praise

Ward church started out just like it always does. Far too many people packed into far too small a space, drums and sasas beating and shaking wildly, voices lifted loud in praise. I was sitting at the back of the room, figuring it was a good vantage point to keep an eye on all my patients while still being able to enjoy the service. Not that I really thought anything would happen; Jitta was five feet away from the closest infection risk, and the rest of my kiddos were barely even sick. I settled in to soak in the music.

In the middle of a particularly animated song, a commotion at the front of the room caught my eye. With that slow-dawning wash of horror (you know the one, right, that takes about half an hour longer to register than it probably should?) I realized that it was the mother of my little boy who had his cleft lip repaired last week. And, by all appearances, she was having a seizure, right there in the middle of church.

What followed felt like something out of a strange indie film about loud circuses. I elbowed my way to the front of the room, past Africans and Americans all still clapping and singing, thinking to myself I have to get that kid out of there or she is going to bust his little lip wide open. Nurses were popping off of beds all over the ward, one grabbing a curtain, the next running to the locked narcotic box to get some diazepam. I scooped up little Alusain, who was screaming by this point, although I couldn't hear his cries above the drumming still going on about two feet from my spinning head. Once I had him safely in my arms, I turned to his mother. She was being kept from falling off the bed by two translators, wonderful Liberian women who were still just singing at the top of their lungs, laughing and praising God. When the nurse showed up carrying a curtain they laid it at the foot of the bed and kept on singing and dancing. I have never been so confused in all my life.

It finally dawned on me what was actually going on, and it was at this point that I took little Alusain and walked out of the ward, into the cool of the hallway where I could laugh. Because his mother wasn't having a seizure; she was in the spirit. The Liberian women had recognized it right away, and did exactly what they should have done - kept her from hurting herself while carrying on with their own worship. She eventually calmed down, sat up and reached for her child. And that was that. The service had continued on all the while without a hitch.

I keep thinking about what a cultural commentary it all makes. The difference between the responses was, I think, telling. All the Western people in the room thought it was a seizure, and we reacted accordingly. The Liberians recognized it for what it was and also reacted accordingly. None of us were wrong in our actions, but I can't help wishing that my first thought had been a different one.

You see, I come from an extremely quiet Christian tradition. At my church at home, we sing acapella hymns and I would never dream of even clapping along. There's nothing wrong with this. In fact, more often than not, I find myself longing for the quiet, contemplative reverence I'm accustomed to during meetings. But the longer I'm here, the more I find myself drawn to this louder, less inhibited worship. I get the sense while we sing here that the people around me just have too much joy to hide. And so it comes out in smiles and laughter, clapping hands, shuffling feet and shaking hips. The Liberian people sing louder than anyone I've ever heard, and it doesn't seem to matter whether they're anywhere near in tune. All that matters is that they're praising God. (It's a joyful noise, not a tuneful one, that He asked for, after all.)

Maybe I'll try coming out of my corner in the back of the room one of these days. Maybe I'll clap along to more than just one or two songs. And maybe I'll be able to forget myself enough that I can raise my voice and move my body without regard to anyone else around me. I think God might like that.

(But I might start coming to church with some valium in my back pocket, just so I don't feel so unprepared.)