Thirty Years for Three

February 2026 • My first six weeks in Madagascar were a whirlwind of discovery. They were filled with long journeys across the island, generous hospitality, new communities, and countless hours spent watching the landscapes of Madagascar unfold, whether through the window of a car, from a crowded bus, or from the edge of a canoe. I have no idea how many kilometers I've traveled or how many hours I've spent on the road, but after weeks of constantly moving from one place to another, it feels good to finally stay in one place.

Now begins a different kind of journey. Before I can one day preach, teach, and minister to the people I’ve been sent to serve, I first need to learn their language!

My new home while I’m studying Malagasy is the Catholic University in Ambatoroka, Antananarivo. Around thirty Malagasy priests live here and are pursuing degrees in philosophy, theology, communications, finance, management, and other fields. Each has been sent by his bishop with a particular purpose in mind, perhaps to return home and serve as the diocesan treasurer, teach in a seminary, or lead one of the Church's many apostolates.

The priests here have welcomed me with incredible generosity. They even gave me one of the nicest rooms in the building. I sometimes wonder if it was originally intended for a bishop! It has its own bathroom and, to my surprise, even a hot shower, something that none of the other student priests have. It was an unexpected kindness that made settling in quite a bit easier.

My days have quickly settled into a rhythm. I wake up around 5:00 each morning, do a few exercises, pray, and prepare for Mass and Morning Prayer at 5:45. Before the city is fully awake, I can already hear the taxi-buses making their way through the streets. Their drivers seem convinced that the longer they hold down the horn, the more passengers they will attract. I’m not sure if it works or not, but they’re certainly convinced that it does.

At 7:40 I make the twenty-minute walk to my language teacher's house. Stepping outside the gates of the university feels a bit like leaving a small oasis and stepping into a rushing river, where the current of people, cars, and activity carries you along. I start my walk by going down a big hill, which goes all the way too my teacher’s house. At first there are no sidewalks but there are still people walking on both sides of the street. The people are constantly dodging traffic, but the cars seem to make little effort to avoid the people. So, after jumping over a drainage ditch, I immediately make my way to the opposite side of the road so I can face the traffic. I figure at least if a car is about to hit me, I'll see it coming and I can get off a quick “Jesus I trust in you!” before they send me to my heavenly home.

Along the way, I pass by a garbage dump, which always breaks my heart. Sometimes there are people asleep next to the piles of garbage, sometimes they are rummaging through the piles of trash in search of anything of value. It’s a painful reminder that here in the capital many people struggle simply to survive, simply to stay alive.

As I continue downhill, the streets become increasingly alive. Small shops and street vendors begin to line the road, selling fruit, vegetables, meat, household items, and just about everything else imaginable. Here there are actually sidewalks, which at first seems like an improvement, but most of them have been taken over by the vendors who have set up their shops along the narrow walkways. Once again, people are forced to walk in the street, weaving between pedestrians, motorcycles, taxis, and cars.

Open sewers run alongside the road; they are filled with trash, muck, and just about everything you'd expect to find in an open sewer. Taxis and cars leave thick clouds of black exhaust in their wake, dust hangs in the air, and the occasional burst of a car horn cuts through the noise of the street. It’s noisy, crowded, and at times overwhelming, but it’s life as normal here.

At the bottom of the hill sits the house of my language teacher, Madame Elisabeth. Like the university, it feels like another small refuge from the noise and commotion outside. Every morning, she’s waiting for me in her courtyard ready to greet me with a big smile “Salama, Mompera. Manahoana ny fahasalamana?” Hello father, how is your health?

Madame Elisabeth has taught the last several young MEP missionaries sent to Madagascar, Fathers Gabriel, Édouard, and Jérémy. Over the years she has also taught pastors, researchers, priests, and many vazaha, foreigners like me who are learning Malagasy. She even co-authored several language courses designed specifically for foreigners and spent many years teaching French at the Alliance Française.

Fr. Andrew and Madame Elizabeth at the MEP house in Antanimena, Antananarivo

For my first class we talked a bit in French, since that is the language through which I’m learning Malagasy. But before long I was repeating simple words and expressions in Malagasy. Thankfully, she is incredibly patient and encouraging. She even gives me Malagasy tea and biscuits when I start to get tired, trying to encourage me to soldier on, but it’s still a marathon each day from 8 a.m. until noon.

So far, the lessons have gone surprisingly well. The greatest challenge is probably the place of the accents and the length of some words. The placement of an accent can completely change the meaning of a word. For example (accents added), làlana means "road" or "way," while lalàna means "law." Tanàna means "city," or "village" while tànana means "hand." One little accent makes all the difference.

Malagasy also often combines smaller words to form much longer ones. Perhaps the most famous example is the name of King Andrianampoinimerinatompokoindrindra. Broken apart, it actually becomes much less intimidating; to understand, not to pronounce. Andriana means king or noble, am-po means in the heart, Imerina refers to the Merina or Imerina Kingdom, tompoko means my lord, and indrindra means above all or supreme. Together, the name expresses something like, "The King of the Heart of Imerina, my true and supreme lord."

I must confess that when I imagined missionary life, I often pictured going, preaching, teaching, and sharing the absolutely amazing Good News of a God who loves us and who desires to be in relationship with us. But the reality of my life right now is almost the opposite. I'm not teaching anyone. I'm sitting at a desk repeating words like a child. In fact, all the children here speak Malagasy far better than I do, and sometimes I think that even the dogs understand more Malagasy than I do!

After eight years of formation for the priesthood, here I am once again, learning and preparing. It has brought me back to one of the first great struggles I faced after hearing the call to become a missionary priest. When I said yes to the Lord, the idea of being a missionary priest filled me with excitement and zeal. Then I started to really investigate the process and I learned it would require eight years of formation.

Eight years? How in the world could that possibly be necessary? I was thirty years old, directing an international non-profit, already sharing the Gospel, and serving the Church. It seemed almost impossible that God would ask me to leave all that behind and spend nearly a decade studying. Surely there had to be a better way.

I wrestled with that question for quite some time before finally bringing it to the Lord in prayer. I remember praying, "Lord, I'm in my prime. I’m 30 years old and I’m already serving you. How could you… why would you ask me to spend the next eight years of my life studying?"

His answer came quietly, as it always does, but with a clarity that I’ve never forgotten.

"Andrew, I spent thirty years preparing for three years of ministry."

What could I say to that?

I entered the seminary.

Now, nearly a decade later, I find myself back at a desk, turning over little homemade flashcards. One side has a barely pronounceable Malagasy word. The other has its French translation. And, strangely enough, I'm smiling. Strangely enough, I’m filled with joy.

One of the best perks of being a priest: adoration anytime you want!

The Lord continues to remind me that before we are missionaries, we are disciples. Before we teach, we must first be taught. Before we speak, we must first learn to listen. The missionary, the priest, the Christian: all of us are called to sit at the feet of the Rabbi, not only today, but tomorrow too because the moment we are no longer disciples, we are no longer missionaries.

So tomorrow morning I'll get up, pray, celebrate Mass, dodge a few taxis on my walk down the hill, drink some Malagasy tea with Madame Elisabeth, and then I’ll go back to turning over little flashcards.

Anyway, in the grand scheme of things, what’s another couple of years if it helps me to be a better disciple, and therefore, by God's grace, a better priest?