I have a cross-cultural heart.
Ever since I was a small boy I loved to be around people of other ethnicities. I grew up with twenty-eight tribes of American Indians so my earliest playmates were Anadarkos, Pawnees, Cheyenne and Black Foot. By the time I was fourteen, and I still have the letter in a drawer, I had volunteered as a missionary to Africa.
I was asked to fill the Pulpit for the pastor who had a stroke in the spring of this year. So on Sunday morning off we went to Charlotte and north of the city center where we arrived at this rather small church on a side street. Like most African churches anywhere in the world, meeting doesn’t really start by the hands on the clock but when the people get there. I remember that most people in the world have time while we in North America have wrist watches.
In the end there were about fifty or more in the building and a small room filled with the cutest kids I’ve ever seen. We had a terrific time worshipping with and Konga Line dancing. I danced while Jeanne did elbow bumps and high-fives with the Pastor’s wife. We arrived precisely on time at 10:30 but didn’t stumble out of the door until 1:20.