It is a lazy Sunday morning. I am sitting on the back porch, sipping my tea and watching a beautiful rust-colored rooster and his hen scratch the ground. A large, black bumblebee drones amongst the magenta blooms of the bougainvillea. In the distance cows are lowing, roosters crowing, goats bleating. A myriad of birds add to the Sunday morning symphony. The warm wind carries the whine of an occasional motorbike and the private conversation of two men from across the gully.
Best of all, the wind carries the singing.
The singing from the Catholic church on the next hilltop has been going on for at least an hour with no sign of finale. There is an electronic keyboard that sometimes accompanies, sometimes prays on its own. The melodies are colorful and smooth. The rhythms make you want to sway and dance. Some songs are bold. Some are peaceful. But there is mournfulness in the sounds, a longing. There is also joy. Strength. Hope.
On tour this summer, we sang a medley of Spirituals called “Songs of Strength and Hope.” I am finally beginning to understand, if only just a little.