Yes and Amen

If you hold the base of the moringa branch if your left hand, you can then run the fingers of your right hand down the branches towards the tips, stripping the leaves into a neat little pile in the palm of your hand. It took me a while to figure it out, but after watching Juliette and Delphine do it like pros, I was starting to get the hang of it. 

“This is work that old ladies usually do,” Delphine said with a smirk. 

“And here we are, all young women doing it!” I added playfully and everyone laughed. 

It’s worth it for the orphans and malnourished infants in the program to have this nutritional bonus in their diet. We harvested the moringa this morning in the garden, but it has to be stripped and then the leaves washed, dried, and crushed into powder before it is divided into little sacks and served to the babies as a rich, vitamin-filled superfood. 

As we worked, we talked. The pile of unstripped moringa branches got smaller and smaller as the sky fell darker and darker, but no one seemed to notice or mind too much. For we all silently knew, though it remained unspoken for a little while, that this was the last uninterrupted time of face to face friendship that we would share for an unknown amount of time. So we lingered. We enjoyed being together and didn’t want it to end. Mixed in with the conversation was laughter. Story telling. Some moments of lulled but comfortable silence. Praises to God for who he is and what he is doing. Prayer. 

When the pile of branches was finished, the children started cleaning it all up, but I leaned back in my plastic chair and looked at the stars. The same stars that reminded Abraham of the faithfulness of God speak to me also. They remind me that even though I leave Burkina Faso in a few days, that he remains here, and that he is working mightily. That all of his promises are yes and amen in Jesus Christ. (2 Corinthians 1:20) That even though I don’t know for sure when I will return, that he is faithful to all his promises, which means he is working for my good and the good of my Burkinabé brothers and sisters and parents here that I cherish so dearly. And even if all else fails, we have eternity to spend together. 

I hope there is moringa in heaven. I think I would like to sit down with Juliette and Delphine and the Somé kids every evening and strip moringa as we watch the stars come out and rejoice together, recounting stories of who God is and what he has done.