Tonight I opened our ultra-precious jar of Skippy peanut butter and found it teaming with ants. And so I scooped out what little I could and went right on ahead with my PB crackers. Kim yelled at me for wasting too much peanut butter, so she used her fingers to dig through what I’d taken out and picked out just the ants. It reminded me of the time we were making no-bake oatmeal cookies and there were ants everywhere in the oatmeal box, but we poured it in anyway.
I guess real missionaries eat bugs.
(Sorry, mom.)
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Video!
Hey gang, Mark (one of my wonderful stateside sidekicks) finished the video I sent home from Lopit. (Insert HUGE thank you to Mark for this.) If you’d like a copy, you’ve just got to let him know. Send an email to markalexander17@yahoo.com with the subject “Andi’s VIDEO” Include your name and address and Mark will get you off a copy because he’s wonderful like that. (If you’re part of Faith Assembly or Oglesby Union church, let him know in the email. Maybe we can just get them dropped off somehow.) I’m afraid the camera quality isn’t that great (ie: I’m really bad at doing videos), but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Fun in Loki
So we went to Loki (Kenya/Sudan border town; a UN hotspot where they pumped supplies into during the war) last week to restock our supplies for the next two months.
I’d say the theme of the trip was eating.
Within four or so hours of being there, I’d had five cold sodas, two milkshakes, a T-bone steak (or at least the paltry Kenyan version thereof), real french fries and a heaping bowl of ice cream. It was—in a word—incredible.
Loki is basically a dusty, hot mess full of the typical run-down African-style shops and bars, but there is this wonderful oasis called 748—basically a haven for the Western aid workers. There just aren’t words for how great this place is. Imagine—a milkshake!!! We don’t even have a refrigerator out here, let alone a freezer. And a pool table. And there was even a swimming pool at Kate Camp. And cold pop… oh my. I don’t even like soda and it was amazing. Daniel and I spent two days in the Uni-Mog getting the team supplies, and everywhere we went, he’d be like, “Want a cold soda?” By the end of our first day of shopping, we’d drank seven sodas each. Ridiculous.
Despite all the great food and potential for fun, though, the best part was getting back to Husa and thinking… “Home… finally.” I missed our little village and our new friends quite a bit.
PICTURES:
It took us eight hours for us singles to get into Loki in the Uni-Mog (my aforementioned favorite vehicle of all time). We’re forced to be really close for a really long time, but no lives (or tempers) were lost. Praise God.
We found this sweet river bed to take lunch in. This is Jen (from Massachusetts ) and Craig (from Australia ).
Kim and Jen, enjoying the plush back seat the fellas built.
I was stoked about playing pool at 748. Steve (my team leader) was equally stoked, so we took first game. I’d like to happily report that I whooped Steve our first game. I do believe this is why he’s giving me this ridiculous face here. I’d say this is the best picture of him I’ve ever seen. I promise he’s a competent team leader. (And I will confess that he beat me our second game. We didn’t get to play the tie-breaker quite yet.)
Kim really enjoyed the swimming pool.
This is Daniel and I at 748. We just finished big bowls of ice cream and were really happy (especially, apparently, Daniel).
I’d say the theme of the trip was eating.
Within four or so hours of being there, I’d had five cold sodas, two milkshakes, a T-bone steak (or at least the paltry Kenyan version thereof), real french fries and a heaping bowl of ice cream. It was—in a word—incredible.
Loki is basically a dusty, hot mess full of the typical run-down African-style shops and bars, but there is this wonderful oasis called 748—basically a haven for the Western aid workers. There just aren’t words for how great this place is. Imagine—a milkshake!!! We don’t even have a refrigerator out here, let alone a freezer. And a pool table. And there was even a swimming pool at Kate Camp. And cold pop… oh my. I don’t even like soda and it was amazing. Daniel and I spent two days in the Uni-Mog getting the team supplies, and everywhere we went, he’d be like, “Want a cold soda?” By the end of our first day of shopping, we’d drank seven sodas each. Ridiculous.
Despite all the great food and potential for fun, though, the best part was getting back to Husa and thinking… “Home… finally.” I missed our little village and our new friends quite a bit.
PICTURES:
It took us eight hours for us singles to get into Loki in the Uni-Mog (my aforementioned favorite vehicle of all time). We’re forced to be really close for a really long time, but no lives (or tempers) were lost. Praise God.
We found this sweet river bed to take lunch in. This is Jen (from Massachusetts ) and Craig (from Australia ).
Kim and Jen, enjoying the plush back seat the fellas built.
I was stoked about playing pool at 748. Steve (my team leader) was equally stoked, so we took first game. I’d like to happily report that I whooped Steve our first game. I do believe this is why he’s giving me this ridiculous face here. I’d say this is the best picture of him I’ve ever seen. I promise he’s a competent team leader. (And I will confess that he beat me our second game. We didn’t get to play the tie-breaker quite yet.)
