“What am I supposed to say?” I asked, stalling.
“Just say why you came to Christ,” instructed the man across from me, his Kikuyu accent heavy and staccato. “And why you decided to become a missionary.”
I slowly rose to my feet and looked around at the hundreds of eyes bearing down on me. My Christian testimony, I thought. I don’t even know if I am a Christian anymore; and I’m certainly no missionary. I tried to remember how on Earth I arrived at this point as the room remained silent with anticipation. When I could delay no longer, I just opened my mouth and winged it. “The reason I came to Christ, um, was that I . . .”
This was not the birthday I expected.
On the morning of my 23rd birthday, after I stepped off Swiss Air flight 292 from Zurich and worked my way through immigration in Nairobi’s international airport, I expected to find my sister waiting for me, perhaps holding balloons or one of those cardboard signs with my surname printed in bold letters. But Karina’s face was nowhere to be found among the smattering of cab drivers, airline employees and tourists that clogged the international arrivals terminal. It was five in the morning and still dark; I had been traveling for just over 40 hours. And I was all alone.
Thirteen months had passed since I last saw my big sister. She had spent the previous year working as an AIM missionary in Antananarivo, Madagascar’s capital city. AIM--for Africa Inland Mission--is a nondenominational Christian organization whose objective is “to spread the good news of Jesus Christ to the peoples of Africa.” After Karina finished spreading the good news, we planned a rendezvous in Kenya for a month of catching up and traveling, which would culminate in a five-day excursion to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. But first things first: we had to find each other in the airport, and Karina was not there.
I had no idea what to do. I was not a seasoned traveler and felt like a flounder in a shark tank. With the help of the gift shop clerk I managed to phone my parents, who informed me that Karina was stranded in Madagascar on account of a drawn-out airline strike. Nobody was coming to collect me.
I opened up my backpack, dug around until I felt a loose sheet of paper and pulled it out. On a single line at the top of the page, the following information was printed:
Before leaving for Kenya I asked Karina to send me emergency contact information, just to account for all contingencies. She assured me there would be no problem but nevertheless sent me her friend’s name and location. Zane was an AIM missionary based out of Kijabe, Karina explained, and we would be staying with him for a few weeks.
Clutching the printout in my hand, I paced around the small airport terminal and wondered what to do. Aggressive cabdrivers approached me in waves. One asked me where I needed to go; I glanced at the sheet of paper and told him Kijabe. “I can take you there,” he said. “It is just down the road; very close. I get you there in five minutes.” He reached for my backpack, but I stopped him and declined the offer. Something about him ignited my suspicion.
Alone on a foreign continent, I began to panic and sweat. Gathering mobs continued to hassle and intimidate me, and I could only think of one thing to do. Although several years had passed since I last prayed, I began to plead to a higher power. “Please, God,” I begged, even as I questioned his existence. “Please protect me. Please--send me a sign; tell me what to do.”
I waited for several minutes without detecting any flashing signs or neon arrows from the heavens, then mustered the courage to approach a British guy whom I recognized from the flight. I learned that he was waiting for a ride to a nearby hostel, and he invited me to join him. Was this the answer to my prayer? It didn’t seem like much of a sign, but a backpacker hostel sounded a lot more comfortable than the international arrivals terminal. After mulling it over for a few minutes, I accepted his offer.
Just before I left with Ringo to board the hostel shuttle, I overheard a small group of people conversing on the opposite end of the terminal. I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like one of them said “AIM.” Without hesitating I pivoted around and approached them.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “I thought I overheard one of you saying something about AIM.”
“Yes,” said a distinguished-looking man of fifty, “we’re AIM missionaries.”
My heart jumped. “My sister’s a missionary for AIM,” I said. “She was supposed to meet me here, but she got stuck in Madagascar, and I’m all alone.” The man looked at me with a studied skepticism; I could tell he thought I was trying to scam him. I remembered the printout and pulled it out of my backpack. “I’m trying to get to a guy named Zane,” I said, glancing down to read the full name from the paper--“Zane Wilemon, from the Rift Valley Academy. Do you know him?”
