The Generator and Psalm 19

Since the electrical service in our part of Ouaga experiences frequent interruptions, we needed to install a generator.  We had been able to make do with flashlights, candles, and laptop batteries, but the frequency and duration of the power cuts were beginning to make normal life nearly impossible.  When the warm season arrives in late February or March with 100+ degree temperatures, sleep would be reduced to bathing in our own perspiration.  We needed a generator.

I instructed the guards in the operation of the generator and how to transfer our home from the grid to the generator.  Rather than simply throwing a switch, the transfer involves a short warm-up cycle for the generator, flipping a set of circuit breakers that protect the generator from faults and overloads, and moving the transfer switch from the “normal” to the “generator” position.

Last night I was blasted out of a movie-like dream by the sound of the generator starting.  It was the first time we have experienced a nighttime power cut with the generator.  After a few minutes, we realized the nearly deafening din of the generator inaptly labeled, “silent” would be more than we could reasonably expect our neighbors to endure.

I pulled on my pants and shoes and went outside to talk with our guard, Desirée.  I congratulated him for following the procedures and successfully starting the generator.  I made sure that he understood that we were both very pleased that he and the generator did exactly what was needed.  After waiting a few minutes more for the electrical supply to be restored, I turned to Desirée and explained that we could probably make it through a reasonably cool night without the generator.  Desirée shut down the generator and transferred the switch according to plan.  As the generator became silent and darkness fell like a pot lid, I looked up at the sky and was stunned.

For the first time since Janet and I arrived in Burkina Faso the Harmattan winds had died and the dust had mostly cleared—enough for hundreds if not thousands of stars to become visible—countless more than the usual handful visible through the airborne dust.  “C’est incroyable!” I gasped as Desirée tuned his glance toward the sky.  He said something in Mooré that I did not understand, but I could tell that he too was marveling at the stars.  “Il est comme Psaumes 19, …“Les cieux déclarent la Gloire de Dieu,” I offered.  Desirée smiled, but I suspected that he did not fully understand the context.  I suggested, “Desirée, lisez Psaume 19.” He opened his Mooré Bible as we trained our flashlights on its pages and he read the opening verses.  A smile came across his face as he looked back to the sky and exclaimed, “D’accord!  Les cieux declarant la gloire de Dieu.” 

There we stood staring into the sky in the moonless African night made even darker by the power cut and illuminated only by the countless stars as Desirée repeated, “La gloire de Dieu.”