The decision
The impulse
The call of the wild to be
to become
to live as an African Missioner
is as varied as fingerprints
the stripes on a zebra
the foliage of the Serengeti
the waves of Lake Victoria
the matatus of Nairobi
From the shock on our mothers’ faces
the resigned set of our fathers’ shoulders
the ruckus laughter of our beloved siblings
We learned early that Africa is a divine call
from the womb
from a fall from our baby-crib
from National Geographic
from love too close
from love too far.
We, like Samuel, hear: Tom!
Bill!
John!
Blindly, we answer: “Nipo!”
Then we hear something like: you are my beloved
wild
woolly child.
I am very well pleased to see you surrounded
enveloped
enchanted
by African lively loveliness.

After the vision, images play with our minds:
elephants and lions
jungles and plains
faces and smiles
dances and spears.
Fears churn our bowels:
snakes
mosquitoes
jungle-rot
AIDS
refugees and famines
wars and rumors of war.
A strange courage wells up as we pack
raincoats and hats
repellant and pills
cool-shades and Bible
pocket-knife and a Mars bar.
Doubts bubble up from volcanic depths:
You gotta be crazy!
Who else does this?
I am going where to do what?
Not me, who likes three squares and no hard lifting!
God said what?

 

Oh, but
then, the comfort
the confusion
the consolation of the Knoll,
and we are planted firmly in missionary myth.