V. Doi nasi ala iesu

Before I get into this next post, I just want to express the sincerest of apologies to my mother. Yes, mom, I am still alive, and no, I did not have any connection to the outside world, apart from a few texts that came through once I got back to Honiara from some friends because apparently they don’t charge me for incoming text messages on the emergency data plan. The school’s wifi has been down as well. I have loved every moment of it.

Words – a speaker’s attempt to share an idea, emotion, or experience with a listener.

I could try to describe for you, my dear reader, the sensation of landing in a prop plane on a grass runway on Makira, praying that it did not rain the night before, seeing children running along the runway as they tried to keep pace with the plane, walking a few paces before hopping into the truck that would deliver us to the local church.

I could try to describe for you, my dear reader, feeling like a rag doll at the mercy of the storm that relentlessly pommeled our small craft as we journeyed on a turbulent ocean along the coast of Makira from Kirakira to Wainoni Bay, or the bamboo stick marching band that kept the time for the angelic choir of the youth of Wainoni Marist Highschool as they welcomed Bishop and myself on the shore of their boarding school, sheepishly shaking our hands as they had not yet experienced my goofy dance moves that would be on display later that night in front of the entire school.

I could try to describe for you, my dear reader, the welcoming embrace of this Catholic community, as I witnessed the confirmation of just over 150 new soldier for Christ, and how a few boys named George, Francis, and Michael (and friends) led me on an expedition to a village over an hour away (picture: chickens and young naked kids darting across the narrow path that winds through the woods, pig grazing next to leaf hut houses, and the many friendly—yet confused—smiles and waves that had probably seen very few people with arms as pale as mine in their village), where my guides scaled a tree and prepared for me a fresh coconut by prying it open with their teeth and shattering the shell with a rock, or the students’ thirst for knowledge when they showed up to an impromptu late night math class on angles that I offered to help teach for Mr. Solomon (both his real name, and a perfect descriptor of how embodying Mr. Solomon is of the welcoming nature of the Solomon Islands).

I could try to relay the emotion I felt when we traveled—captained by an ex Olympics Runner named Primo Higa—further down the coast of Makira to Nahuhu, an extremely isolated village, where I barely survived a warrior welcome with both of my eyeballs still in my head, where our facilities consisted of a beautiful leaf hut, a sleeping mat, and a hole (felt just like camping), and where I witnessed the power of the Holy Spirit descending upon 49 more soldiers of Christ.

I could try to relay the emotion I felt when we were greeted yet again by the students in Wainoni Bay as if we were friends from childhood, how Josephine and her friend walked alongside me begging for a story from Nahuhu, and how George waited with teary eyes at the end of the hand shaking line when we were departing, unable to hold himself together as he collapsed into Bishop’s arms and the Spirit moved him to sob and heave pure tears of sadness that his Bishop had spent the last few days with him and was now departing.

I cannot express in words how it felt to hold Jesus in my arms as He sobbed in my arms in the appearance of a boy named George.

I could try to relay the emotion I felt when I showed up to the Epalle students futsal championship game against White River an hour late (but yet was still early, because “Solomon time”), shared sweat with almost every other human on the bleacher steps I was sitting, witnessed the Epalle players win a gritty game that was delayed for 20 minutes because the White River fans streamed out to the parking lot to fight my students (none of my students left the arena, there was not fighting on their part, don’t worry), was made an integral part of their celebration and subsequent impromptu bbq, acting as their security as we escorted the student athletes on a flat bed delivery truck from the stadium back to the school, through mobs of angry White River students hurling large rocks at the truck throughout the city, and how the Epalle players cheered so loud on the way to Epalle that I am pretty sure all of Honiara knew which school had just won.

I could try to describe for you, my dear reader, how the Spirit worked overtime on Pentecost Sunday to fill the Cathedral and the surrounding property with people who traveled long distances to celebrate with their brothers and sisters in Christ, how the Spirit compelled the youth of Tangare (led by Junior David and Everesto) to sing and dance so beautifully at mass at the various processions with their shields, axes, grass skirts, and lava-lavas, and how the Spirit brought together the Catholic and the Salvation Army communities for a joint prayer service later in the day, where the Catholics tried to sing with the Salvation Army’s brass band, but was a little off of their timing.

I could try to describe for you, my dear reader, what I experienced as I stood on the bed of the back of Bishop’s truck as we wound our way along the edge of Guadacanal on our return from Visale—a  parish which is home to a vocational school, a large group of DMI sisters, and a beautiful beach with a reef which put the Great Barrier Reef to shame (yes, I would know)—with grassy mountains and coconut trees towering on my right, waves pounding the reef just feet from the road on the left, and a warm sea breeze enveloping my soon-to-be-tanned upper body, accompanied by two young men from North Malaita and hundreds of greetings from the leaf houses and betel nut stands that peppered the side of the road, but words would not do justice for that glimpse of paradise.

I could try to describe for you the joy with which Everesto talks about saying hello to Jesus in the morning at daily mass, or how joyful Peter the Rock is when he talks about where he has seen Jesus acting in his life. But, if I tried, I would miss a lot.

Those words trigger within me the truth that my heart knows that surrounds them. But for you, my dear reader, they trigger mere fabrications of your own mind, a gathering of your own twists and turns that you have experienced throughout your life as your eyes and your brain try to translate my words into your imagination. You see, you have all the words in front of you, but they don’t strike the same chords for you as they do for me (much like the Holy Cross choir that tried to sing along with the Salvation Army brass band). You don’t yet know the melody for which to experience these words I have written, because you have not experienced yet the exact moments that I have.

This is much like Jesus’ preaching on the Kingdom of God. As God, He has complete knowledge of heaven and the power of love, and the Bible has all His words that we have written down. These words are just words to us until we put them into action, until we truly experience them for ourselves. What good is saying “I love you” if the person you are saying them to does not feel loved? What good is telling someone a little bit about heaven when you can just show them? Yes, we should still know what Jesus said and taught us, but we also need to be conscious of how He said them and taught them. He said the words with his mouth, but He spoke them with a cross: His heart.

I keep trying to skip to the end of the sentence that was written across my heart in anticipation, instead of reading along with Jesus, as He walks me through the phonetics of my life experiences. Yes, I have the words in front of me, but only He knows how to read them, and at what pace and which volume. Everesto, a Malaitian and strong brother in Christ, would say that I need to doi nasi ala iesu – “Hold strong on to Jesus.”

Doi nasi ala iesu, my friends.