“Wung, wung, dure dung ahang anang!”
(Come, come, all you children, to our house!)
The most amazing thing happened two nights ago, and I’ve been anxious to tell you about it. First, some background.
About a week ago, we had kids come running on to the compound around 8 at night with torches, all excited. We couldn’t figure out what they wanted at first—I could hear my roommate Pattie praying up a storm in her confusion—but we eventually figured out they wanted to sing. You see, the day before I put my iPod outside with some speakers while I was cooking, and all the kids came around and I eventually taught them such wonderful dance moves as the airplane, lawnmower and push-cart.
So here they were, wanting to sing. It started with four. Then it doubled. And more and more came until we eventually had 23 children crowded around our lanterns and Pattie’s guitar. Wow, huh? We sang some Lopit church songs the kids knew then also did some in English. (I think Rachel’s group must have taught them “God is so good,” because they sing it all the time. Unfortunately, they also sing the tune to the chicken dance, also taught to them by Rachel & Co. Haha.) Anyway, we went to bed that night amazed at our impromptu worship session with the kids—these kids don’t go to church, you see—and praying that God would continue to use us in the village despite the fact that we’re not yet doing any formal ministry.
For the next two days, all the kids came to our house at dark, wanting to sing again. Once we were gone and once we were just way too tired, but we promised them we’d do it Tuesday night. And so Tuesday came, and all the children were a-buzz with the news that they were singing and dancing at the Husa house that night. All day, children came by, chattering about it.
But 8 o’clock came around and we were sitting outside in our compound, alone with empty stools. We just looked at each other, shocked and confused.
But then we heard it—the pattering of little feet and shrill laughter—and next thing we knew, the place was jumping. The kids just kept coming and coming. Pattie played the guitar, Kim sang with the kids and I was managing the crowd and searching for anything and everything in our house that could be used as a noisemaker. The kids went absolutely nuts over tin cans with beans. A big hit.
After about half an hour, the three of us stepped back and looked with awe over all the children. I took my flashlight and shined it over them for the first time—they were literally on top of one another, singing and smiling and beating our buckets and bowls. There were more than 40 kids there, all worshiping the Lord—not the witchdoctor, not the rainmaker, not any false gods. But the King of Kings, Lord of Lords.
It was, in a word, awesome.
Even better was that three of our adult friends came, as well. We watched, amazed, as one of them took up a drum (errr… wash bucket) and the other started to lead songs from the Otuka songbook we had.
We hardly speak Lopit. We hardly spoke any that night. But surely God is working. Surely he is communicating to the hearts of these people. They know we’re different. They see our joy.
Oh, that they may see our God.