Love Like A Wildfire
I emailed myself a link to an article I read about 6 months ago written by a young missionary visiting South Africa for the first time at 17. It got lost amid the junk mail and messages of my daily life. While cleaning out the mountain of the annoying and the forgotten I found it again.
Her words are poetry, much like the African continent is poetry. Sometimes raw and ugly, often beautiful, high and keening like an African bird. I see it in my mind’s eye as a nation that lives in passion continually. No sunset is ever mundane, no voice is ever a monotone, and no heart ever beats in a safe, measured rhythm.
All of my life I have admired this place from books, television, movies, the articles in my monthly National Geographic. Never up close. Never with my feet planted in her red soil. Someday, though. Someday.