Hot Slabs and Cold Wisdom
a Saturday Story
Saturday stories are a slight break from the daily devotionals I write. They are stories from life – sometimes with a point, and sometimes they are just stories. For the context of this week's Saturday Story, you may want to go back and read the previous two Saturday installments…
My teaching partner was no stranger to this location. He had been here before, and I was brought in as a replacement for his former partner—a man who had a less-than-amicable run-in with the authorities. His visa had been revoked, leaving me to step in and help wrap up an Old Testament Survey course that had been in progress for some time. This trip was the first of two I’d make to help finish the course.
We arrived at the compound late in the evening after a van ride that felt more like a covert operation than a commute. As we approached the site, our national companions instructed us to crouch down in our seats so no one would see us entering. From my hunched position, I could see the faint outline of a six-foot-high concrete wall and a rusted metal gate that creaked open as the van’s headlights hit it. An elderly gatekeeper swung it shut behind us, his weathered hands pushing with deliberate care.
Inside, there wasn’t much to do but find our sleeping quarters and prepare for the cold reality of winter in a region without central heating. I had been warned to pack long underwear and a good jacket, as the teaching room lacked any form of heat. What my partner conveniently failed to mention, however, was the peculiar heating arrangement in our living quarters.
The compound, it turned out, was a boarding school. The students were away on break, leaving their simple facilities at our disposal. Each of us was assigned one of the two small concrete rooms—one typically for boys, the other for girls. My partner graciously volunteered to take the room furthest from the kitchen, leaving me with the middle one.
The setup was fascinating in its ingenuity. The kitchen, located at one end of the building, had a wood-coal-fired stove. Instead of venting smoke straight up through a chimney, the flue ran horizontally beneath the concrete platforms in the sleeping rooms. This clever design allowed the heat from the stove to warm the slabs, creating a toasty surface for sleeping in the otherwise frigid conditions.
Feeling optimistic about the arrangement, I laid down a mat, bundled up in my long underwear, and settled in under a blanket, expecting a snug night’s sleep.
Two hours later, I was awake and sweating like a Thanksgiving turkey in the oven. The concrete slab beneath me had turned into a searing hotplate. I scrambled to reposition my blanket, using it as a buffer between me and the now roasting surface. By morning, I felt like I’d been slow-cooked through the night.
At breakfast, I shared my plight with my partner. “Man, that thing about fried me last night,” I said, shaking my head.
He grinned, the kind of grin that suggested he’d been waiting for this moment. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I took the room at the end. It doesn’t get nearly as hot. Much more comfortable down there.”
I stared at him, realizing I’d been outmaneuvered by his seasoned experience. Apparently, “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts” applies just as well to veteran missionaries offering room assignments.
