Jeremiah

A few days ago, eighteen of us crammed into a little van with no air-conditioning. After a few kilometers, we left pavement. And a trip we had thought would be an hour turned out to be two! Bumpy, washed-out roads did not help at all, but those who greeted us after made the uncomfortable ride worth every minute.

As our van approached a small village sitting on a magnificent lake, a mob of African children ran to the bus waving and screaming, "Mzungus! Mzungus!" (Mzungu means white person.) We were literally all smiles as we JUMPED out of that cramped van. And for three or four hours, we "de-wormed" children, educated the community on sanitation and health, and played games with and entertained the children. I got to paint faces for a while, and kids kept coming up asking for more body parts to be painted. Luckily we ran out of paint before we got below the neck! haha

But there was one experience on that lake shore that I will never forget. We were working with another NGO group called Christian Faith in Action, and they had prepared a survey for us to assess additional needs. We were invited to ask particular families certain questions about their small children, youth, education, health, etc. I got to interview a young man--Jeremiah--and his wife.

Initially, I had no idea how old Jeremiah was. But considering we sat at the doors of his hut, and that we talked with his wife as well, I just assumed he was older than me. We asked about how their youth were taught, and what they knew of AIDS and malaria, and family planning. They were mature questions for people I considered to be mature.

But at the end of our interview, when we asked this fisherman and his wife how old they were, I began thinking a bit. He answered, with a big smile, "I am 21." His wife was 20. And it was at that point I started making comparisons:

He sat in nice slacks, polished shoes, and a nice dress shirt. I sat in clothes I had worn for two days, and an old pair of running shoes.

He was a fisherman, devoted to the same job everyday. I am still a student, and somewhat unsure of what my final career will be.

He sat outside the house he had built with his own two hands. I couldn't build a house if I wanted, let alone buy one any time soon.

His beautiful wife held onto the arm of his chair. And I held my backpack on my lap, hoping to keep it away from the ants crawling around.

Suddenly I felt so "far behind" the guy. Yes I've done well in school. Yes I've won piano competitions. Yes I've acquired skills in writing and other subjects. And yes, I've been blessed with many temporal "riches."

But since that conversation, I've come to this conclusion. Maybe people living in fishing villages know more about living than we do. Sure we taught them about sanitation and health and education and such. But they teach us about principles, hard work, integrity, honor, humility, but most of all joy. It's time to get to work. It's time to be more professional (out come the khaki slacks and better-looking shoes). And it's time to start thinking more of others...