22 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW “This is called thieboudienne,” Bryan said to me, digging in excitedly. “Here, just eat from the section directly in front of you.” I took a hesitant bite and immediately burned my tongue. Oops. One of the missionaries used his spoon to toss me a few pieces of fish. “Merci,” I whispered. I took another bite. Flavors exploded in my mouth—garlic, paprika, ginger, cayenne. My eyes watered from the spice, and I began to sweat, but I kept eating, surprised to find myself enjoying every bite. While we lingered over our meal, Bryan chatted with the missionaries in French, sometimes translating for me. Picking up pieces of their conversation, I learned that only a few of them had grown up with Christian parents. I heard testimony after impossible testimony of Muslim men and women choosing to follow Christ despite threats of rejection from their family members and communities, and I learned of growing prison ministries and community children’s programs in remote regions of Senegal where the name of Jesus was completely unknown only a few years before. I sat in awe of the men and women surrounding me, slowly chipping away at the pile of rice in front of me, when something sharp poked my tongue. A fish bone. I nervously brought a hand to my mouth and tried to remove the offender, unsure of proper fish bone etiquette. Looking around, I saw the missionaries simply
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