Of snakes and doves

My four-year-old son gets frustrated and tearful when I don't understand what he is saying. And although I try to be patient with his tears, I struggle at times to be sympathetic to his dilemma, especially when I am clearly trying to help him. But these days I understand better how he feels. Here, in this beautiful land of sunshine and woodsmoke, I too am like a child. I feel small and know little and everything is new. I am delighted by the taste of juicy mangoes, and I am frightened by the strange sound of heavy rain on our metal roof. Situations are unfamiliar, and I am constantly forced to let go, to trust in the knowledge of others, to rely on the help of others.

I am grappling over what it means to be a stranger in a strange land. Like a child, I am still learning the words, the rules, the customs and norms, where things are, how things work. This week, I was at the mercy of the local vegetable vendor, who laughed as I stared at my money and had no idea what to give him, and I was grateful when he didn't use my ignorance to his advantage. I was at the mercy of two teenage girls who showed up at the door selling corn and talked their way inside and stayed for three hours, rummaging through our cupboards, cooking and eating our food, playing with the children’s toys. I kept fighting back the rising panic of a situation way out of control, and in my struggle to be understood, I was as frustrated as my son. When at last I forced the girls to go, I felt violated, confused, off-balance. What does hospitality mean here? Where are the boundaries to keep me and my children safe? Where do grace and wisdom meet?

I keep thinking about Jesus' intriguing words to his disciples about how they should be "as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves" (Matt. 10:16). I make a very poor snake-dove, I think. I can grasp what it means to be a dove, especially in light of Jesus' call for his followers to be people of pure hearts and to become like little children. Here in Arusha, we live in a lovely gated community, where a handful of apartment buildings bookend rows of townhouses, all grouped around stone streets. The tidy backyards are lush with flowers and banana trees, and there are two green spaces in the complex, where the Indian men gather for games of cricket and the children gather to play. We are some of the only "mzungus," or white people, in the neighborhood, but we have met Tanzanian and Kenyan and Ugandan and dozens of Indian neighbors here. One of the most beautiful moments of this week occurred after my husband took our children to the playground one afternoon, and I looked down the street to see our two daughters, one tall and one small, surrounded by a swarm of dark-haired neighborhood children, all coming back to our house. Several evenings this week, the entryway by our front door has been full of small shoes, and my heart has been full of joy.

It is far less clear to me how to be as shrewd as a snake, but I am longing for wisdom. And so I pray to the One I can trust beyond the shadow of a doubt, the One who holds all peoples and cultures in his hands, the One the Psalmist cried out to, saying, "The Lord is my fort where I can enter and be safe; no one can follow me in and slay me. He is a rugged mountain where I hide; he is my Savior, a rock where none can reach me, and a tower of safety. He is my shield" (Psalm 18:2). Will you pray with me?