Kim really enjoyed the swimming pool.
This is Daniel and I at 748. We just finished big bowls of ice cream and were really happy (especially, apparently, Daniel).
Funerals and Featherdusters
Before I begin… It’s OK for kids to read this post. (My mom told me I need to tell everyone these things.) Oh, and sorry for the length.
Last night, Kim, Heinrich, Daniel and I went to the funeral celebration of a woman who died while we were gone. I say funeral celebration because it was after the three days of mourning that they do. After that, everyone comes from all over the villages to dance in the mangott—the village center.
We’d seen people the night before heading over to the village. In fact, Husa was darn-near empty because they were all over dancing. People were just flowing by in their crazy dancing get-ups. This is where I wish I had pictures. It’s so hilarious to see how the more developed world’s influence has seeped into Lopit.
The people, especially the men, get decked out in any and every colorful thing they have. The munyimigi (mun-you-me-gee)—generally the 20-somethings of the men—are the best. They were these goofy straw hats that look like upside-down buckets. The stick feathers in the hats—the more the better—and if they’re really special, they’ll have something they’ve picked up from Nairobi or the trash. The best? This guy had a pink feather duster—one of the really long ones you use for fans—tied onto his hat. I wanted to die laughing. Then you’ll see pom-poms. Or these weird tassel things in such manly colors as pink and teal and bright purple tied onto their arms. Ace bandages strung around their upper arms. Argyle dress socks pulled all the way up to their knees, with another pair of socks—the brighter the better—puddled around their ankles. Neckties tied around their foreheads or necks, with the body of the tie going down their backs. I even saw a few cell phones clipped to their belts—a sign of prestige. This especially tickled me, since there’s absolutely no cell coverage out here. Many of them had ash or mud smeared all over their upperbodies, and during the dancing the women would smear more on them. Sometimes they’d shove it over their mouths and stuff.
The ladies wore more traditional dresses with no tops and beaded belts. The best was they never wear bras during the day, but they bring them out for dancing. They weren’t quite as decked out as the men, but you’d see the occasional colorful baseball hat from the 80s. They had bells around their ankles and one really awesome lady was wearing just a cowbell on her butt. The lady who has the strongest husband in the village wore just a small blanket but carried a stick with a red flag on it. They honored her by covering her in ash.
It was funny to see how their “bling” was all these normal, every-day things from the States.
They started the thing with the men acting out something in the middle. There were at first just a few, dancing/running around with spears, acting like they were killing or hunting something (I think). Slowly, more and more came and eventually they signaled to the women, who flowed from the “audience” on the rocks and into the dancing place.
They had the drums going in the middle, with the women circling around them, then the men circling everything. The munyimigi led the dancing, which sometimes turned into an all-out sprint in this circle. It was scary, seeing these pregnant women and small children in the mix of things, especially because all the men had spears. If the little kids tripped, they stood the chance of getting trampled, but it was amazing to see the old women just reach into the throw and yank them out. We were wise to go early, because I’ve heard that these things get really out of control as the night goes on. They dance and dance and drink and drink and seriously whip themselves into a frenzy, possessed. We see them the next morning, dragging themselves home. The men and women kept asking us to dance, pulling on us to come off the rocks and into the center.
It’s hard to see this all from the Western perspective because I don’t understand—and can’t comprehend—what’s going on. I wish someone could explain to me why they do what they do and what all this means. (And maybe someone else could explain to me where they got that big feather duster.)
But it was harder to see it from the Christian perspective. The woman who died wasn’t a Christian, and all these people dancing around in her honor also aren’t Christians. And so they’re just dancing their way to eternity in hell. So, once again, I’m reminded of why I’m here and am forced to rely on the sovereignty of God and the power of the gospel.
Last night, Kim, Heinrich, Daniel and I went to the funeral celebration of a woman who died while we were gone. I say funeral celebration because it was after the three days of mourning that they do. After that, everyone comes from all over the villages to dance in the mangott—the village center.
We’d seen people the night before heading over to the village. In fact, Husa was darn-near empty because they were all over dancing. People were just flowing by in their crazy dancing get-ups. This is where I wish I had pictures. It’s so hilarious to see how the more developed world’s influence has seeped into Lopit.
