Majestic Moments #6: The White of My Skin

Majestic moments happen when and where you least expect it. God chooses the time and place that He breaks through to reveal Himself in incredible ways.

On two occasions God has given me the opportunity to go to Angola, Africa. I never expected to go to Africa; in fact, I was one of those believers that asked God, “Please don’t send me to Africa.” In my mind, Africa was the Dark Continent filled with wild animals and angry tribesmen. Every movie I had ever seen about Africa had convinced me that the people were backwards and the continent was dangerous. I was in for quite a surprise.

I first went to Angola in the summer of 2003 – six months after my wife died. God had given me a clear calling to go, and my wife commissioned me to go one week before her death. Truthfully, going to Africa helped me through those dark days of confusion and grief. Although I didn’t understand the purpose, I knew without a doubt that I was supposed to go.

I soon discovered that the preconceptions I had about Africa were all false – every one of them. The wild animals I had seen in movies were now restricted to game reserves. The poachers had decimated the animal supply long ago – not to mention the starving people who had killed them for food. Indeed, the people were poor, but not backwards. In the major cities I saw cell phones, satellite dishes, and internet cafes. People were in touch with one another and the world. Once I was enjoying lunch at a restaurant along the Atlantic Ocean. Suddenly an Angolan friend picked up his cell phone and made an international call to a mutual friend in the United States. Although the call went through, my African friend forgot that it was 3:00 a.m. in Illinois. The amazing part was that MY cell phone at that time couldn’t make international calls!

The story was quite different when we visited the rural villages. The people in the Angolan interior were cut off from the rest of the world without the benefit of any technology. Most people grew their own food and were lucky to have one meal a day. Every morning, before dawn, the women of the village would walk a mile downhill to fetch impure river water. Then they walked back a mile uphill with their water jugs balanced on their heads. Families lived in one room thatch huts with a hole in the roof to allowed the smoke from their cooking fire to escape.

I returned to Angola the following year in the summer of 2004. As always, I found the Angolans to be among the most gentle and generous people I’ve ever met. When our group visited a village the elders would give us a live chicken as a departing gift. Incredibly, they gave one of the only consistent sources of food the village possessed. Having given away their hens, the people would no longer enjoy an occasional egg with their meals.

After 3 weeks of teacher training my group left for home; however, I remained behind for 3 weeks by myself with an Angolan translator. Without question, it was the most exciting adventure of my life. I was alone in Angola – the only white man in a sea of black faces. I didn’t speak the language, understand the customs, or know more than a few people. And I had a ball! I wouldn’t trade those three weeks for anything else that I’ve experienced in life.

My translator and I visited several villages that were so far into the wilderness that I’m not sure you could find it using a GPS. As always, we were greeted with singing, dancing, feasting, and special performances by the young people. The children kept running up to me and wiping their fingers on my skin. I didn’t understand the significance until my interpreter explained that they were checking to see if the white of my skin came off. Then he told me something that both shocked and humbled me. No one in the village – from the oldest to the youngest – had ever seen a white man before. I also was the first American ever to set foot in their village. I shook my head in wonder that God would give me such a majestic moment – a wonderful and unexpected blessing.

It was very difficult when I left for home because my Angolan friends had been so wonderful to me. I said to my translator, “Salomon, I’m so sad because I don’t know if I will ever see you again.” He smiled and said, “Steve, you can never wash the dust of Africa from your feet.” He was so right. Six years later I went to Zambia as part of a short term mission team. Moreover, I would go back tomorrow if given the chance. Africa gets in your blood.

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