Traveling… Part 1

What could be more thrilling for someone who loves to travel than an invitation to adventure in a foreign land? A trip to Africa combined with prayer—those words resonate deeply with me. It’s like catching the scent of something intoxicating that stirs my soul and makes me want to go. Of course, I can’t wait for the journey to begin.

I arrive in Lyon and meet Martine. We barely know each other—just a couple of messages and a few exchanges from afar. But the connection is instant. We board our flight to Africa, calm and excited at the same time, grateful for this call to both adventure and prayer.

Because yes, we’re going to pray for a country—for God to bless a people.

Bless. It’s a word that might sound a bit religious, maybe even outdated. But it’s a powerful word. To bless is to ask God to do good.

We land late in the day and, after some hassle, manage to pick up our rental car. I’m disappointed—it’s not the model I booked or was hoping to try. I explain this to the agent, but he won’t budge. Still, my disappointment fades quickly. It’s a big black sedan, sleek and surprisingly comfortable. That’ll come in handy on the sandy roads we’ll be driving in the days ahead. We head toward our house with the blue shutters.

We take a wrong turn and end up by the sea, in front of stunning old boats from another era. Reluctantly, we leave the port behind, get back on track, and finally arrive. Our house looks even more beautiful under the starry night sky. We drop our bags quickly and almost immediately head back to the airport. Nilza—my travel companion from past adventures in Moldova and Spain—has just landed from Paris.

Now we’re all together. The adventure can truly begin.

This isn’t a vacation—it’s a call to prayer. And yet, when we open the shutters the next morning, there’s a laid-back, holiday vibe in the air. Palm trees greet us under a radiant sun, and the breeze helps us ease into the gentle warmth.

We set out on foot to explore and are delighted by the market stalls, women riding scooters with two kids behind them, and butchered animal heads hanging along the roadside. We pray in the streets, around hospitals and schools. We exchange a few words with people who smile at us and speak a bit of French. The city is noisy, dusty, and the wind doesn’t help. I think about all the foreigners who dream of leaving, who see France as a promised land. Often a misleading dream. The city we’re in doesn’t show many signs of economic or cultural growth. Still, we pass a sign for a French cultural center not far away. It catches my attention—after all, I run a training center that specializes in teaching French. I’d love to visit, but that’s not why we’re here. Maybe next time.

As the day winds down, we hop into our sleek sedan and drive to a synagogue less than an hour from the city. We arrive at sunset. A police post stands between the all-white synagogue and a mosque whose minaret glows bright green. The call to prayer rings out, the Imam’s voice rising into the air—and our prayers rise with it. We pray for Muslims and Jews alike, calling down God’s blessing on these people, this people. May God reveal Himself in all His glory and goodness. We’re grateful to be praying together and deeply aware of the privilege of doing so in such places.

Today, for once, I’m asking you to pray for us—and for the country we’re in.

I’ll continue sharing our journey in a future post. Feel free to reach out if you’d like to talk more about it.