My Missions Adventure in Africa

Have you ever dreamed about traveling to another country? I had always dreamed about it but never thought it would be a reality. However, four years ago my dream came true. I had the opportunity to travel to Africa to visit my brother, Eric Bohman, who is a missionary in Kenya, East Africa. I was ecstatic about seeing my brother and his family, but going to Africa, that is what scared me. I thought that if I went to Africa, cannibals would eat me or I would be captured by a scary African tribe who had bones in their noses. Nevertheless, I found that all my assumptions were false, and I actually found myself falling in love with the African people. Little did I know that this trip would change my life forever.

While I was in Africa, I was able to visit some of the village churches my brother oversees. My favorite church that I visited was in Mutara. Since the village was so far in the bush, my family and I had to leave very early that Sunday morning. I wondered to myself just how far into the bush we would have to travel because the paved road that we were traveling on had ended. Then we had traveled on a gravel road for a while, but it had ended. Now we were just driving through an open field! Off in the distance, my eyes caught a glimpse of small huts scattered over the horizon.

As we entered the village of Mutara, not many people were in sight, and I began to wonder to myself if this was going to be a small service. Some people were walking along the “street” while others were busy buying or selling goods in the market area along the sides of the main road. But as we drove past the tiny grass huts to the church at the edge of the village, I glanced behind me only to see that from nearly every small hut, an African family emerged and was coming toward the church.

This village that at first seemed to be desolate was now buzzing with excitement. Now the missionary was there, and church could begin. Some began to run toward us when they saw the jeep; others just smiled and waved, but it was evident that all were glad about the missionary's being there. Our jeep came to a stop in front of a long, skinny hut that was used as their church. Immediately we were surrounded by the swarm of people of all ages.

My family and I were greeted by some Africans wearing their traditional dress of kangas and brightly colored beaded necklaces that wrapped from the beginning of their neck to their chin. Some were dressed in regular clothes but the clothes were more worn out than I had ever seen.

At first I was taken back, but soon I was able to look past their appearance and focus on their warm smiles and handshakes. Small children came up to me and stood before me just smiling. I felt helpless that all I could say to them was “Jumbo”, which is hello in their own tribal language. Each of their little eyes was so inquisitive about this white lady standing in front of them. Soon little hands reached out to touch my dress and rub my white skin. One little girl grabbed ahold of the bow in the back of my dress making it come undone. She just giggled and would not let go of those two strings for the remainder of the service.

The crowd began to merge into the small church building. Upon entering, the accomodations that greeted me were hard, backless benches and a small table that served as a pulpit. This was all that these people had, but they were proud of their church. Since my family and I were the honored guests, we were ushered to the front of the room and seated on the front bench. Voices were uplifted in song and filled the room with a tune I finally recognized as “Are You Washed in the Blood?” My eyes filled with tears as I watched the people sing out with all their heart. What an awesome thought that the Blood is good not only for the English-speaking but for the Swahili speaking people too!

My brother got up and began to preach in the tribal language of Swahili. Of course, I didn't understand anything he was saying, but I tried to nod my head in agreement every time I heard someone say “Amen!” At the close of the message, the altar was filled. Many people were praying out loud in a jumble of Swahili words. I was so humbled as I watched these people cry out to God in their own language.

From the back of the room, an old African man shuffled toward the front. Tears were streaming down his face. By the time he reached my brother, the man was weeping. Later I found out that many people had been praying for that old man to receive Jesus. He had grown up in the African traditions of witch doctors and good luck charms, but that day for the first time, he realized he needed Jesus and received Him as his personal Savior. It was then that revival broke out in my own heart as I realized the mighty power of God. It amazed me that the same God to whom I pray is the same God to whom these African people were praying. He is the same God who can hear my prayer in English and can also hear the prayers of the African people in Swahili.