In many ways, it was just like my church life group. A dozen or so men and women sat together of an evening in one of their homes.
Laughing. Eating. Pulling each other’s legs. The conversation flowing among the group as a whole and then ebbing into separate discussions in twos and threes. A few kids on screens somewhere else in the house, occasionally appearing… It all felt familiar somehow. At home.
In other ways, we were worlds away. Well, 3,000+ miles away and some 15 degrees hotter, the fan in the corner offering momentary blasts of relief as it turned from left to right. We sat on cushions on the floor around a low table artfully spread with a feast: bowls of nuts and hard-boiled sweets, cut-glass dishes piled with fresh fruit, cucumber and tomato salads with plenty of salt, and small fried snacks that seemed neither sweet nor savoury. There was bread – always lots of bread: big, round, flat and beautiful, stamped with distinctive floral designs. And no shortage of tea: poured liberally from pot to handleless cup as soon as it looked as though you might be anywhere near halfway finished. We sang (this being 2022, there’s an app for that – and Matt Redman in translation) before someone shared from the Scriptures. At this stage, the believers all pulled out their phones – no printed copies of the whole Bible exist in their language yet; owning a Bible in your native tongue is illegal here.
The irony of our Decembers
I have a friend who once told me that, in the course of daily life, she frequently imagines what it …