whispering in moonshine

Voices rising to heaven in worship outside my window call me from a never-ending game of administrative catch up.  His Spirit nudges that I will not want to miss this moment.  Scaling administrative mountains can wait.

I take flashlight in hand and walk across the compound yard to a mass of huddled singing children.  My children.  His children.  How I love these ones.  I sit with them and they nestle in close with sung prayers.  Somehow my tiredness lifts with their voices.  I thank Him for the gift of this moment.  Prayers end.  Night time greetings resemble closing scenes from the Waltons.

Sleep well Abuba (Grandma).  Noom Kweis son.  Sweet dreams mama.  Good night Eudita.  Good night Kafi.  Good night mama.  Good night John Boy.  ‘Night Mama. ‘Night all.

A smile involuntarily catches the corners of my lips upward at the thought of all of us trying to live on the set of the Waltons, ebony midnight colored children hanging out their windows.

I turn to walk back to my little cement bush bungalow with a door that barely closes.  But I am stopped by beauty that smacks the breath straight out of my lungs.  Our landscape glows silver, all wonder washed by a rising harvest moon that turns palm trees and mango trees into other worldly silhouettes.  It is so close if I walk to the other side of our forty acres I am sure I can run fingers across its mottled surface.  I can’t resist.  I feel five again struck through with unreasonable joy.

Papa you hung the moon just for me, didn’t you?

I scurry inside and grab my lens.   There mama goes.  She is always looking into heaven. It is true.  I am.  I climb over anthills, between washing lines, aim my focus, aperture set, ready to capture silver in pixels, preserve moments of raw redemption breaking into the darkness.

Landscape washed in silvery light.  I am washed too as I stand gaping at the glory rising before me.  Silent orb, round, pregnant with lessons from the sky.  Will I listen?  Will I learn? How a rock swirling in space catches the Light of another, reflects a brilliance that stops a bit of clay in her tracks, who is designed to carry far greater glory, far brighter light.  I can hear You Papa.  I really can, whispering in moonshine.

I gape, stare at this spectacle I know is just for me.

Snap the shutter, arrest light, freeze time and show clouds all illumined and wave like bearing down on my patch of earth.  Could this be His desire?  That in the night season, the darkness of this womb of a new nation being formed, not yet having seen the light of day: HE is stirring a natal tidal wave of His goodness to be outpoured from heaven on this people.

I drink in liquid moonlight.  Such JOY etched in clouds and silver lumens.  Let it be Papa.  Let it be.

One of my little ones has been missing family so I invite her up to my house to draw them a picture of life here.

I watch another snapshot unfold from heaven through her pencil.  I am particularily taken with the central figure.  “Tell me about this character,” I say.

Well, really it sounds more like, “De munu?”  (Who is that?)

“De malaika bita farahan.”  “It’s the angel of joy,” she replies.  “He stands over our compound and that is a river from heaven God gives us,” she matter-of-factly explains pointing to a blue ribbon in the middle of the page.

Angels of joy, rivers from heaven and moon shine.  I still am wonder washed by it all, drinking in unexpected beauty.  Prayers being answered with love letters in the sky and pictures from my children.  I am smiling because I know Papa really did hang that moon just for me.

Good night ‘all.  Noom Kewis.