Joy

My shoes leave impressions in the dry red dirt. The grid pattern of my soles look foreign amid the imprints of bare feet. With a few exceptions, we visitors are the only ones with shoes.

It is Sunday morning. I walk down the road from our house in the village past banana trees and cultivated fields of corn and beans. The family compounds - clusters of brick huts with grass roofs - are alive with the sounds and sights of morning chores. A young boy feeds goats who are tethered to a mango tree. A mother bends over a charcoal fire while her daughter kneels in the dirt, blowing the stubborn coals. 

The road slowly populates with people heading to church. I can already hear the drums and songs calling to us. I walk past a family. The girls wear dresses, clean and bright in the morning sun. I greet them good morning. Moments later I hear the soft pattering of feet near me. One of the girls reaches up and takes my hand. And before I know it, her sister joins me on the other side. 

 I have never held a "stranger's" hand before. And I am surprised how easy, natural, and happy it makes me feel. To be accepted so quickly. I walk hand-in-hand with these two girls all the way to church.

Church in the village is held in an open air pavilion, and it is an all-day-long event. When we arrive, children offer us the wooden benches while they sit on the dirt floor.

The pastor stands. He delivers the first of many sermons. A young man translates into English. I expect a sermon about trials and tribulations. Or perhaps about how to see past our afflictions. Surely, I think, their lives must be so difficult: huts for houses, a charcoal fire for cooking, food only through hard work, and rags for clothing. 

The pastor smiles at his congregation. His teeth gleam white against his black skin. "God is good..." he begins "....always!" An echo of amens ripples through the congregation. His entire sermon is praising God. Thanking God. Acknowledging God's goodness...always. The pavilion reverberates with joy. Soul-stirring singing. "Precious Jesus" from the Sunday School choir. Hand-clapping. An old woman stands to share her testimony. She begins, "Hallelujah!" Then she yells at the top of her lungs, "Hallelujah!" She pumps her hand in the air with victory. And I believe her. 

The children keep looking back at us, encouraging us to join the celebration and worship.

At first I try to hide my tears, wiping them quickly away. But they come too fast. I let them fall. I have never seen nor felt such rejoicing - not even watching Handel's Mosiah at the Kennedy Center. There is a tangible joy here. It is raw. It is real. It is unshrouded by pride. It is unprompted by material blessings. It is a pure love of God and His goodness...always.