Missionary Daddy. Linda Goodnight

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      “Nearly six years.”

      “All that time.” She was amazed. Years without microwaves or hot showers or air-conditioning.

      She took the extra hammer and tried to drive a nail. It bent double. “Do you ever go home?”

      “I furlough at least once a year. Lately—” His face clouded for a second as if he wanted to share something worrisome. But instead he shook his head and laughed. “I see you’ve done a lot of carpentry work.”

      Sam grinned. “Tons. Can’t you tell by my finesse?”

      Eyes twinkling, the charming missionary flipped his hammer around to the claw end and extracted the nail with one fluid twitch of a powerful wrist.

      “I know you’re a master craftsman and all,” he said, still grinning, “but let me show you the way we poor African missionaries hammer a nail.”

      “I’m all ears,” she answered, extending the hammer. “Or maybe I should say all thumbs?”

      Eric made a huffing noise in appreciation of her humor. Sam’s mood spiraled upward. She liked this guy.

      “Strike with your arm, not your wrist. You’ll get more power that way,” he was saying as he leaned in from behind to demonstrate the correct way to hold a hammer.

      “Where are you from, Sam?” Eric asked as they worked.

      “Chicago. Virginia, originally. Why?”

      He tilted his head. “You don’t exactly look like the missions type. What do you do back in Chicago?”

      A frisson of embarrassment kept her from telling him. Her work was so superficial. “Just a job. Nothing special.”

      But what Eric did was special. The most special work she’d ever witnessed. This man and his team of helpers were making a difference in human lives every single day.

      Together they finished securing the window. A couple of teenage boys came around the building to inquire about lunch.

      “The food bus arrives at noon,” Eric told them. “They should be here any minute.”

      “Don’t you have food here?”

      “Sure, but we’ll eat later. The food van is for the others.”

      Sam didn’t recall seeing any others, but she didn’t argue on a day filled with interesting occurrences.

      The sun was high in the sky and the heat scorching, much hotter than along the beach. Even though she was an exercise fiend, Sam doubted if she’d ever perspired quite this much. She pulled her damp cotton shirt away from her body, letting cool air rush in. She should be exhausted and ready to escape. Instead she felt an energy rush and deep satisfaction.

      A white van chugged down the road, horn blaring in a jolly rhythm. Suddenly, the landscape erupted with humanity, mostly children. They came running from all directions, feet bare, clothes in pitiful condition, smiles wide, carrying containers of every sort from a regular bowl to a discarded lid.

      The teenagers appeared as startled as Sam. Eric clapped his hands and motioned toward the awning being erected by staff members. The chattering children crowded in to sit on the hard-packed ground.

      During the next few minutes, Eric, with children in his lap and hanging over his back, spoke to the group about Jesus’s love for them. The simple, sweet, spiritual message brought a lump to Sam’s throat. She hoped it was true. These precious babies needed someone big and strong to love them.

      Two of the teenagers from the mission team presented a children’s song, urging the sea of faces to sing and clap. Laughter and energy rippled through the clearing. For all the despair, these people could still find joy, something sorely missing in her life most of the time.

      A child no more than three had chosen Sam’s lap and cuddled close to play with her shining bracelets. Flies swarmed, the sun scorched and dirt was everywhere. But Sam was oddly content.

      When the brief Bible lesson ended, a makeshift table was loaded with an enormous pot of porridge-looking stuff.

      “Can you handle this?” Eric asked, offering the ladle to Sam.

      “I may not be able to hammer but I can dip,” she said and was rewarded with his wide grin.

      “I knew you were a talented woman. Today the dipper. Tomorrow the roof.”

      Tomorrow. She didn’t know how to tell him there would be no tomorrow.

      A sea of thin, hungry faces swarmed the table, bowls upraised, amazingly considerate of one another. Though clearly in need of food, no one pushed the other out of the way. Most even took their meager rations and headed home to share with other family members. When Sam heard that, she almost cried.

      The rest of the group handed out slices of white bread while she filled containers. Eric worked beside the orphan children, quietly directing them to be of service to the others. Not a one argued or insisted on eating first.

      Sam dipped until the pot emptied. Still the children came.

      “We need more,” she said.

      The van driver shrugged. “There is no more.”

      With a sinking feeling, she scraped the remains into one final cup and watched with heavy heart as the latecomers trudged away empty-handed but uncomplaining. The message was clear: such was the way of life in Africa.

      Eric appeared at her side and draped an arm comfortingly over her shoulders. He brought with him the pleasant scent of healthy, hardworking male. “You can’t let it get to you.”

      Hot and sticky and sad, she stared bleakly at the last child ambling down the dusty road, empty container dangling from his fingertips. “Some went away hungry.”

      “But many didn’t. You have to look at the good you’ve done instead of what you can’t do. That’s Africa.”

      “Can’t we get more food out here?” She had money. She could buy whatever they needed.

      “The town missionaries bring what they can every day, but they have people inside the city to feed, as well.”

      She had to find a way to help. To make a difference in these precious lives. Maybe she couldn’t change things today, but some day…

      “Come on,” Eric said. “Zola has lunch for the rest of us inside.”

      Food held no appeal for Samantha. These children needed to eat far more than she did. She pinched the skin on her upper arm, dismayed to find a fleshy strip of triceps. The negative voices started up inside her head. Too fat. Ugly. Worthless.

      With the skills she’d developed over several years of coping, she pushed the thoughts away and concentrated on feeding the orphans. According to the doctors, her weight was finally at a semi-healthy level, whether she believed it or not.

      Along toward sunset, a van rattled down the road to take the teenagers back СКАЧАТЬ