humbly constructed

I sit here in a plastic chair, designed for a child. My luxurious bottom barely fits. Trying to conceal my discomfort, I see that beneath my feet are stones and shells of various sizes, reminiscent of a beach and yet not. The floor is an insipid gray blend of dirt and sand, uneven in everyway. Hand laid crooked concrete blocks construct the walls, hardly grasping clumpy mortar between their crevices. Light peers through large gaps in the wall just enough to cast shadows of the steel rods that poke this way and that. It’s a dangerous place but no one seems to notice. There’s an infrequent soft breeze that brushes my hair into my face. I move it away and see a group of meager followers bow their heads as someone prays in Tagalong. I can’t understand all of what is said, but it is clear they are genuine. I look back at the entryway and observe that some of the thatch roof has blown away and there is greater exposure to the outside than previous visits. A rotating fan swishes in my direction as I notice that someone has hung cloth just behind me where the sun seeks to express herself. I lean over to help Darrell find Matthew 25. He is 9 and when he looks at me, I melt. I instantly love being near him. The passage is the parable of the talents and his index finger does not grow tired as he follows along. This is church.
There seems to be something sacred about this setting despite its humble construction. I whisper to myself, God is here.

I wonder why we get so frustrated with church back home and I realize that I don’t have the answers. I do know that sitting here in this tiny chair makes me think that church is really people meeting with God. It feels simple.