Rachel's Reflections

I hate singing in front of other people. It scares me to death. What if I don't sing well? What if I mess up? What if people don't like my voice? I also dislike phone calls. I prefer to have a conversation with someone in person whenever possible. And in Portuguese or Kimwani? Are you kidding me? Half the time I'm left guessing at what the other person said because of noisy backgrounds or muffled voices. In light of these confessions, I'm really living in the wrong country.  Mozambicans love singing (and dancing) and making phone calls. They wonder why I don't call them more often or give me strange looks when I get nervous about singing.  The other day I gathered up enough courage  to call Mama N,  a precious friend from Pemba. Her exuberant response tumbled out of my phone when she heard my voice . How long it had been, and how am I doing, and when would I be back in Pemba, and when could I show the Jesus Film to her family, and she had forgotten how to sing the s...

I didn't want to go. My body protested when I hoisted myself off the couch after my midday break from the hot sun.  "I need to at least give Mama A the yarn I promised her a week ago for her crochet blanket," I told myself, trying to fight the urge to be a couch potato. "If I still don't feel great, I'll come back and rest." Walking past tree after tree dripping with mangoes, my mouth began to water. It's too early for them to be ripe and juicy, but how I long for them to be ready!  Unfortunately, the relish in my mouth at the thought of eating mangoes jarred with the cramp in my stomach. I wasn't sure how I would make it through my visit with Mama A. Visiting Mama A calls for motivation on a good day. The atmosphere around her house often feels devoid of love. Sitting on the reed mat with her for hours leaves my back stiff and sore. I often feel drained afterward. Yet last week when I had tried to leave early she exclaimed, "Already?! But I...

I enjoy watching The Lion King. The music is nostalgic, bringing me back to my childhood. I especially love listening to the opening song. However, the past two weeks sobered me to the reality of the words of that song. The circle of life... moves us all through despair and hope . "In the twenty minutes it took me to walk you home on Friday," Mama A told me when I arrived on Monday, "my neighbor passed away." My smile turned to a frown, sadness filling my heart. He had been sick for weeks. As I sat there, h is adorable little daughter came to greet me as always. "My daddy's sick," she said. She told me this every time she saw me. This time it broke my heart. Had no one told her he had died? Had she not understood? Lost for words, I opened my crochet bag and saw that I had enough pink yarn in it to make a hat for her.  I started right away.  It wasn't much, but it made me feel like I was doing something for her. "What are you making?" she ...

Like wisps of smoke curling through the cracks of a room, the thoughts crept in. I miss my family. Am I making a difference among the Mwani people? What if I moved back to the U.S.? A few days passed and the thoughts thickened and clouded my mind as if the wisps of smoke had merged and dimmed the lights.  I should call K-tee , I thought Wednesday evening. She would understand and empathize with me. Instead I listened to a meaningless audiobook to escape reality. When I went to young adult Bible study on Thursday, usually the highlight of my week, the worship songs almost choked in my throat because of the thoughts swirling thick around me. Do you want to be led where trust is without borders? Wherever God would call you? You've been through a lot. You deserve it easy for a while. I hate showing vulnerability in a crowd, and while I love everyone in the group I couldn't bring myself to open up to them. I pretended I was fine and kept singing, but c oncern rose in my heart....