Welcome to Famo

The night was fresh and my friends stood around me as we shifted our bags and started off down the road. It was Good Friday and my friend Rhona had invited me to spend the Easter weekend with her and her family in their home area called Famo. Steep hills huddled around the road that wove around their knees as we tramped along, enjoying each other's company. Rhona and her family members chatted with me, pointing out different landmarks, villages, and areas. I drank it in like a parched man coming in from the hot sun; the fuzzy, grass-covered hills turning blue in the setting sun, the bleached-bone river rocks under my boots, the deep orange clay chiseled away at the roadside, the soft breeze carrying the scents of the valley towards me and filling me with their heady richness. I smiled and marveled at how amazing and good God was to me all the time.

We ambled on, making steady progress towards Famo in the coming night. Stars began to poke holes in the navy dome above us and the cicadas struck up their concert in the grass. Soon the sound of singing climbed the hills and jumped down to meet us on the road. Rhona told me it was the first session of the youth convention for the Easter weekend. Around the next corner the whir of a generator and the glimmer of light pouring out of a massive outdoor meeting tent served as a beacon of where we were headed next. We handed bags to family members who were headed to the house and climbed up the hill to join the service.

The tent was filled to the brim with young men, women, chaperones, and handfuls of curious children packed in tight bundles on the grass and the benches circling the room. My friend and I stepped gingerly inside and settled ourselves on a bare patch of grass to listen to the message. Youth of all ages bent over worn Bibles or leaned forward on their elbows to glance over shoulders as they followed what the speaker was saying. They seemed hungry. Hungry for more, hungry for truth, hungry to know. I understood that hunger and I wanted them to be filled as much as they desired it. Soon, music filled the tent again and youth began to split off with hosts to go and rest for the night.

I followed Rhona down the hill and back out onto the road. The moon shone like a pale streetlight, illuminating the dips and curves in the road. Soon we came to her family's home and I could smell the sweet aroma of wood smoke from a cooking fire. I stepped into the house and was greeted by hugs and handshakes and friendly, jumbled hello's. After brief introductions to the family we sat and talked and shared a meal and tea. Tok Pisin started to be woven with the local language, like a river running over stones.  Every one of my Easters in Papua New Guinea has been different but I knew as I lay down on my mat and pulled the blanket over me that night that this would be the most special so far.