Here is the second and last part of This Is My Story, This Is My Song. I hope y'all have enjoyed it!
You can find Part 1 here.
***
As Zoey helped her mother serve loads of rice, potatoes, cabbage, and goat stew to the mass of people, she watched their faces as they were served food and clean water.
The children were served first, their grubby faces and dirt covered hands reaching eagerly for the food they were served. They chattered excitedly to each other about the free and abundant food they were receiving.
After the children came the men, wrapped up in their shukas and carrying their rungus and staffs darkened with age and use. They also took the food, grateful for a free meal.
Finally, the women were allowed to eat. They lined up, standing so close to each other that each woman touched the one in front of herself. Their beaded jewelry jangled and bounced as they received food.
Zoey marveled at their gratefulness. Instead of being angry at the lot that had befallen them, they were dancing and singing praises to the Lord. They seemed truly grateful. Why can’t I be grateful? It seems like such a little thing to be grateful in the face of trial, but it really isn’t. These people are so much stronger in their small faith.
***
Zoey trudged down the small dirt path behind her mom. It was a few days later, and Zoey’s doubts had continued.
Zoey glanced up at the path ahead. They were nearly there. Zoey and her mom were visiting a young woman, in whose home many of the younger women and girls met for a Bible study. Zoey wasn’t sure she was ready to see more happiness and peace.
Suddenly, a thin, trilling wail split the air. Zoey and her mom glanced from side to side, trying to figure out the location of the wail. Just as Zoey pinpointed the location of the ongoing wail, her mother hitched up her skirt and took off running in that direction. Zoey was close behind, fist fulls of her skirt clasped in each hand.
As they reached the mud thatched hut, a young came running out. Zoey could see that she was the source of the wailing. Wailing and sobbing, she grasped the hand of Zoey’s mother and pulled her into the dark, damp hut.
When Zoey’s eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, she saw her mother and the woman kneeling beside a still, small form. Zoey bit back a gasp. As she watched, her mother felt the small child’s wrist for a pulse, then slowly looked up. She looked at the woman and spoke slowly, stumbling over the Maa words.
Zoey knew what they meant. They were the Maa words for “I’m sorry.”
Zoey couldn’t stand it any longer. She turned and ran from the hut, her skirt slowing her steps. She ran as fast as she could in the direction of her favorite spot, a large rock jutting out of the ground. The tip of the rock was at least twenty feet up in the air, giving a good view of the flat land around.
Zoey grabbed the hem of her ankle length skirt and tucked it into her waistband, making the skirt short enough for her to climb easily. She grasped the hand holds on the rock and pulled herself up.
When she reached the top, she gazed out at the land her family had come to. Her doubts came rushing back. Zoey sat down on the flat tip of the rock and pulled her knees up to her chest. Then, she let the tears come.
Tears for the home she had left behind, tears for the friends and family so far away, tears for her new home, for the parched land and people, for the doubts she had inside. Tears streamed down Zoey’s face so fast that she didn’t notice when they were joined by other drops of water.
Suddenly, the low-hanging clouds burst open and a torrent of steady rain streamed down. Zoey lifted her face to the heavens and let the refreshing rain run down her face. Smiling, she looked out over the plains. As far as she could see, people were leaving their huts and dancing in the rain. Shouts of laughter reached Zoey’s ears, and finally, she understood.
She understood why this people had not lost hope, why they had continued on, regardless of the tragedy unfolding around them. They had known. They had known that the drought would eventually end, and rain would come.
Zoey laughed, the action freeing her inside. She began to sing spontaneously.
“Come thou fount of every blessing
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace
Streams of mercy, never ceasing
Call for songs of loudest praise.”
