Compassion, part 3

We arrived in Africa the day before Easter.  As we made our way in bumpy, creaky land rovers from Kenya across the Tanzania border, I remember taking in the surreal sights and sounds. The African color palette is breathtaking, from the natural surroundings to the people.  Our first stop was our lodging in the town of Arusha, Tanzania, which would be our home for three weeks. The lodge was uncharacteristically called The Arusha Resort Hotel. When you have to boil your own water for drinking, I wouldn't call that a "resort." But still, it was comfortable, and porcelain-potty equipped (a luxury we had on only a third of our locations).  

We went to a missionary church for Easter Sunday sunrise service.  I remember feeling equally like a foreigner and like family. Some English was spoken, but the times I felt most connected with the other locals was when they sang in Swahili. There is something indescribable about a group of African people singing a capella worship songs. It made every hair on my neck and arms stand on end.  I remember the pastor retelling the hope of resurrection, and the opportunities in Arusha to reach the lost, namely the Massai tribes who have not heard of Jesus before. I wondered if Sarah was Massai, or if she or her parents' generation had escaped and found a Christian community.

The next day we walked five miles to the local pizza cabana, called Mezza Luna. It was a cheerful local feel, but offered a gentle transition into African food. When the live reggae band saw our group of American students, they broke into the Macarena, and we cheekily obliged by dancing the decade-old dance.

On the way back to our hotel from Mezza Luna, I spotted a building set back from the dusty road. It was a white shack with a makeshift plywood sign.  It read "Compassion."  I stopped, looked for any other indication of whether this was related to the ministry that connected Sarah and me. I couldn't tell, so I asked our translator, Eben, if he would walk back there the next day to check it out. He said yes, it is Compassion International, the ministry that helps children in poverty. And he would walk back with me if I wanted to visit inside.

Eben and I walked there the next day, and I remember praying simply "God, make a way for me to meet Sarah."  Through a series of translations and trying to explain who I was, that I was visiting with a college group and not sponsored by Compassion, and that I realize Sarah might live hours away across the country, I conveyed my intentions and the office worker made a series of phone calls.  Eben and I waited, and I was tickled to just be in a local Compassion office, in the same country as our sponsored child.

The woman finally spoke again in Swahili to Eben, telling what sounded like a complicated story, while I waited for Eben to translate.  He turned to me with a smile and said "Sarah lives here. In Arusha."

stay tuned.....