Africa

I remember as a kid thinking about deepest, darkest Africa. There in the beautiful jungle complete with pristine streams and abundant beauty, Tarzan, my favorite character, made his home. Someday I would travel to his world and it would be wonderful.

I am sure that world exists somewhere, if only in the mind of Edgar R. Burroughs. The Africa I saw was not “deep and dark” but hot, dirty, poor beyond belief, and blighted by ignorance and exploitation. While a few reap the benefits of modern technology and world commerce, many more live in abject poverty. I know the same thing is true in parts of America – and yet, there is something there on the “dark continent” that is extraordinarily pervasive about the absence of hope that life will be better tomorrow.

There are so many mission enterprises, and so much need, we are unlikely to focus on any one of them until we have seen the darkness for our self and, perhaps, caught the hand of a burned child with an amputated leg, who lies on a concrete floor in a  room without windows or hint of a breeze; a child who ought to be in a hospital, but his parents cannot afford that. His wounds dressed infrequently using the same bandages again and again after they have been briefly washed in impure water.

I heard my prayer careening off the walls as his Muslim parents beseech a god who is not there. I am embarrassed that I am the one asked to pray, when others surely have more faith. I want to do more. I want somehow to grab him up and take him to one of the fine physicians I know, place him on clean sheets in a soft bed, provide sterile dressings, and good food, while he recovers to play again among his friends.

I can’t. And there is no hope, really.

That’s my new vision of Africa. Perhaps I should have stayed at home. Seeing is believing.