by Anna McGee, 6-month Africa Immersion team member
"The Lord has already created and prepared this day for you; you need only to walk through it."
- Alicia
My watch beeps three times until I am awake enough to silence it. Alicia's phone is two minutes behind and I lay still for those two minutes until her alarm rings. 6:02—my iron bunk squeaks furiously despite my quietest attempts. I put my socks on and slide into my chacos, wrap my blanket around my shoulders.
My light steps are forever heavy on the old wood mission house floor. The cold air feels sharp before I even turn towards the door. I am always reluctant to leave the safety of a room full of six warm bodies.
Outside is fuzzy through my sleepy, half open eyes. The row of pomegranate trees momentarily covers the beginning of the sunrise. Just behind their hedge the mountains roar.
My toes are cold. I never imagined what the winter would be like in Africa, and I wish I would have packed more layers. But on the edge of the porch facing east, I watch God call the light into its place and I embrace the friction of the season and the sun.
Lesotho is still. The Holy Spirit dances within the day.
Lesotho is quiet. The voice of God speaks across the expanse of the mountains.
Lesotho is peaceful. Christ's freedom reigns over the valley.
Void of chaos and commotion, Lesotho's calm gave life to a gentleness the opposite world so often crushes, a thoughtfulness never given the chance to ponder, and a purposefulness hidden behind superficial face value.
My thoughts, words and actions changed simply because of the world I was a part of and the God who was active in it.
Lesotho is a world I have tried adamantly to preserve in my mind for the moments when I return home and the rapid pace tempts me to forget such contentment even exists.
But it's a kind of contentment that's hard to pitch to my American heart.
In Lesotho there is no washing machines, dryers, dishwashers, microwaves or refrigerators. Wifi was an hour-long, fully-packed taxi ride away. Showers were hot, then cold, then really hot, then freezing cold. Meals are simple, usually the same, and always dished out in large portions. Days are slow, amenities are very few, and the draw towards home tugs at my aching heart.
But that being said...I have never seen a group of twelve people get more excited for bean soup and bread for dinner. Or so many coffee snobs bend for the liking of instant coffee. Or so many nose-to-phone individuals become so invested in card games.
It's hard to explain the emptiness of my head, the fulfillment of a day not yet planned, the satisfaction of real life, Timon and Pumba, hakuma matata.
Oddly enough, this life is learned; even more, it is taught. I became a shadow to salt of the earth individuals that loved Lesotho long before I did—mirroring their mindset, faithfully, frustratingly following where their feet have tread.
Rorison, "the boss"—he is golden. He is made up of patience and sarcasm, grace and wit.
Moliko, a contagious delight and a Seattle Seahawks fan.
Mrs. Sue—all things garden grown, cut and canned, sweetened and stirred.
Steve, oh bless. Steve is no nonsense, no short cuts, and no filter.
Heather, oh crumbs. She smothered us in hospitality, spoiled us with hot chocolate and baked goods and late nights on her couch.
Joshua—faith wrapped up in flesh.
Barry—the man ever behind the lens of his camera, persistent to capture God's goodness on the face of the earth.
These are the people that taught me that wifi doesn't feel as good as laughter does, bright lights fail to stand before the stars, and comfort—comfort comes from a steadfast Jesus.
I learned to walk through my days in Lesotho—every day still surprised at the way God had prepared it.
He must know me well.
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