The walls at Eden School are white. Were white, I should say. When we saw them, the first three feet up from the gray cement floor were already well into that rusting blush stage. So, instead of the anticipated paint brushes, they first handed us sandpaper. No power tools of any sort. Just a little square of rough paper, and away we went! Fifteen minutes into the work we were starting to look like some pretty severe cases of dandruff . . . Three hours later, we had become albinos, white hair and all!
The work itself, though a bit hard on the hands and arms (If anyone is looking for a work-out to tone arm muscles, I have a tested and proven suggestion for you.) was enjoyable because of the company. Our team and the African helpers are simply a joy. But we did find one thing rather discouraging. Scrubbing so furiously at wall after wall, watching the dust float up off the wall and plaster itself onto us, we wondered just how long these walls could manage to keep the pristine coat of white we were about to bestow upon them. I think we came up with three months as the optimist’s answer.
The students were actually in class during our work time. We had commandeered the first floor, so they moved into the two above us. But whenever the bell rang for break, dozens of children would come scampering down the stairs. At first, they only stared and shyly smiled, but then they did the unthinkable. Spotting the extra sandpaper on the table, they silently distributed the pieces among themselves and actually, without anyone asking them, began helping us! Can you imagine kids in an American school voluntarily giving up their recess to scrub walls? We were very impressed . . . Though I’m pretty sure it had less to do with a love of hard work and more to do with their fascination of us. They ended up every bit as grubby as we were - almost worse, for they found great hilarity in taking the white powdery stuff and rubbing it all over their faces and arms - but they grinned no less the widely for it!
The dear, helpful children.
The looks of light-headed nauseousness might have had something to do with the fact that we didn't actually get our masks till about an hour after we'd started scrubbing.
And so the work continued well past noon, until finally at 2:00, they announced a greatly appreciated lunch. We left a mere hour later, the walls looking a bit less grimy for our efforts, but by no means entirely white. The Brits are coming tomorrow to do their best to finish the job we started.
Back at the guest house to wash away our albino-ness with warm showers - oh, and the feel of clean! - and then to the hospital to check a strange rash on Jon’s arm. It is the most serious thing that happened to any of us during our trip, other than a few days of uncomfortableness that never turned into any grave illness, and it actually proved rather humorous. You see, this morning, Jon had emailed his mother saying he had something the matter with him, wasn’t quite sure what it was, and he was going to the hospital to have it checked out. That’s all he said. Well, you can imagine what effect that had on his poor mother back in Canada! A bit frantically, I’m sure, she called MFL (Music for Life), trying to figure out what was wrong with her probably dying son. MFL then contacted us via text message on LeeAnn’s phone, trying to figure out what was wrong with our probably dying Jon. At that point, we were nearly at the hospital, so we waited until we had the diagnosis. It was: an allergic reaction to the fuzz off a hairy caterpillar that had ostentatiously crawled across the grass that Jon had then sat on. Seriously. I’m not making this up. Try texting that one back to your mother back home who is busy trying not to imagine all the horrible ways there are for her dear son to die in Africa!
After informing Jon’s mother of his narrow escape from death, we traveled to a rather elegant guest house (not ours) for a farewell dinner with the Brits and all our beloved African helpers. We had an amazing time . . . Really, all that was missing was the darling children. Sitting down to a delicious feast under a dusky sky with birds and blossoms abounding, it really felt like a taste of Heaven. I sat at a table with some of my dearest friends from this trip, and we simply enjoyed each other. Then came a time of sharing, thanksgiving, and laughter. We never do get too far from laughter here. It is a good thing.
After listening to our beloved Africans sing some songs for us - and, oh, the harmony of those voices! - and having a quick run at one of our favorite games (Whossa? Messa? Not messa.), we were the speechless recipients of gifts from MFL. As if we hadn’t already received so much more than we could ever repay, they generously gave us all bags with CDs and coffee inside. And, later, they gave us freshly-printed shirts to memorialize our time here in Africa. Then it was time for hugs and goodbyes all around - but we will meet again, praise God!
One more taxi ride back “home,” and it was a weary, happy goodnight for us all. Dear God, as You have blessed me - as You have rained down torrents of such blessings as I am too full to describe - so make my life into such a blessing. For the glory of Your Name, my dear God. Tonight again someone encouraged me to go back to the States and record the African songs You gave me to write here. Father God, lead me on, and I will follow. I run after You with great joy as You have filled me up so abundantly. We are blessed. We are so incredibly blessed.
