One hundred seventy eight feet of various sizes, shapes and colors pass over two small rag rugs to remove most of the sand off the soles and from between the 890 toes. It is Sunday in the village of Maunaithaki on the island of Vulaga, and at 10am everyone is gathered in the beautiful but small Wesleyan Methodist Church. The attendance today has grown beyond the usual 80 villagers, with the addition of nine "yachties" - all from America. There are about twenty pews in the church, each able to seat six adults or an endless number of children depending on how many choose to squeeze together or hold the little ones on their laps. The village adults all sit on the right side of the church and we, the visitors, sit on the left side with the children. The kids are segregated for two reasons, I think; one is that they sing as a choir during the service, and the other is it's easier to keep them all behaving well and sitting upright during the service when they're in a confined space. Joe, a grandfather to six of the children, keeps a watchful eye from the back and when necessary encourages better behavior by tapping a child with a skinny four foot stick he carries at his side. Why a four foot stick? So he can reach all the way to the middle of the pew from the outside aisle. We get a chuckle from this and when Joe sees us grinning he always flashes us his beautiful, mischievous smile. I'm not really sure why the cruisers were all segregated from the rest of the worshippers, but perhaps it was so we didn't mess up their beautiful harmonies during the singing of the hymns. The nine of us shared two hymnals and tried to follow the Fijian words but it was difficult; actually singing along was just not happening!

To be honest, as the gorgeous singing is filling the church, I am sitting there barefoot, looking out of the open windows at the simple homes of this village set against neon blue water of the lagoon, white crashing waves on the reef, glistening white sand and swaying palm trees, knowing that no spoken words could be as inspiring as what I am seeing and hearing at this moment. Sometimes I just have to pinch myself.



The sermon is entirely in Fijian but the gestures, tone and enthusiasm are universal. Last week the preacher was quite mellow in her delivery, but this Sunday a young guest minister who could have fit right in on Evangelist TV got out the fire and brimstone - waving arms, pointing fingers and a booming voice. Funny how both sermons were received with the same reserved attention by the villagers. Our host told us today's sermon was about the next generation carrying on the traditions of the village and continuing to work as hard as their parents to preserve what they have on Vulaga. I'm sure that same message is being delivered in many places around the world. We are so grateful to experience Vulaga as it is today: pristine, unique, unspoiled, a spiritual place.



A simple white church with no stained glass windows, no gilded figures, no organ music, and no chandeliers. A simply beautiful white church, with open windows, gossamer fabric on an alter blowing in the breeze, a carved wooden cross, harmonious voices and 178 bare feet . . . . Amen.