How do I explain to you the way an Ethiopian child smells?
Like sour milk and grain and sweat and mangos.
The way their rough, little hands fit perfectly into mine?
What words do I have to describe to you the way the dust settles over everything, filling in wrinkles you didn't know you had, covering your feet and settling in your chest?
In my ears I still hear night falling down country. Like a top whose spinning begins to slow - the blur of colors turning into shapes.
And my heart, deep down, has memorized the sound of the drums.
Of the children's voices rising with the stars.
Words my mind cannot understand.
Words my soul knows by heart.
How does that happen?
How do I explain to you what it was to sit on the hewn bench, swatting flies, and listening as they worshipped the same God I have dedicated my life to?
To know that He heard them. That He bent low when they called His name.
Regardless of my whether my ears heard, despite my lack of understanding.
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I could tell the story over and over again.
Of why I feel called to go back.
Of why, in what seemed like a single day, everything changed.
Or how, in reality, the Father has been preparing me for this my entire life.
I learned about His strength.
About discerning what is good and pleasing.
About connecting my prayers with His answers.
How good He is - even though He does not need us, even though He doesn't have to, He chooses to reveal Himself to us.
I am learning about what it means to be consumed.
And I am frustrated that the right words aren't coming.
There's so much I want to tell you.
About women at wells.
And donkeys.
Sheep and goats.
About foundations and calls to prayer.
About eyes so deep you can see the world in them.
About the Spirit within connecting with the Spirit beyond.
A place where soul meets body.
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I learned what it means to live a good story.
I understood, finally, what it means to be loved by Him.
But what words do I have to explain this to you?
None are sufficient.
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