Like a tree

In just three weeks in Africa, I have learned to be a lover of the shade. Back home in Pennsylvania, we spend much of the winter indoors, and when the sun shines, we go and seek it out like half-starved seedlings, tipping our faces up to the warm rays. But here, near the Equator, the sun feels close and hot. Clothes dry quickly, and my children’s hair lightens, and when we play outside, we seek out trees and wall shadows and scraps of shade in which to sit. I understand now the incredulity of the woman who walked by our house the first week we were here and asked me bluntly, “Why are you sitting in the sun?”

The children and I tagged along to my husband’s workplace last week (he does horticultural research at the AVRDC, a vegetable research center on the outskirts of Arusha). And there I discovered the most amazing tree shading his office building. Much of the flora and fauna of Tanzania is new to me, and so I sadly have no idea what kind of tree it is. But while the children drew landscapes (our art class for the day), I lay down on the green grass and gazed up into the spreading branches and thought about Jesus telling the crowds that the Kingdom of Heaven is like a tiny mustard seed, which starts out small and then becomes “the largest of garden plants; it grows into a tree, and birds come and make nests in its branches” (Matt. 13:32). And I wondered just how many birds could be at home in this lovely canopy.

We went on our first safari yesterday, and again I thought about shade and trees. January is not an ideal time for a safari here. It’s the middle of summer, and quite hot, and because of the recent rains, the grass is tall and pockets of standing water allow the animals to spread out and hide. But a kind friend invited us along, and eager as we were to see some animals and countryside, we jumped at the chance. So off we all went to Tarangire National Park, and during the long, dusty journey, we were treasure hunters. For the first hour or so, no sighting was too small:  the impala, the dik-dik, the warthogs, the monkeys, the birds whose brilliant colors flashed in the sunlight. And then, just as we were beginning to despair of seeing larger game, we found giraffes, and then (oh joy!) the elephants:  elephants big and small, playing near a pond, having a dust-bath, challenging the safari truck, parading by the river. As I watched one elephant walk beside a baobab tree, I marveled at how even an enormous animal could be dwarfed by this giant plant, and I gave thanks for the majesty and protection of a tree.

Here on the hot, dry savannah, I need shade like I needed sun back home. I need shade for my skin and for my soul; I need places to linger and to find rest. Our lovely Tanzanian maid, our “dada,” has become shade for me:  she comes every morning to wash our dusty floors and windows, to clean our dishes and clothes by hand. Having her help felt at first like an extravagance, but now it seems a necessity, for she is rest and grace to me. And at the Arusha Vineyard Church this morning, as I sat under the thatched roof and watched these brothers and sisters, from all parts of the world, come together to take communion—to dip the bread into the juice and partake of the gift that is ours together to receive—I thought:  this house of God, this too is a place of shade. This too is a home of rest and grace.

As I rested under the shade of those beautiful branches last week, my son crept up beside me and asked, “Mommy, can we plant a tree?” He held out a seed of some kind in his small hand, and I laughed and said, “Oh yes, let’s!” Let’s plant a seed, dear boy. Let’s push it down unto this good earth and pray that it will grow up and grow out and be a haven for all who come. For the Kingdom of Heaven is like this.