Blog # 1 – The Richness of My Life

Nov 27, 2018 · 4 min read –

I am so rich. These words and thoughts enveloped me as I sat in a church service in downtown Los Angeles last month. For most people looking at what I was doing and where I was, there is no way they could comprehend it. So I will try to explain.

It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon. I’m sitting in an old church, built in 1925, located in a rough part of town, near the Convention Center. There are about 120 people in the congregation. A ladies’ choir is singing a song in the front. They have joy in their voices and on their faces, and are singing in a foreign language; Lingala. Besides me, everyone in that room is from Congo, Africa. And though my skin color isn’t black, I’m one of them.

I start to sing along with the ladies, as do many of those in the seats next to me. We are singing with the choir, enjoying the music, the words and slight swaying and dancing of the ladies. I’m caught up in the moment — closing my eyes and transporting myself to my childhood in Congo where I used to sing the same song forty years ago. I am so moved, I almost get up and go to the front to join the ladies with their choir, but decide against it. Even though if I’d gone up there, nobody would have cared. It was about praising God through song and being one with this group.

Someone got up and gave announcements in French, and had it translated into Lingala. After the announcements, the Pastor went to the front and asked in French for first time visitors to stand up and be recognized and greeted. A few did so. I stayed seated, trying to blend in (though pretty tough being the only Caucasian in the congregation). I thought I got away with laying low when the Pastor started talking about a fellow Congolese brother who was special and then pointed to me. The Lingala translator came over and handed me the microphone. So I stood up and started telling the folks my name, where I was from, and then had to stop due to the whole congregation talking and murmuring. You see, they were shocked to hear me speak their language. So in my typical fashion, I feigned indignation and asked what the big deal was and why they were so surprised. I said that I was a “mwana na mboka” (son of the village) and one of them. This further stirred the pot. I then gave them greetings from my home church in Rancho Santa Margarita, and thanked them for having me and sat down. Smiles all around and some laughs of surprise and clapping ensued. It didn’t fit for them — a middle-aged white guy that spoke their language like a Congolese, who knew all the slang. I didn’t speak Lingala like an American or European. I spoke like they did. And they loved it.

After the church service, we headed downstairs to the fellowship hall where some of the ladies had prepared a complete Congolese meal: fish, goat, chicken, cassava, rice, spinach, plantains and other wonderful food. It smelled great. It tasted even better. I was in heaven.

We sat at the table eating and talked about life, Congo, politics, religion and current affairs. Everyone accepted me and conversed with me. Several folks took a few minutes to settle down, as they were so surprised I could speak so fluently. One guy even dragged someone over to hear me speak Lingala like I was a novelty act at a carnival. But soon enough we were just a room full of people talking, sharing, laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

I often take friends to this Congolese church to give them a cross cultural experience. I tell them that in a matter of a few hours they can experience a total immersion into Congolese culture — music, language, colorful women’s attire, church, worship, food and fellowship. And I’ll be their personal guide and enlighten them with the experience. My friends see a new dimension they’ve never seen; I’m in my element.

Yes, I’m an American that loves this country. But my heart is also Congolese that loves Congo and its people. I am grateful to my missionary parents for taking me to Congo at three years of age and giving me the experience of growing up there and integrating me into the culture; to love it and help form who I am as a person. What a wonderful heritage my Mom and Dad gave me. Growing up I often wished for all the “stuff” and luxuries my American friends enjoyed. But looking back, that doesn’t hold a candle to the experiences, upbringing, travels, languages, cultural richness, and relationships I benefited from while growing up in Congo. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

But back to my moment where it hit me how rich I truly was. I realized that there are very few people that know and understand and feel totally at home in another culture. Most people have visited other countries, other ethnic groups and experienced a small taste of foreign cultures. And everyone knows the positive benefit of relationships with people from other cultures or lands. Yet I was part of this Congolese culture, music, language and food. I knew it, understood it and owned it. This is much different than being a passing visitor or tourist to some country. As here, in this moment, singing along with these ladies, I belonged.

The ladies’ choir start the last verse of the song. I stop singing and begin to hum the last few bars and smile. So few people will ever know what it feels like to completely belong to two cultures. Nobody in that congregation is looking at me differently because of my skin color. I’m accepted by them. I’m loved, and I’m a part of this group at that moment. My soul is refreshed. I’m so blessed. I‘m Congolese.

The song ends and I open my eyes. I look around…… I am rich indeed.

Congo Kid – Article # 1 – November, 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Jeffrey W. Eales. All rights reserved. No portions may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without the prior written permission of the author.