Ugly Prayer

He was leaning up against the doors I walk through every Sunday, when the words crossed his lips. He was looking me right in the eye.

"I know it for sure.

This is my Africa."


The topography slides.










I leave him at the chapel doors. I drive home. Home to the middle of northeast North America, east of where the buffalo roamed, far north of the Mason-Dixon line. The roads, paved, the pick-ups, four-wheel drive, tinted windows, blinding chrome.

I pray.

God, where is Africa?

Where a baby heaves its last in a dirt-floored hut under scorching sun, flies buzzing over open lips? How can this be Africa, here where I toss moldy cheese to hulk of dog and sigh hard over too many tomatoes, my washing machine spinning, my dishwasher sloshing, my stomach full?

This ain't Africa, me with Birks on my feet and scarf from Paris around my neck and two vehicles sitting in my driveway. This is land of milk and honey and greed and indifference and material gluttony till we groan in belly ache, backs bent with debt, and I am complicit and I cry for crimes I commit every time I buy and a baby dies.

God, I want Africa, the dying one, the poor one, the one with red soil caked hard under feet and empty, dry sky rolled out forever over head, the one that needs me and I feel needed.

God, I want the Africa I can save.

And You Alone are Savior.
And You Alone choose where
You put my hands and feet and
what starving souls You'd have me feed today
and the only map You carry is the landscape of a heart.

It's You've who have me here where souls wither in drought,
mine, oh mine,
and it's hidden and it's hard and no one sees serving the saucy or loving the narcissist or making peace with the arrogant and razor-tongued.

It isn't romantic
except You ask me to fall in love with You and these people and this place and
it isn't romantic
except You ask me to be faithful and

it isn't romantic
because real love never is.


God, I'm the one in need of a Savior
I'm the narcissist wanting to save,
I'm hungriest of all and don't even know it
and there are deserts in this home
and malnutrition in this community
and poverty of the worst soul-kind in this nation and
this is a developing country and
now that I have seen, I am responsible,
make me, make me.

God, I want Africa.
You hear.

Here counts because You are here.

This is my Africa."



I pray.
Park the vehicle. Walk in our back door.
Amen.





Related Prayer from the Archives: I repent

Around the Web:
If you really care about Africa
I wanted to Dance

Photos: A bowl I keep on my mantle, brought back from Africa, name of the woman who made the bowl written on tag of paper. Africa has names and faces and we give and give and maybe our real soul needs are far greater than theirs....
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