Last day in Bissil

Music by: John Mark McMillian, "I Dreamed There Was a Fountain"

From the CD, "I Dreamed There Was a Fountain"

Music by: Molly Williams "Lay Your Head Down",

from the CD "I Dreamed There Was a Fountain"

It had rained.

I go back in my room and sit on my bed. Face in hands, I start to cry.

I don't take lightly what had happened the night before.

I analyze, question, feel unsure of myself... "LORD, I do not want to give a false word!"

He confirmed to me several times that it was a word I was supposed to speak.

But then, it rained.

How could I question that?

I felt relief.

It was to be our last morning in Bissil. We were scheduled to have a private women's meeting, for the women of the little tent church. Then we would say quick goodbyes and head back toward Nairobi, to Ngong where we would have an outdoor revival that night.

I sort through my clothes, trying to choose the ones with the least amount of dust. They are all dirty with the exception of my pajama pants, so I keep them on and throw a dress over the top. Face it, I was wearing socks with sandals, I was beyond caring about fashion. I do, however, carefully put my sash from Pastor Simon over my neck.

I head to breakfast and find Papa Samson waiting for us. He hugs me.

Maasai men do not show affection. Papa Samson is a trailblazer.

"Good morning, Papa." I say.

He nods and sits down.

The room is silent. We all look at Papa Samson, waiting.

He starts to speak, but gets caught by his tears. He covers his face, contorted from this unfamiliar burst of emotion, and rushes outside.

"Ohhhh, to see a Maasai man cry... " Nelly goes into a lengthy explanation of why this doesn't happen. We all put our heads down and eat, knowing it to be true.

Barnabas picks us up and we head to the church to meet with the women.

We are told that the women desperately need and want the meeting, but many of them will not be able to attend. It is Saturday, a day when the women take buses, walk or hitch a ride, to see their children in boarding school.

Sometimes, hours away.

They have no choice.

There is no school in Bissil.

We arrive to find 3 beautiful, traditional Maasai women, sitting in the tent.

As I stand waiting for the rest of the women, one of the 3 wraps her hands around my sash.

She fingers it carefully, looking closely at the beads.

She meets my eyes and smiles. She points to the sash and then to herself.

I say, "Oh, did you make this?"

Joseph steps in and says, "Yes, this is Pastor Simon's mother. She made that for him."

I look at her and tell her how important this gift is to me, how I understand it's significance.

I cannot tell if she smiles with pride at my compliments, or the fact that her son gave me such a gift. Pastor Simon, like Papa Samson, is also trailblazer.

Woman in the center is Pastor Simon's mother

I am completely wrung out from the night before. We all are, but Wanda has an amazing ability to shake it off, stand up and preach. I think she could preach in her sleep, it just flows out of her.

She had told us that she was preaching from the Song of Solomon. "I know I may be walking a slippery slope..." she says, "but they need to hear this."

There are 2 or 3 men in the meeting. I wonder what their response will be.

I look up to see Margaret at the door of the tent. She is motioning for me to come outside.

I go.

"I am very sorry, but I must catch the bus. I have a very long ride and if I do not hurry, I will not be able to see my eldest daughter." Her eyes well up with tears.

"I understand. Please, GO!" I say.

"I brought you something."

She reaches in her bag and pulls out another sash. She puts it over my opposite shoulder.

It has a different medallion than the my first one and it occurs to me that it is for a woman.

"This is for a Maasai woman who has killed a lion."

I am completely speechless, only capable of nodding my head.

Then she hands me a bag and opening it says, "And I want you to have these... it isn't much, it is just all I have."

I suck in my breath as I see that she has given me her shoes.

They are leather sandals that have beads sewn on to the straps.

The heal is uneven from her walk, the impressions of her toes, permanently imprinted on the leather. I want to argue but know that it would insult her more than anything. How can I take this women's shoes?

We hold each other. She is strong and quiet. Stoic.

She kisses my cheek and turns to go.

I stop her.

"Please, we need to have a picture of us together."