The man’s expression suddenly turned upward. “Zane! Of course we know Zane. He lives right down the road from us.”
“Is there any way you could take me to him?”
“We’re heading back to Kijabe tonight; but first we’re planning to treat these missionaries to breakfast and do a day-tour through Nairobi. Would you care to join us?”
“Are you kidding?” I beamed.
“My name’s Phil,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m the director of the Bible college at Rift Valley.” He introduced me to the entire group, a small team of missionaries that had flown in on my plane to build a new wing in the Bible-college library.
As Phil ushered me and the missionary initiates out to his Volkswagen van, I tossed up a quick prayer of thanks. If there was a God, he appeared to be looking out for me.
The day in Nairobi was unforgettable. After having my face licked by the twelve-inch tongue of a untamed giraffe, we lunched at an authentic Ethiopian restaurant, toured the home of Karen von Blixen and bargained for souvenirs at an outdoor artisan market. In the mid-afternoon we piled into the van with our souvenirs and headed to Kijabe, a fifty kilometer drive into the countryside. “Oh yeah--one more thing, God,” I prayed, “Thank you for giving me the wisdom not to believe that conman of a taxi driver.”
Around five o’clock we arrived at the Kijabe Bible College, where the staff treated us to a guided tour of the school grounds and introduced us to dozens of students. Everyone assumed I was one of the missionaries there to help out with the library, so I was given the same treatment. Following the tutorial the college staff directed us to the outdoor mess hall. I assumed we were behind schedule, because the food had already been served and the students were crowded around the long wooden tables, waiting. An administrator instructed us to sit at the tables. I found a place next to three of the missionaries in my group.
Someone lightly tapped on my shoulder. “You should each sit at different tables,” said the young man. “All of the students want the opportunity to meet one of the Americans.”
I hesitantly rose and found an open place at the adjacent table, where my bowl of potato stew was cooling. After a brief prayer we began to eat. The dinner conversation was awkward. I struggled to understand the Africans, and I had no idea how to respond to their theological inquiries and questions about missionary life. I exhaled a sigh of relief when the plates were finally cleared, but was horrified when the director asked that each of the missionaries stand and offer his Christian testimony to the entire college. Several of the travelers in my group offered compelling stories about being saved, chronicling the miracles they’d witnessed, gushing about grace and salvation and being touched by the healing powers of God.
Then it was my turn.
My mind went blank. I tried to start a few times, but each of the sentences died on my lips before finding its predicate. I had no ideas about what to say, or whether to simply recuse myself from the discussion. In that tense blankness, as I stared out at all of the expectant faces, it occurred to me that, if I had a Christian testimony, this was it. Never before had I experienced anything that made me think a higher power was actually looking out for me, but as I struggled to speak before that crowded room of aspiring ministers, wondering if I was even a Christian, I began to feel the subtle inner stirring of what I could only describe as faith. Hot and cold flashes coursed through my body, caused not by anxiety, but something else. Something was moving me and I wondered: Could it be God?
“I’ve been a Christian as long as I can remember,” I said, “but I’m not sure I ever really felt the power of God before this morning.” And then I told them everything that had happened, starting with my prayer that morning in the airport.
When I finished speaking the students applauded and smiled warmly, just as they’d done after the other missionaries spoke. That wasn’t so bad, I thought, sitting down and savoring the sugary flavor of accomplishment.
Around nine o’clock, after I survived the Nairobi airport and fumbled through my nascent testimony, Phil drove me a few hundred yards up a hill and dropped me off at Zane Wilemon’s front porch. When Zane--whom I had never before met--opened the door, he spread his arms wide and bellowed, “Happy Birthday, Jonathan!” It caught me by surprise. I had almost forgotten it was my birthday.
