Three eggs

They emerged from the sunlight and dust and into the ramshackle church. They came in twos and threes, with dog-eared bibles, intricate hairdos, bright kangas, fraying blazers and sandals made from old tires. Fifty-nine people, old and young, jammed into a single room with a naked light bulb that didn't work, bare concrete floor and corrugated iron roof dotted with half-inflated purple and white balloons left over from Christmas.

A lone candle flickered up front, next to fake pink flowers. And you'd swear the noise from the singing and shouting made the flame dance faster than the congregation.

Five minutes after walking into this place surrounded by fields in a forgotten corner of Tanzania, I didn't want to leave. A friend of a friend, an eccentric, grandfatherly, white-haired missionary from Virginia, brought us here. By African standards, this Baptist church was quiet. But I have never experienced anything like it.

The worship was unrestrained, warm, real. This was a celebration, not a once-a-week obligation. No fancy sound systems or instruments or well-dressed pastors or high-minded words. No fear of what the person next to you might think. Just two drums made from stretched animal skin and carved wooden sticks and a battered tambourine leading rhythm that never stopped. Kangas waved in the air. One woman in a purple dress kicked off her sandals as she moved. Arms were thrust skyward. Hands clapped until they hurt, then clapped more. You didn't want to stop.

Everyone sang as loud as they could, no matter their voices. The harmonies that emerged from this tiny room were hauntingly beautiful. I didn't know the Swahili, but sang and moved anyway. I couldn't help it. Two small choirs - one of adults and another of children - on rough wooden benches alternated leading songs. The children seemed to know more about worship than any church I've attended in the U.S. This wasn't a performance. No one was there to be seen. It was one of the most sincere things I've witnessed.

Three hours passed and seemed like nothing more than a few minutes. Old Maasai women with elongated earlobes shared testimonies. The missionary from Virginia was asked to preach, much to his surprise. Each person cried out with what they were thankful for. They sang "How Great Thou Art" in Swahili. That left me unable to sing as I fought back tears. Most of these people have nothing, at least by our standards. Yet they are so much richer than us. So much more thankful. So much more joyful. They don't have the facades of materialism to hide behind that we do. Their hope rests not in this life, but in a better one to come.

Each person tithed what they could. Some didn't have shillings. So, they gave other things. Like one person's donation of three eggs. After the service, the congregation stood in a half-circle back in the sunlight and dust outside the building, singing and shaking each other's hands. The pastor quickly auctioned the three eggs.

Tears filled my eyes again. So much of the world's focus with Africa is about fixing the continent, what we have to offer its people, what we have to teach them. But I left the church marveling at how much we have to - need to - learn from them.