Adoration and Belt Notches

The church was only one third full.  In the green plastic chairs of the left were women and lots of children and the right had a smaller section of men, two seats wide and perhaps 8 or 10 deep. The choirs came one after the other, children dancing in long lines tallest to smallest mimicking the lead dancer in her arm swinging and neck thrusting variations. They sang at the top of their lungs repetitive melodies, impossible for me to trace with my own voice. The deafening electronic beat and accompanying chords dissonant to the voices sealed off my dwindling hope of learning local music. Inwardly I sighed. The sigh momentarily disturbed the flies clustering and landing over and over on my hands, arms and face. I pulled out a paper from my Bible and fanned myself for the next three and some hours, creating a relieving breeze as well as keeping the flies off.

Doug went home after the offering due to feeling not so well.  Maybe I should have conjured up some ill feeling strong enough to go home and lay down.  How strong did my discomfort have to be to justify leaving? If it was a question of discomfort, I would not have been there in the first place. But the eyes of Mr. Inquito were on me from the power chairs up front. There's no hiding or leaving un-noticed in that small of a group, nor with my outsider-ness flashing like a neon sign.

 When the sermon started at long last, one of the local teachers took it on himself to translate for me in hopes that I too, could get something from the Word. I was grateful since he did a pretty good job, though the further along we went, the preacher became more rushed with the emphasis of his message. The rush of Maa words cut the translations in half and so with it, my comprehension.

A little girl I had never seen before with a rather big head for the size of her small body began her relentless staring at me from the moment I entered the church.  I can only imagine that three hours of uninterupted close-range staring evidences an extraordinary amount of fascination on the part of the ogler. In fact, it also requires a fair bit of resolved calm on the part of the recipient. At first I ignored her. Then she moved closer and sat right in front of me for a better view. Turned in her seat, her two little hands matched together on the back of the chair. With her huge eyes, the whites showing, fixed directly on my face, I began to cave. So I met her gaze directly, though not maliciously, daring her to break the stare down. Eventually she'd look away, perhaps not aware why she did so because she immediately turned and resumed once I returned my focus to the front.

Eventually, once Doug left, she moved back to sit beside me and began her attempts at subtly touching me. She would move close enough for her arm just to push against mine or stick out her foot to just ever-so-lightly touch my leg.  The subtly was lost on me as her moves were like so many other children before her. A few times, I turned, smiling mildly and patted her arm to give her the attention from me that she was seeking and perhaps allow her to address her focus elsewhere.

After the shouts of preaching slowed, the translation finished and there were prayers after prayers and more songs.  We got out of our seats and prayed over crestfallen members, men and women.

Soon, the prayer meeting moved to some other business asking people to contribute money to decorate the church (I found this out later from an English speaking friend). My patience for sitting in the heat and the flies with my Maa deaf ears rose to newer heights and I steeled myself with the promise of another "notch in my belt" for endurance (my biggest is for a 6-hour service a while back).

At last, we all rose and filed out through the greeting line where the entire church unfolds upon itself so that each member greets each other till we are standing in a semi-circle.  This time we went out the side door and formed a circle around a motorbike with its young driver revving the small engine. I realized that my endurance was not yet over as the preacher began a long prayer of blessing over the bike and the driver, the tires and the engine, holding the key aloft as he spoke.

As we joined hands in the circle, I felt a small hand eagerly grab mine and looked down to see that the same little girl had managed to squeeze in between me and the next lady.  As my head was bowed, I looked down at her. Her head was bowed, too, but not in reverence to the prayers. She gently stroked the rings on my left hand, then the creased skin on the back. Finally, she put my hand up to her cheek and I couldn't be sure, but thought she even pressed it with a kiss.

In that moment, my annoyance at being treated as royalty, deserving of hours of gazing and adoration softened and my heart cracked a little for the small girl who's day seemed to be made by getting to caress my "white" hands, rough, scarred, and browned from the sun as they are.

Finally, the amens and esaais were said and the preacher asked the motorbike driver to give him something for doing the blessing. I saw a 200 shilling note pass into the preacher's hand and it was over.

I greeted various neighbors then made my way over the rocky volcanic crust, past the "wait-a-bit" bushes to our black iron gate, eager to rest.