22 23 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 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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