Zane had received an email update from Karina and learned that her flight was pushed back two more days. Phil promptly heard I had the next next day free and convinced me to pitch in with the library renovations, so I spent the following morning sawing and pounding in nails with the other missionaries, then volunteered to fix the computer network after I learned the college was having trouble with it. By nightfall I had been working for ten hours straight, my hands as cramped and dirty as anyone else’s in the group. If I wasn’t a missionary, I was certainly acting like one.
On the morning of Karina’s expected arrival, Zane invited me to join him at a primary school, where he gave weekly lessons about Christianity and AIDS prevention. This was not exactly within my comfort-zone, but I jumped at the opportunity anyway. I’d already gotten wet--no reason not to dive all the way in. Two hours later I found myself in a dim, dirt-floored schoolhouse crammed with children, ages five to twelve. After Zane finished the lesson, I stood before the class and instructed in my best Mr. Rogers tone: “Okay, kids, let’s review what we learned. Can we get the AIDS virus by hugging our friends?”
The kids, packed three to a desk, yelled in response: “No!”
“Can we get AIDS by sitting next to someone?”
“No!”
“What about talking to someone?”
“No!”
“Can we get the virus from ghosts and evil spirits?”
“No!”
“Can we get it by having sexual relations?”
“No!”
“Let’s think about that one--are you sure?”
“No!”
Their enthusiasm was slightly ahead of their comprehension, but I tried not to get too worried about it: they had dozens of sessions on the way under Zane’s tutelage. I was sure he’d manage to clear up any ambiguities.
When I finished wrapping up the health lesson, the teacher grabbed her guitar and led the group in song. We sang several tunes I had learned in Sunday school as a preschooler. The children beamed and blended their honeyed voices into a unison more powerful than most gospel choirs. Faith shone from their eyes. Somehow these Kikuyu kids trusted us: two gangly, pale-skinned foreigners speaking their third language. We made a connection that transcended our cultural limitations, and the spiritual energy rising in the dirt-floored schoolhouse was palpable, like a dense haze.
When the time came to pack up and leave, the teacher asked if “Mr. Jonathan” would offer the closing prayer. My knees began to shudder; I had never offered a public prayer. But I took a few deep breaths and did it, and as I prayed--carefully searching for the right words--I found myself believing that someone was listening, that someone was watching over those children. The spiritual epiphany that began two days earlier, when I struggled to formulate my testimony, was completed in my prayer. Tears started to flow from my clenched eyes.
Before I came to Africa my faith was a withered tree, dried-out and rotten. Now, just two days later as I prayed before a classroom of Kikuyu children, that tree was resurrected in full bloom. My doubts were erased. I believed. I knew God was with me--when I heard Phil’s voice say “AIM” from the opposite end of the noisy airport, God was reaching out and answering my prayer of desperation. I could not deny or flush it from my mind.
You don’t always get to choose your own mission; sometimes the mission chooses you. Without prior intention, I became an involuntary missionary when I arrived Kenya on my 23rd birthday. Those three days changed my life. God, it turned out, had a purpose for me being there, and it had nothing to do with touring around East Africa with my big sister. It was His plan--not mine--that delayed Karina’s arrival for three days.
When my sister landed in the Nairobi airport, I was the one waiting in the terminal with Zane to greet her, and not vice versa. “Thank you, God!” she yelled as soon as she saw me, “I’ve been praying for two days that you were safe and managed to find Zane.” I don’t think she ever hugged me tighter than she did that afternoon, and we both cried tears of joy while I related all that had happened.
My unexpected introduction to Africa--when a group of missionaries led me out of the early-morning darkness--remains the cornerstone of my Christian testimony. Since then I try not to sweat it when things don’t go as planned. I’ve learned God probably has a good reason for it. And when people ask me to stand and offer my testimony, I don’t have to fret anymore--because now I have one.
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