Amy Kitchener's Angels Without Wings Foundation
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Uncommon FellowshipUnder a palm thatched roof, with walls of mud and sticks, on floor of hard packed earth, I sit on a low bench-- a piece of log hacked flat on top, eight inches high--no back. I'm with the women on one side, their braided black hair resting on embroidered blouses. They hold their babies in blue speckled shawls. Across the aisle, the men sit, wearing clean pants and shirts--plain cotton garb, their straw hats at their feet. I try to sing their songs with them from simple books. Tunes are familiar. I can pronounce the words, but do not know the meanings. Their songs are praise to God in their own language, which He understands. One of them preaches from a manuscript-- a part of Scripture in his language. I do not understand the words, and find his message long and tiring. No one complains. They've waited long for this. Then one man prays, and in the midst of words I do not understand, I hear my name! This humble Indian has prayed for me! I do not know the words, but I am blest.
Olga Warner Penzin
Rock Hill, South Carolina |