I didn’t actually run away. It was more organized than that. And with the well wishes of family, friends and co-workers who have heard my mantra over the last two and a half years.

“I might be going to Africa this fall … .”

For the next two months my home is the second story of an old white and brown building with wooden floors and high, white ceilings. The doors are heavy wood, with brass latches and knobs that creak when you turn them.

The bell just rang. I am expecting friends for a hike, so I almost pushed the button that opens the iron gate at the bottom of the stairs. I changed my mind and ran down to peek at who it might be first.

A man in his 40s, perhaps, speaking in English with such a thick accent I could not understand him. He was saying something about his daughter. As I was trying to convince him I couldn’t understand him, the phone rang. I told him I had to go answer it. He said, clearly enough for me to understand, “Will you be back?”

I said “no” over my shoulder and ran up the stairs.

The phone call was to tell me the hiking trip to the cave was off. If the sun comes back out, I might go surfing instead.

Back to the man.

I am naive, I know. I have promised everyone I will be safe, use my head and not put myself in precarious situations. But I am in this place to be a blessing. At least, that is my hope. So should I have walked back down the stairs and tried to listen, and understand at least, what he was asking for, what he needed?

I want to be wise. But not unkind.

How do I learn and practice compassion, while turning my back on the very opportunity of it? This bothers me. Seven weeks to learn, I suppose.

The thought before the bell rang — I am the third roommate. Petra, who is Dutch, and Jo, from the UK, are the others. In the mornings, since Petra is gone for two weeks, Jo and I drink coffee in the kitchen, wonder if it could be a good day for surfing and talk about God.

God is the reason I am here. Since traveling to Europe for two months the year after I graduated from high school, I have longed to travel with purpose. Not just a vacation to entertain myself, but a trip to serve.

Two and a half years ago, after my first journalism class, I thought, “Aha, I have a skill to take with me. Now I am ready for that trip.”

And I love Africa. So I e-mailed this small group in Cape Town, South Africa. They are the communications team for Youth With a Mission in Africa. Their office sits in the middle of my apartment.

Youth With a Mission is a Christian organization with the motto, “To know God and make him known.”

There are nearly 1,000 YWAM bases in 149 countries with a staff of almost 16,000.

There is a YWAM base next door to me, in an old hotel that used to be named “Shrimpy’s” and had a giant shrimp on the front. I take my dinners with the group of perhaps 60 students and staff.

These dinners intimidate me. I feel like the little neighbor girl tagging along with a family event. OK, not after I get brave, introduce myself and start up a witty conversation. Perhaps that’s a bit overboard.

Either way, I enjoy it once the initial fear passes.

Fear. That gets me so often. I really am afraid of people. Laugh on, everyone who knows me. But it’s true. Each evening I wish I could back out of dinner, avoid that awkward time of choosing where to sit, smile bravely and act like I’m not afraid.

I suppose I could have tried that this morning, with that man at the gate. But, I admit, I panicked.

And maybe, like at those next-door dinners, after the initial thrust of bravery, everything would have been fine.

But I felt cornered in my second story tower. Jo is at church, and I feel uneasy, on my own for the morning. I don’t like being alone here.

I would rather be outside, exploring the beach and little shops, seeing the people who live here.

But I am afraid.

I don’t want to meet that man on the street, by myself, with no gate between us. Harmless as he might be.