous.

At each village and church we visited in Mozambique, three of our musically inclined team members played through a small set of Portuguese worship songs they’d learned ahead of time. Most of the villagers in Manjacaza only spoke Shangaan – the local dialect – but when they started playing one lone woman still got up to dance. And while I watched her dance, I felt God say to me, “Get up. Dance with her.”

Uh, what? (Why, yes. I am that unbelievably well spoken when I talk back to God. You'd think if I was going to be sassy at least I'd be smooth about it.) Sure, I love that they dance, but I’m not really a “get up and dance” person myself. That’s my mother. Surely you must have us confused.

“No. You were okay with coming halfway around the world and now you won’t do this one simple thing for me? Get up and dance.”

It was a complete and utter Namaan Moment. Do you know that story from the Bible? It’s one of my favorites because it’s a situation I find myself in all the freakin’ time. (Slow learner? You could say that...) Namaan was an army commander who suffered from leprosy. He traveled miles and miles to ask Elisha to heal him, then got all cranky-pants when Elisha told him to go jump in the Jordan seven times.

“I could’ve jumped in a river at home, Elisha,” he said. “Thanks for wasting my time.” (This is the Unofficial Sarah Paraphrased Version, of course. The USPV? Sounds like a disease… Maybe that’s what I caught.)

Fortunately for the Nam-ster, his servants pointed out that he was being ridiculous. “My father, if the prophet had told you to do some great thing, would you not have done it? How much more, then, when he tells you, ‘Wash and be cleansed’!” (That is from the NIV, just to give this some sort of legitimate edge. The whole story’s in 2 Kings 5, if you’re interested.)

So I hedged that God had a point. I was all up for long plane rides and sketchy border crossings and brushing my teeth with bottled water, but I wouldn't dance? Like Namaan, I suddenly felt kind of ridiculous. What was I doing besides saving up pride for some sort of nebulous, Super Christian feat that would mean nothing to no one but me? Bah.

So I got off my buns and danced. Is it possible to look cool while dancing in Tevas? Absolutely not. (Do I still love them? Absolutely yes.) Do I dance as well as Mama V.? Not on your life. But was I obedient? Yes. And I'm glad I was because it was surprisingly fun. (And they gave me a bag of fresh cashews for my skillz. That was nice. :) For a brief moment - regardless of language and culture and everything else that makes us different - my lady friend and I worshipped our God together. And that was pretty cool. I'm glad he pulled me out of my seat.