23 turn their heads to the side and discreetly spit the tiny bones onto the ground. Simple enough. Once we had eaten our fill, we set our spoons on the ground and leaned back. Some of the children, still hungry despite devouring platefuls themselves, eagerly swarmed our blanket and finished the remaining bits of rice and fish. The young girls in their long dresses tugged on the t-shirts of some of the older boys, demanding an equal share in the leftovers. Watching the kids banter, one of the older missionaries made a comment to his wife in Wolof, after which the others seated around our platter laughed. Fellowship is the same in every language, I thought to myself. As we walked through the ruts in the sandy roads on our way back to the house, my dad tapped my shoulder. “How’d it go?” he asked, knowing I had been nervous. “Good! Really good.” I smiled. And I meant it. *** “The sound of unaccompanied voices lifted in worship is a holy melody.” Perspiration soaked through my cotton dress as I stood at the back of the conference room, cradling Jean, the infant son of one of the missionary couples. The setting sun poured through the open door, bathing the pink walls in a soft, golden light, and the stillness of the quiet evening was
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