“Does anyone have the foggiest idea of what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews.”
Maybe I didn't need the usher to issue me a crash helmet, but I imagine it would have been appropriate for the bus driver to give me one.
I've only been able to go to church two of the Sundays that I've been here and today would be the first time I would go with the children. Normally there are two cottages that go to the Anglican church, while the other 8 cottages got to Thika Road Baptist Church. Today, however, was a little different.
Today the bus got a flat tire.
This was before anybody had been picked up yet, so none of us were on the bus when it got a flat tire, but it caused a chain reaction which led to all 91 children plus the 10 mamas going to Thika Road instead of dividing up.
But here's the thing. The church bus is like a short bus and a half, and you have to deliver the kids in two trips. Most regular school buses in the states I think fit around 45 kids. Okay, well, lose some space and we still have to fit the same number of kids, plus some of the mamas. We've got kids in their Sunday finest sitting on each other's laps, faces squished against the windows, mamas trying to suck it in, and me left sitting on a worn out cushion on the bus steps at the door's entrance, holding onto whatever I can find anchored down. It's a good thing it's a short drive, albeit through some rough roads. I also had my own little knight in shining armor next to me during the bus ride. Not only had Johnson informed me this morning while waiting how to change a tire and that he can successfully do so himself (he's 4-years old), he also warned me when the big bumps or hills were coming and told me that I need to hold tightly to the bar. I let go at one point, and he instructed me again that I must hold on. It's nice to know someone is watching out for me, even if he's barely tall enough to reach my waist. :)
We make it safely to church, the streets of Mwiki and Kasarani a blur as I stare out the window during the trip. We drop all the kids off to the children's church service and I head into the main church service with the mamas. Church starts at 10 and usually lasts until noon. Both churches that I have been to now follow a similar line-up that churches in the states do - open with praise & worship, prayer, announcements, sermon, end with more praise & worship. And, of course, there is also that standard routine in every church it seems: the meet and greet.
I have no idea why I hate this part of church so much and why it makes me literally groan out loud, when the pastor tells you "turn and greet the person next to you, introduce yourself, tell them how glad you are they came this morning!" (Is anybody else with me on this tradition?) I certainly am glad my pew neighbors came this morning, I just don't feel particularly compelled to tell them or to shake their hand. I'm not trying to be rude or anti-social, I just want to get on with the service. Maybe I'm too much of a pragmatist for my own good. It's also a time that causes me to morph into the most awkward person on the planet. I suddenly act like I'm twelve again and don't know how to look people in the eye. Jess Tipton, Katirose, and I often laughed about this point while in church.
But on with the service we did go. After two hours, we wrapped up and headed out the door to climb on the bus. On the ride back, though, I managed to snag a seat with little David sitting on my lap, both of us crammed against the window. The radio was on, which sounded weird to me since I hadn't heard one in awhile. We're cruising along and what is this I hear playing?
"Pour me somethin' tall an' strong, make it a "Hurricane" before I go insane. It's only half-past twelve but I don't care. It's five o'clock somewhere.
I had to hold in the laughter because I knew there was no way I was going to be able to adequately explain to a bunch of orphaned African children when they asked why I was laughing. I found it so amusing to hear this song playing while on the bus ride back from praising Jesus. They have no idea who Alan Jackson is, don't care who Jimmy Buffett is, and think a hurricane is probably just a big scary storm out in the ocean. So I tried to control myself.
I just found the whole situation so amusing and ironic. I dearly love country music, but really? Of all the songs to be playing.
But we finally made it back to the village, no hurricanes in sight. Crash helmets needed, indeed, when going to church.
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