The first person who I met when I arrived in Nairobi was George. He is a young boy, ten years old, a bit odd: he only knows a few words of English and speaks Kiswahili poorly, but he is always able nonetheless to express his joy effectively, welcoming us every day outside of the church with a great smile and a hug. When we arrive, he counts us, to see if we all are there; he shows us where to sit and prepares a hymnal for each of us. It is beautiful to arrive at Mass at the end of the day and be awaited in this way; it makes you think how fervently Christ’s waiting for us must be!
In the end, in a short time, this “friend of Jesus and of the Sisters,” as they call him, became very dear to me as well. He is often present in our conversations in the house, and in November the days were filled with expectation for the great day in which George would have finally received baptism! He was happy: two out of three times, during the month of waiting, the word Baptism was on his lips and his presence at the daily Mass became more frequent. Arriving finally to the day of Baptism, George was dressed to the nines and, at the heights of emotion, he responded (in his own way) to all of the questions of Fr. Daniele during the homily. As soon as the Mass ended, after numerous photos with the Sisters and the Fathers and all of the friends gathered there, he obligated us to go to his home for a celebration. I knew that he lived in a tin shack just outside of the church, but I had never been to his home. It was the first time that most of us would have met his mother.
We are a strange company of people who live in anticipation of the celebration that is happening in Heaven
And so, after having traveled a small road full of mud and children playing, we all gathered in a small room of a hut, dark and simple. They had prepared a few plastic seats and a table with tons and tons of food that we have discovered to be the work of a few people who were close to the boy being celebrated and had together organized to prepare.
In addition to all the sisters, there were Don Mimmo and Don Daniele, a neighbor who had been insistently invited by George and his school teacher, who told us of the boy’s attention during school hours to making sure that everything is always in order, just as he learned-he says-from Sister Erika in catechism. Then there was his godfather, a young man who as soon as he is free from work spends himself in charity for his friends, a Protestant pastor named Bosco, and another neighbor, a man of great faith who sells eggs at night. Outside the shack, the cries of festive children rose up. After mutual introductions, Sister Eleanor, wielding her guitar, livened up the party. Within myself, I couldn’t help but notice that we are indeed a strange, somewhat ramshackle company, living a foretaste of the celebration that is taking place right now in Heaven. Even in the darkness of a tin shack, a bright afternoon was possible, full of the joy that only Christ gives to his own.
