An unending thirst

On the first Sunday, only seven people came—four women, two men, and Mzee Ntalama, who had once been known as a fiery preacher before silence swallowed his voice. He sat in the back, arms crossed. But when the Word was read aloud—Psalm 63:1—he leaned forward: “O God, You are my God; earnestly I seek You; my soul thirsts for You, my flesh faints for You, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” He wept. “I thought I had dried up,” he said later. “But the fire hadn’t died. It was waiting for breath.”