We lived in a small African market town frequented by nomads and a variety of tribes. Long before we knew the language, I felt at home in the house of a tribal family.
They readily welcomed me, and I could spend as long as I wanted with them. Sometimes I’d lie on one of their beds and take a nap. I learned from them how to turn my ever-present scarf (that I usually wore around my shoulders) into a cover to keep the flies off my face and arms. Sometimes one of them would take a nap on one of the other beds in the room.
These sisters did not own much at all, not even food. But whatever they had, they happily offered. One day I visited at midday and Hanaan brought a tray of injera smeared with oil and sprinkled with a spicy chili powder called berbere. We gathered around the tray to tear off pieces of the pancake-like bread, rub it across the oily seasoning, and pop it in our mouths. This was the simple lunch of the poor, and they graciously shared it with me.
On a previous visit, Hanaan told us she wove the small round fan (called mashrafat) that she used to coax into flame the charcoal on the small metal stove that heated the coffee pot. Amuna chimed in that she had woven a large green and brown prayer mat.
“We can teach you!” they said.
The next time I visited, they proudly showed me newly purchased strips of African palm leaves laid across the bed. Some strips were dyed purple or green and some were left to their natural creamy color. Hanaan and Amuna transitioned to full-on tutor mode. They deftly demonstrated how to weave lengths of these palm leaves by interlacing the strips tightly.
After weaving several inches worth, I showed them my work. The sisters passed the beginnings of my mashrafat amongst themselves. Haya, the blind sister, fingered the work and complemented me on how neat the rows were. All three sisters agreed that I was a fast learner.
“After you weave a long strip,” Amuna said, “we will show you how to wind it into a rounded shape to become a mashrafat.”
Hanaan nodded her head and added, “After that, we can show you how to weave a basket.”
“Come every day!” Amuna said.
Elated, I agreed. Hanaan recommended I leave my project under the bed at their house so it would be there the next time I came.
The next day, when I fetched the woven strip from under the bed, I was surprised that it didn’t seem as long as it had the day before. We chatted as I continued weaving the strip. Adding new strips just like they taught me to do.
Again, they gushed at what a good job I was doing. I looked forward to the following evening when Kris would join me because I could show him my progress.
The next evening, as we sipped our five cups of coffee with the sisters, I reached beneath the bed to pull out my burgeoning mashrafat. The sisters smiled and bragged to Kris at how good my work was.
Befuddled, I examined my project, still only a few inches long. This time I knew for sure I’d made quicker progress than what I currently held in my hand.
The sisters never fessed up, but I knew that every time I left, they retrieved my work and, wanting me to be the very best weaver I could be, unraveled the parts that weren’t that great. Which apparently was most of it.
I never finished that mashrafat, much less a basket. For every time I completed a few more inches, The sisters would smile, nod, and wait for me to leave. Then undo all my work. We never spoke of it. As best I remember, I simply quietly failed basket-weaving class.
Even though I didn’t manage to master the skill, the sisters and I shared those sweet hours together. Whether sitting, sleeping, weaving, talking, or eating a simple meal together, I learned how to share life with people so different from me. And I found joy in it. As I shared more of my time with them, they grew dearer to me. 1 Thessalonians 2:8 “We cared so much for you that we were pleased to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own lives, because you had become dear to us.” (CSB)
The lesson I learned from the sisters was more important than anything we could make with our hands. I learned the value of interweaving my life with others through time spent together. That gift outlasted any mashrafat, no matter how well-made.
What about you?
Have you ever discovered your work “unraveled” (your plans, pride, agenda…) only to discover something more beautiful emerged?
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