Of the many worship services I’ve attended in Botswana during visits in 2008 and 2010, one in particular stands out. In 2010, on a cool August morning (August is a winter month in the Southern Hemisphere), 500 or so Anglicans sit shoulder to shoulder, bundled against the wind blowing through the broken windows of a secondary school assembly hall. As Holy Eucharist commences I focus on the makeshift altar, and the motions of the priest, and the cadence of the words. The service is being done in the Setswana dialect, so in order to keep up I search for what is familiar. It matters to me that I am fully participating, but I can feel myself falling behind. Then a hand reaches over my shoulder. In the hand is a slender green book, The Holy Eucharist and Offices of the Church of the Province of Central Africa. It is written in Setswana and English. I find my place and again feel in right relationship with everything. Afterward, I turn from my seat in the front row and begin asking those seated behind me if they’d seen who had passed the book forward. I’m led to a woman named Phonenyana and told the prayer book belongs to her. Using gestures and a spare version of Setswana, I thank her for her kindness and try to hand the book back. She smiles and waves me off. Someone standing nearby translates her words: “This is for you. My gift. Please.”