On the River’s Edge

I heard the sand crunch heavily beneath my shoes as I and the small company of people with me stepped from the boat onto the bleached shore.  Ripples tossed gently along the riverbank and the water’s dark green color contrasted deeply with the blinding white of the sand.  A crowd of spectators had already begun to gather.  The people looked wonderingly at us, their expressive faces staring on in amused curiosity.  A forest stood before us.  Rising from the ground like a mighty fortress, it created a canopy with its twisted branches and massive leaves.  In the midst of the forest there was a well-trod path.  This was the path which we would soon travel.

As I stood there, I had no idea what to expect.  Though I had traveled through much of Africa, I had never seen a place like this.  It was a small village nestled in the treacherous jungles of Madagascar.  There were no roads leading to or from the village, so the people’s only connection with the outside world was through the winding channels of the murky river.  What sort of place must this be?  I would soon find out for his small village in Madagascar would quickly work its way into my heart and become a haven to my mind in times of trouble. 

Our guide led us forward along the wide pathway.  To my surprise the forest opened before us like a veil and revealed a number of small huts.  Made with the skill of generations, the huts appeared to my eyes as masterpieces.  When I was little, I had played at building forts along with my sisters, but never before had we attempted something as intricate as these seemingly humble homes.   Long, sturdy bamboo poles were thatched tightly together to form the walls.   Rows of dried palm branches were neatly aligned to create a secure and waterproof roof.  What grabbed my interest the most however, were the heavy wooden poles that lifted the huts some four feet from the ground.  One of our little company questioned our guide as to the purpose of these poles.  “To protect against the river flooding.” he answered.   How remarkable it is that the very same river that acted as this people’s lifeline also proved capable of wiping out their very existence. 

As we walked my senses came alive to the world around me.  The clean smell of the jungle air mixed with the stench of the river and unwashed bodies.  I saw clothes lines that were stretched out from homes and strung with odds and ends of clothing.  The clothes were colored so brightly against the sandy yellow of the huts that it was like looking at a garden in the devastation of a desert.  I could feel the heavy stir of the wind, but it did little to refresh me from the heat of the day.  Jungle winds are not like other winds.  They do not cool or refresh.  They stir the wet air and coat you with searing moisture like a fish being basted in a pan. 

Curious questions and nervous giggles came to my ears as people, especially children, began to flock around us.  I and a few of my company stopped to talk to the children, their cheerful smiles turning them regal even in their ragged clothes.  But when we turned to them, some of the younger children, afraid of our ghostly white faces, ran in fear to the protection of their mothers.  We were the first white people most of them had ever seen.  The older children edged cautiously towards us with their eyes lowered and their hands wringing anxiously.  A few daring children bolted through the crowd and stood proudly by our sides, showing their friends that they were not afraid.  We began to teach the children some simple Bible songs which they learned with remarkable speed.  In no time at all they were singing and laughing in that way that only children can.  Even some of the younger children, no longer terrified, came to join in the fun.  Our guide came and urged us on.  He wanted to show us the school.

The school was built in a sandy clearing on the edge of a pond.  How this building got there I have no idea.  Its stark white cement walls and boarded roof looked drastically out of place among the bamboo huts.  As we stood in the clearing staring up at the school, we knew that many of these people had never heard the name of Jesus and it was His name we were eager to share. “Let’s tell them now.” one of my company suggested.  So, there in the schoolyard we shared the love of Jesus Christ.  The people’s joyous cries and clapping hands encouraged us on as we performed a skit about how Jesus sets us free from the penalty of sin.  Afterward our guide translated as one of our company shared the message of God’s love.  Even the children stared in awe and wonder at this strange and new revelation. 

All to soon our time was over.  It was time to move on to the next village, the next people, the next opportunity to share the Gospel.  I will never forget how the children gathered at the water’s edge to wave us goodbye. As our boat pulled once again into the river, we felt the tug of the current and heard the lap of the waves against the boat’s feeble wooden frame. One of our company noticed that the water of the river was being mingled with the salty tears of our guide. Then he shared with us that, as he had translated the words being preached to the people, he himself had believed in the name of Jesus Christ. Often I think about that little village on the river’s edge.  A place where life is primitive, but it’s very existence speaks of perseverance and strength.  A place where the children’s large unblinking eyes echo the joy of the Gospel.  A place that is held close in my heart. 

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