In 2.5 seconds the heat in the tent suddenly raised to a record 115 degrees. At least it felt like it. 500 faces staring at me in anticipation for—something.
Head pounding.
Hands sweating.
Heart racing.
Hamstrings twitching.
I laughed and casually said, No, no, I can’t possibly, while flashing a look to Matt in desperation. If my eyes could speak they’d scream HELP… SAVE… ME while blinking a frantic Morse code S-O-S. My Matt, oh my sweet, sweet Matt, just smiled and waved his hand like, You’re awesome! Just do it.
Rewind:
In most African churches, dancing is part and parcel of corporate worship. In other words, it ain’t church unless you shake what your momma gave you. F’real.
At Mavuno church the teens have a Holy Spirit Dance Party which includes a deejay, emcee, and—get this—a dance team and leader?! We do choreographed steps to worship songs set to pop beats and rhythmic moves. It’s a blast!!!
Before the second service started, I confessed to Matt that I felt like my talk in first service was HORRIBLE. I felt flat. I felt like I was trying to hit a note out of my range. I felt like Mister Rogers trying to rap like Eminem. As I looked into the faces of the Kenyan teens, I felt like a failure.
Matt told me just to be ME. You are doing great, but they don’t know you. Just start off with YOU so they can trust what you have to say. So I listened to him…
And where did it get me? On stage, in front of the entire second service, with the deejay scratching beats and the teens cheering for me to dance BY MYSELF before the talk continued.
I laughed and casually said, No, no, I can’t possibly, while flashing a look to Matt in desperation. And again, if my eyes could speak they’d scream HELP… SAVE… ME. Matt just smiled and waved his hand like, You’re awesome! Just do it.
With every ounce of strength I could muster up, I began to move to the salsa music the deejay played loudly through the speakers. I moved my hips back and forth and reached deep down into my Puerto Rican soul to find all the rhythm I could. Cheers erupted and hands clapped with joyous familiarity as we joined together like King David to dance like he danced.
Mister Rogers dancing
At the end of the small stint the crowd settled down and for a small second, I felt like a dancing Mister Rogers. Not a Mister Rogers trying to be someone he wasn’t—just being him.
As comfortable as a warm, cardigan sweater and familiar shoes, I felt like I fit in. I felt like Nairobi and I were neighbors. And yes, like Mister Rogers says, it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
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