(Missionary Messenger, October 1955)
By Carolyn Garrett (A student at Kentucky Bible College) (now Carolyn Loveland)
The trusty Ford jolted across the rough ground, mowing down tall brown grass, and scraping over an occasional bush, until it came to a stop not far from the crowd of Africans singing lustily.
As we piled out of the car, ragged little piccanins (children) stood staring at us out of round black eyes. But this we were used to, and, after stretching our legs—cramped from the two-hour journey—we took our Bibles and big sun hats and joined the group on the ground.
This was the first of several services which would be held during the four-day camp meeting. To me it was wonderful to be out in the country again, worshipping God with these happy people. When the service was dismissed, everyone came around to shake hands, greeting us with smiling faces and a cheerful “Masikati” (“Good afternoon”).
The next thing to do was to set up camp before sundown. So, while some youngsters gathered wood for our fire and the women took our kettles down to the river for some water, we found a place for our camp.
Putting up a tarpaulin for a windbreak, we made our bed on the ground between it and the car. My parents and little sister and I would soon be sleeping there in a row, under several layers of blankets, for though the days were hot at Marongedzwa, the nights were always cool.
Next, we built a fire to boil the water and make some tea. Living in most of the waters of Africa, there is a certain microscopic parasite that causes the bilharzia disease. This makes it necessary to boil the water at least ten minutes before using it in any way.
We had opened a can of soup and were eating supper when some clouds in the south began to grow heavy and black, and a strong wind sprang up. In a moment we could see rain coming. So, to save our blankets, we quickly rolled up the bed and stuffed it in the car. Then, collecting our jars and cans of food, we threw them into the box and shoved it under the car. Then we piled in, slammed the doors, and just sat—taking stock of the situation as the rain poured down in a continuous sheet of water.
We spent that night trying to sleep sitting up—Daddy in the back seat with the bedding, and three of us in the front.
I awoke for about the fifth time and found the rain had stopped. Drops of water glistened everywhere as the sun arose—a huge red ball, peeping around a hill which was silhouetted against a pink-streaked sky. I got out and stretched in the cold, crisp air, then built a fire with the wood someone had had the forethought to put beneath the car.
While we ate a hearty breakfast, Simon— our evangelist— came and told us how the Africans had fared during the night: The women had managed to find shelter beneath a drying-shed—belonging to the village close by—but the men had been soaked, trying to sleep in the rain.
Soon the sun was warm enough to dry out the ground a little, and we had a good service with singing, thanksgiving for the badly needed rain, and prayer for a profitable meeting.
When this was over and while the Africans were eating their first meal of the day (11 o’clock), my sister and I went exploring—climbing rocks and admiring the scenery, for this was a beautiful part of the country.
At the next service, the sun was very hot, and I sat in the shade, hearing the voice of the preacher while I gazed at the hills with their rocky outline sharp against the bright blue sky. The afternoon was still and dreamy.
These camp meetings are always planned, held, and led by the natives. They are a good way of reaching the people round about with the Gospel and strengthening ties of fellowship between Christians. Also they present a good opportunity to teach everyone more about the Bible.
We soon broke up into classes. I was in the class of women and young girls which Mother was teaching, and questions were asked that sometimes proved hard to answer. In working with the Africans, one often gets a new point of view presented on teachings of the Bible, and I think that most missionaries will frankly admit that they have learned a great deal from the Africans. They accept the Word with a simple, child-like faith that we of more modern civilization seem to lack.
In his talk one day, Teacher Mirongonwe used this illustration: Picking up the wine glass from the communion table, he said, “Now the Lord says we must love and honor our wives. When we hold this glass we are careful with it, not to drop it, and we handled it gently. That is the way we must treat our wives.”
Another illustration I remember was given by Simon, our evangelist, in talking about the church: He said that if you saw a man with his head stuck through the door, and all you could see was his body, you could still recognize who he was. In this way the church should be recognizable as Christ’s body.
When the classes were over, the men came to say that there would be two baptisms—an old man from the village, and a young boy.
I went to get my camera, then followed the line of chattering people down to the river. Running and sliding the last little stretch of down grade, we gathered on the sandy bank where there was a space between the thorn bushes lining the stream, and began to sing some hymns —Andrea Msada, who was to do the baptizing, took a long stick and waded into the rippling, muddy water to find a good place to stand while he stood in the boiling hot sun and frowned against the glare of light reflected from the water. I took pictures of the baptizing and of the crowd; then when that was over, climbed back up to the camp, very weak and hungry, as it was about three o’clock in the afternoon and we had not eaten since breakfast.
Filled and satisfied after a good meal, my sister and I wandered around, talking to the people and taking pictures, while some of the older women were visiting Mother at the car, and Daddy was conversing with the men.
There were several interesting shots which could be made of the camp: children playing in the dirt next to a bush bowed down with blankets, young men lounging and chattering on a granite rock in the shade of a tall msasa tree, and women stirring corn-meal mush over their open fires.
As it neared time for us to eat again, we were invited to have a meal with the natives. “Sadza and Mriwa” (cornmeal mush, and meat and vegetables) was not our favorite food, but we decided to accept if only for the fun we would have.
We sat around two big dishes of food, one being stiffly-cooked corn- meal mush molded into a smooth, white mound, and the other stew. Each person helped himself to a bite at a time with his fingers. First he would take a portion of the corn-meal mush and roll it into a ball. Then he would dip this into the dish of stew and then put it into his mouth. All the Africans smacked their lips appreciatively, and it was good, but it would have tasted better to me if it had been salted.
The last meeting of the day, the one I usually enjoyed most, was held around two big fires in a cleared place between huge granite boulders. There were several different speakers that night, every one of them with a good message from the Word of God.
Next to me an old woman began to nod, and finally slept, wrapped up in a colorful blanket and sitting in an upright position. Before the service was over, I knew that several would be leaning on each other— tired after the full day—but it always amazed me how these people could sit for so long in one position. I would sit first on one leg and then the other, trying to get comfortable on the ground. But this was the only dis comfort as I was really thoroughly enjoying the fellowship with other Christians. I felt spiritually uplifted because of the strong ties of love that were manifest in every action; because of the beautiful story of Christ which was being told; because of the greatness of God’s creation— the leafy trees rustling and whispering in the wind, the crickets chirping, the sound of the river running by, and above our heads, the spacious velvet sky starred over with little bright lights.
The service over, we said goodnight to the Africans, trudged back to camp and went to bed—tired but happy.
The last thing I remember before I drifted off to sleep was the starry sky above, the playful breeze bringing the soothing sound of running water which blended in with the melodious voices of the Africans singing their last hymns of praise for the day. They love to harmonize, and I knew they would sing far into the night, giving heartfelt praise to the Great Master who made this beautiful earth.