How to ask for the road

On Sunday afternoon, I sat outside with Zanga and his wife. He’s a member of our church committee, a man whose stories I can listen to for hours. I’ve heard him recount tales of the early church here in Cote d’Ivoire and the persecution they faced, personally and as a community. This particular afternoon, I came to “ask for the road”. He asked for the news. “No, it’s nothing serious. I just came to say hello,” I told them. But as conversation progressed, he said that he’d heard I’d be leaving soon. “Yeah, that’s the second news,” I looked down and nodded my head.

Here, in Cote d’Ivoire, you can’t just leave. You need to visit people, show them that they matter enough for you to travel across town to see them personally, and inform them of your departure (even if they’ve already heard).

But as I looked down, holding back the tears that came with the reality that I’m leaving, Zanga recited a huge list of why they have appreciated my presence here and why I will be missed. Zanga thanked me for my heart for the widows here in our churches – he said that I saw a need that no one else could see. He told me that I had left an imprint on the kids’ hearts in Sunday school, including his daughter Lydie. Over and over again he thanked me. I felt honored and surprised that this man of God who had faced persecution, war, and had continued to remain strong in his faith – that he was thanking me for what I felt was nothing special.

You see, you come to Africa, and you think that you are going to do great things. You think that you must have something to show for your time. You imagine that it should be something big – like a business or a building. The truth is, after 2 years, I haven’t started a business or constructed a building. I have, however, contributed to existing projects - such as my church’s new building, a school for at-risk teenage girls, Sunday school, and a widow’s fund. And in doing this, I have built relationships. My testimony has made an imprint on people’s hearts.

I have been asking myself, “What do I have to testify for?” That question is answered every time that I sit in someone’s home and tell them that my 2 years are finished and I need to return to the United States. Automatically, they shower me with the reasons that they can’t imagine life here without me.

My friend Josue said that he doesn’t believe I’m leaving. Mai asked me who will wake her up in the morning. Marie Louise told me that she can’t even handle telling me goodbye, so she won’t be there the day I leave. Lea and Timothee ask me if anyone could possibly fill my shoes. Many tell me that maybe one day they’ll get to see my house in the US. I tell them, jokingly, that I’ll organize a boat to bring them all over the day that I get married. I wish that were possible.

At the end of a Senoufo worship song, the music escalates until all of a sudden, people stop dancing and sit down as the last few notes of the balafone are played. I feel the days flying by and the music growing stronger, and I know this means that the song is about to end. I’m exhausted and ready to sit down, but there’s a large part of me that would rather just dance all night long – to hold onto these people and this place and never let go.

The hope is that I will come back here one day. God willing, next time, I’ll stay for longer than 2 years. But I can’t tell my friends for sure what will happen. So, for the moment, I am soaking in these last few days. Every day, I visit people. We laugh and reminisce over the past 2 years. Then we sit and wonder when to say goodbye, knowing it may be the last time. The process has almost become as habitual as brushing my teeth.

Ten more days before I get on a plane. Ten more days to soak it all in. Ten more days until I get to rest and see my family in the states. Ten more days until I miss this place and these people like crazy.