A little warmth

A couple weeks ago, I got shuffled around the mission. My house was temporarily repurposed as an "executive guest house" of sorts. I went from having two housemates in a fairly spacious casa to sharing a single room with those two people. Our new room was smaller than my old room but I was thankful for amenities. First of all, carpet lined the floor. Let me tell you, when your house lacks heating and it's 60 when you wake up, a concrete floor torments more than nails on a chalkboard. A pressurized water heater was also a welcomed addition to my life. Our old house had a water heater, but it had 2 feet of head (a way to measure water pressure. For reference, most of you would complain if you had less than 30 feet of head). The old shower was like having a mouse weep on your shoulder. Since being granted such a lovely luxury, I feel like my personal hygiene has somewhat improved. After my recent trip to Mozambique, a quality bath was in order. You know how you sometimes have a day where you just feel dirty. Your face may be a little gritty and your hair a magnet for all manner of nature, but you feel that waiting a second longer to bathe would be a crime against humanity? I felt like that, and got the satisfaction of a brownish-blackish-gross pool of water in the shower. Without my new-found hot pressurized shower, my hair would still be funky, gross, and a breeding ground for bugs great and small.

The people who displaced me from my house were evangelists from the Quiet Hour. I have nothing against the ministry, but their needs and wants strained my patience (derogatory names such as "days of ruckus," "days of thunder," and "happy hour" abounded). The phrase "high-maintenance" certainly applies here. Apparently, they expected to have 4-star hotels in the African bush. Sorry to disappoint! The amount of bending we did to make their stay comfortable greatly exceeded the benefit they provided to the hospital. They journeyed here to conduct an evangelistic series in several villages around the area, like a sort of revival. At the end of their couple weeks here, they had a baptism. Total number submersed and resurrected - 1050. I don't know the demographics, previous religious exposure, or sincerity of those involved. However, you understand my skepticism if you have ever witnessed a week of prayer in an Adventist institution. About 5 days later, I sat under a spreading eucalyptus tree. A lady who had seen me crossing the border started up a chat. While waiting (somewhat patiently, slightly annoyed, and quite desperate), this lady started up a chat. Her name was Bishop Yami, a Pentecostal from Blantyre. I noticed that she wasn't always completely engaged in the conversation. About half an hour later, I saw why.

(the picture won't upload here. It's the third picture in my Mozambique album on facebook)

To give you a little background, this man had seen me (I was quite conspicuous). He introduced himself, which exhausted his knowledge of English, tried to assert my need for his assistance in finding a vehicle, and wanted money in return. I had brushed him aside despite sensing that something wasn't there. Not long after it happened, I wondered if the same thing would have happened if I had taken an interest. Was this one any different from the 1,000+ who had come to hear a white person? Which was more meaningful - the words or the act?