I vividly recall my first trip to Africa. I was part of a 117-person mission group traveling to the nation of Zambia during Holy Week 2006. Upon landing in the capital of Lusaka, women from the various local churches greeted us with the most beautiful singing I had ever heard in my life.
I could not stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks. I felt as if they were saying: “Welcome home, my sister. It has been too long.”
This trip was different because it was much smaller, with only six participants: two doctors, a deacon, a pastor, a minister, and someone with HIV/AIDS experience. Half of the group had been to Africa previously, and the other three were just as excited as we had been during our initial trip to Mother Africa. Instead of crying, a few people actually kissed the ground to show reverence to the land that bore our ancestors.
Each of us possessed different talents and experiences and brought unique contributions to the mission. We stayed in a modest hotel in Blantyre, Malawi (in in southeastern Africa) and worked in a village outside of the city about 45 minutes away.
Our trip began a year ago when my local pastor asked for volunteers to accompany him to an impoverished country in Africa. He approached me because of my prior experience and encouraged me to seek other like-minded individuals. As the months passed, we began collecting needed items such as medical supplies, medicines and (believe it or not) reading glasses. During that first trip, I was amazed at the number of people who could not read fine print.
Upon arriving in Blantyre, I was greeted by cold weather, temperatures in the sixties. Although I had researched the weather, I still expected it to be fairly warm weather. I was freezing. I actually needed a sweatshirt in Africa!
We arrived to Malawi on a Tuesday, and on Wednesday we began our mission work. The drive to Chidradzula was on one of the most treacherous dirt roads that I have ever traveled. There were deep craters, it was narrow, and it always seemed like we were going to hit the numerous people walking on the sides of the roads. The van in which we traveled graciously allowed us to experience each and every crater. My body became accustomed to being jostled up and down like popcorn!
Seeing pictures of African women in National Geographic magazines carrying baskets on their heads is nothing as compared to witnessing these graceful people accomplishing such tasks in person. Even when they were not supporting items on their heads, their posture remained upright, as if they were princesses walking through a ballroom. I don’t think they realized how in awe each of us were every time we passed them.
The place where we worked was known as PIM, Providence Industrial Mission. Malawians take great pride in sharing the historical significance of PIM. Once a hiding place for slaves, it soon became known as the site where John Chilembwe, a local pastor, fought against the white colonials in 1915. He eventually was captured and no one has ever uncovered where he is buried.
Because of his bravery, Chilembwe’s face adorns the 500 Kwacha, Malawi’s form of currency. Just as we celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. every January 15, Malawians commemorate Chilembwe on that day.
Within three and a half days, we saw over 200 patients. We treated chicken pox, enlarged thyroids, malaria, HIV and a host of other diseases in our makeshift waiting room. For some patients, I had a pill that could help. For others, we prayed and asked God to heal them.
Because of prayer, one little mute boy started to speak. Mission complete. We at least made an impact on one life.
Visit www.sharinghopeim.org for future life-changing missions to Africa.
