I never dreamed that I would walk through mud, step gingerly over a wobbly narrow bridge, climb up a ladder into a small hut built on stilts, sit on a split bamboo floor around a tiny oil lamp watching lightning through the open eave of the house as the pounding rain leaks through the roof and having FAMILY HOME EVENING. WE sang, had prayer, watched a demonstration, ate treats and had FUN with a lovely family of eight.
An article about Sister Amanda Smith, a missionary recently serving in Tacloban, gave a memorable description of the Philippines.
The Philippines wasn’t exactly clean, and some things had taken getting used to — rice for every meal, the choking smell of exhaust on the clogged streets, cold showers from a bucket. But she had also fallen in love with the place — the sweet smell of mangos, the effervescence of the people, the way the language of Waray-Waray had started to roll off the tongue.
One day she sat down on a stool to teach a lesson in a dirt-floor shack and out of nowhere three fuzzy chicks materialized and walked around her legs, the way birds landed on Cinderella’s shoulder, and she thought: What is this magical place?
We are thankful to be in this magical place.