My church in Mozambique was outside, nestled between two cashew trees. It was beautiful. The women and children sat on bamboo mats, while the men sat on a bench or on chairs in front of the congregation, where they would take turns reading passages, teaching, or leading in song. I repeat, it was beautiful. There were times when the breeze would find it’s way, providing the perfect amount of comfort on a hot day.
I looked forward to Sundays. It meant I had something scheduled to do, it meant I got to spend time at church with my family, and it meant that I would be reunited with my team for our “weekend” soon. The last one was one of the biggest joys. I remember craving to just hear people speak in English. I know that sounds crazy, but when you’re surrounded by words in Portuguese and a local dialect all day, neither of which you really understand, English is a huge comfort. Anyway, since the service was also in Portuguese (maybe it was dialect?), church time became my own little quiet time.
The second or third week I was there, my beautiful, wonderful friend Hannah attended church with me. Another new face was standing up at the front of the congregation, apparently he was the head pastor who had just returned from a conference. He came over an introduced himself to us, in English.
Now, many of the people in my village claimed to know English. Boys and girls in school would stop by my home to practice what they’d learned in school. But no one was what you might call fluent. Most people weren’t even close. But this pastor came over and spoke English to us, and understood when we responded with something other than, “I’m fine thanks and you?” Anyway, long story short (at least… shorter…), at the end of the service he told Hannah and I that we must visit him and his wife for a meal sometime. We said, “Yeah, sure, ok” and he moved on to talk to my avo (grandma).
Later that day, I was in a terrible mood. I was 5 seconds away from telling my avo that I was going to go visit my friends, when she came over and said, “Put on your nice skirt, let’s go!” I tried to ask her where we were going, and eventually I figured out that we were going to the pastor’s house.
I think now is a great time to tell you that there are many times when my heart is very, very ugly. This was one of them. Because as I was being escorted by my loving avo, who opened her home to me, to the home of her pastor, all I could think was, “I can’t believe I have to go eat more fish.” In Mozambique, I found that when people had some money, they bought fish. If you were a guest, they would usually give you fish, because that was the best they had. And me, with my ugly ol’ heart, could not see it as the gift that it was, and only saw it as a struggle for me.
When we arrived to the house, it was much bigger than my family’s. As soon as I got there, the pastor asked me to run get my friend (Hannah), because it was time for us all to eat. As I went to get her, I actually apologized that we had to go eat at this man’s home. I am ashamed that I was ever this ungrateful, but I was.
Hannah and I got to his house and the pastor and his wife invited us inside. We were seated around a table, with four chairs. That, in itself, was more than both our families had, and more than many of our neighbors had. Furniture was not something you saw in every household. There were plates, empty glasses, silverware, and dishes of covered food on the table. Even when I saw that the meal was much more than I expected, I still dreaded the thought of eating fish.
Then they uncovered the food.
Then I saw fried chicken, french fries, cole slaw. We were offered Coke or Sprite as a drink.
Far away from home, these people sought to make us feel like we were back in the United States, with food we would be more familiar with. They asked us if it was food like we would have at home, and they were proud they were able to provide this comfort for us.
As we ate, the pastor told us about his life. How he had studied for a few months in England, so he knew English. He told us about the war that had destroyed the country not too long ago. How he now had a radio show, and that if we went to one of the larger cities and asked someone if they’d heard his name, people would know him. (Unfortunately, his name was extremely hard to remember!) We ate until we were full, and it was hands down one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
I think God gives us a wake up call when we need it most. When I was deep in self-pity, and overcome by my own desires (or lack there of), God reminded me that it was a blessing to be invited into these people’s homes and to share in their lives. I forgot, that even though I was sleeping on the floor and eating with my hands, I was a guest in my family’s home, and I was privileged to be there. Not many strangers, who look different and speak an entirely different language, are welcomed with open arms. My family gave me everything they had.
Sometimes it’s easy to see a bamboo mat and a mosquito net as a terrible bedroom, so we completely miss that it’s the biggest room in the house that has been specially prepared for their guest.
Sometimes it was easier to see a plate of shrimp as something to plow through, instead of seeing it as a gift from a family who could barely afford to feed themselves.
Sometimes it’s easy to downplay sacrifice.
Sometimes, I know my heart was in the wrong place.
But then sometimes, when we’re expecting dried fish, God gives us fried chicken.
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