Church in the Bush

Yesterday I experienced what a typical Sunday morning is like for my parents here in Zambia. The day began as we traveled for 2 hours over bumpy "roads" to reach the small church at Kalinga village. We arrived late due to some minor car trouble, but hardly anyone else had showed up yet, so we were actually early! The church building was a small cement building with a thatch roof, which also serves as a school on weekdays. As we came in, at the front of the church, a man was writing the order of worship on a chalkboard. My dad was scheduled to preach, but next to preacher, the man wrote "Miss Gregersen" instead of "Brother Gregersen." Well, the only "Miss Gregersen" in the room was me! I looked across the church at my dad who was grinning and pointing at me, as if to say, "You're up, girl!" The Zambians who knew English were also chuckling to themselves and looking at me. Finally my dad told the man that he had made a mistake, and he changed the "Miss" to "Brother." The church service was held in Tonga with English translation, and vice versa, depending on who was speaking. As the collection basket was passed, I had to insert my money in between cobs of corn that had been given by members of the church. Since many Zambians are only subsistence farmers, these cobs of corn are what they give instead of money. The churches take the corn cobs and save them in a bucket until they have enough to buy communion wine with. When church was over we left the building singing and formed a line as each person shook the hands of the person in front and behind. You do this in such a way so that by the time everyone has filed out of the building you have shaken every person's hand. During the church service, a group of women had built a fire under a tree and killed a chicken to serve us for lunch. They also cooked nshima (ground cornmeal that looks like mashed potatoes, but has no taste) and a green vegetable called "rape," and served it to us in the church. It was an honor to be fed such a delicious and lavish meal by them, but hard to accept because we knew what a sacrifice had been made on their part to provide it for us, and that the rest of the congregation would not be fed along with us. After thanking them for the meal we said our goodbyes and prepared to leave. The children formed a line and waved goodbye as our vehicle drove off into the dust. On the way home I was humbled as I compared a typical Sunday back home in Tulsa to what I just experienced.