I’m re-blogging this old one as we approach Easter weekend, because I still long for miracles. In so many ways he does still live—in my memories, in my desire, and in my restless heart over the coming days.

beer can

The Counterfeit Christian

I had gotten used to hands in my hair over the three weeks I had been there, but I still had boundaries, and these kids were invading them. After all, we had all just finished eating wild chicken, some kind of slimy greens, and a bland white paste with our fingers, and I’m pretty sure napkins were unheard of in this tiny African village that was so remote that we had to park our van four miles away. So while I was flattered that they called me a goddess and were enthralled with the almost-black, straight hair that reached the narrow part of my waistline, I needed space. And a shower.

I walked near the lake, where a choir of children sang and danced. A mass of people waited to be baptized in the lake behind them–a beautiful sight in this village burdened by alcohol addiction and witchcraft. A figure…

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