Sunday June 19, 2011
I feel old time missionaries here. Even though I can’t see them, I smell them as they walk by, fingers brushing their dusty books in the old bookshelves. The books are well-loved and they are the books of my childhood, so I drink in their sight and sigh, knowing that those who lived here in the past are much like those who lived with me in Colombia as a child. The small fan in the corner, the one that needs non-existent electricity to function, sits by a cracked mirror, which, doubtless, saw many faces pass through this room.
The bottom bunk, wrapped under a mosquito net, is the perfect place to think and plan my day. It is 5:00am. How many others did that in this exact spot before me? After my quiet time is done and I have stretched out the kinks in my body and imagination, I search for my flashlight and sandals on to make my way to the kitchen. It is still dark there, but I put a pot of water on the stove (thank God for gas!) to take the chill out of the morning bucket bath. Nothing feels as good as that lukewarm water as I dump it over my head and it washes over my crouched body and my feet, which are protected by a pair of shared flip-flops. After several house in a bouncing car to reach Tandala Hospital yesterday, this bath is glorious and I fell alive again. I strive to only use ½ a bucket of water, knowing it is a precious commodity. I am so grateful to have short hair.
Now, with the 6am light of morning, I am ravenous. Peanuts and a cup of tea will assuage my appetite, as soon, we’ll head for morning devotions at the hospital before starting a day of meetings, photos, handshakes, and smiles. The song is sweet and doesn’t over power or overtake the prayer. It enshrouds us. It covers us. It makes us feel like one, thanking God for His goodness.
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