The people, especially the men, get decked out in any and every colorful thing they have. The munyimigi (mun-you-me-gee)—generally the 20-somethings of the men—are the best. They were these goofy straw hats that look like upside-down buckets. The stick feathers in the hats—the more the better—and if they’re really special, they’ll have something they’ve picked up from Nairobi or the trash. The best? This guy had a pink feather duster—one of the really long ones you use for fans—tied onto his hat. I wanted to die laughing. Then you’ll see pom-poms. Or these weird tassel things in such manly colors as pink and teal and bright purple tied onto their arms. Ace bandages strung around their upper arms. Argyle dress socks pulled all the way up to their knees, with another pair of socks—the brighter the better—puddled around their ankles. Neckties tied around their foreheads or necks, with the body of the tie going down their backs. I even saw a few cell phones clipped to their belts—a sign of prestige. This especially tickled me, since there’s absolutely no cell coverage out here. Many of them had ash or mud smeared all over their upperbodies, and during the dancing the women would smear more on them. Sometimes they’d shove it over their mouths and stuff.
The ladies wore more traditional dresses with no tops and beaded belts. The best was they never wear bras during the day, but they bring them out for dancing. They weren’t quite as decked out as the men, but you’d see the occasional colorful baseball hat from the 80s. They had bells around their ankles and one really awesome lady was wearing just a cowbell on her butt. The lady who has the strongest husband in the village wore just a small blanket but carried a stick with a red flag on it. They honored her by covering her in ash.
It was funny to see how their “bling” was all these normal, every-day things from the States.
They started the thing with the men acting out something in the middle. There were at first just a few, dancing/running around with spears, acting like they were killing or hunting something (I think). Slowly, more and more came and eventually they signaled to the women, who flowed from the “audience” on the rocks and into the dancing place.
They had the drums going in the middle, with the women circling around them, then the men circling everything. The munyimigi led the dancing, which sometimes turned into an all-out sprint in this circle. It was scary, seeing these pregnant women and small children in the mix of things, especially because all the men had spears. If the little kids tripped, they stood the chance of getting trampled, but it was amazing to see the old women just reach into the throw and yank them out. We were wise to go early, because I’ve heard that these things get really out of control as the night goes on. They dance and dance and drink and drink and seriously whip themselves into a frenzy, possessed. We see them the next morning, dragging themselves home. The men and women kept asking us to dance, pulling on us to come off the rocks and into the center.
It’s hard to see this all from the Western perspective because I don’t understand—and can’t comprehend—what’s going on. I wish someone could explain to me why they do what they do and what all this means. (And maybe someone else could explain to me where they got that big feather duster.)
But it was harder to see it from the Christian perspective. The woman who died wasn’t a Christian, and all these people dancing around in her honor also aren’t Christians. And so they’re just dancing their way to eternity in hell. So, once again, I’m reminded of why I’m here and am forced to rely on the sovereignty of God and the power of the gospel.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Tragedy next door
Late last night, the one-year-old child of our neighbors fell into a fire and burned to death.
It’s days like this that make me wonder if my heart can take Africa.
Sure, kids die all the time here. But this particular case really has me paralyzed with emotion, because in it, I’m forced to recognize certain realities of this place.
The child fell into a cooking fire inside the hut—they keep their fires in holes about a foot or so deep. The parents didn’t wake up to the child’s screams. But we’re not talking a typical two-story suburban home here, where the parents could have legitimately (or at least more believably) been far enough away not to hear the kid screaming. We’re talking a grass hut, perhaps 12 feet in diameter, where they’re all sleeping. So how can a parent not wake up? Most likely because they were passed out from drinking balu (beer) and dancing to the rainmaker all night. That’s how it goes around here—all day in the fields, all night drinking beer, often as your children wonder around with their agemates, the youngest of the children strapped to their backs. (You see a lot, too, the results of the drunk mothers dropping their babies off their backs and into fires—horrible burns and disfigurations.)
They say it’s Jok. I guess you could call him the bad god. When something bad happens, it’s Jok and he takes when he wants, they say. If he’s hungry and he wants meat, he takes. So they have no control, you see. It’s a very fatalist way of thinking—if he wants you dead, you died. And so there’s no concern for safety or prevention. Why put a fence or stones around the fireplace? If Jok wants to take the baby with fire, he’ll take it anyway.
As I sit here, filled with emotion, Im’ made to wonder what or if these people are feeling. This may sound strange, but it’s easy to see the Lopit (or many Africans) as devoid of all feelings. And, surely, this is because we experience and handle feelings differently. But you can’t help but wonder. Late night, the village was going nuts, wailing and screaming, mourning the baby’s death. And this morning, Husa and all the surrounding villages are somber. That’s nice to see, because I know they’re feeling. Part of me wonders, too, if it’s not a more genuine, human kind of mourning—this wailing and screaming—than our custom of quietly sniffing as we pass by a coffin and family members, somberly delivering our condolences with measured emotion. But it’s in other things that I want to know what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling.
We went to the funeral and as I sat there, I looked inside the hut.
And I saw the firepit—the same firepit the baby had burned in not 14 hours earlier.
And they were cooking over it.
My whole body felt sick. My senses revolted against me—I swore I could smell the burning flesh—and it was so hard to keep it together.
And then I wondered—how can they not feel this, think this?
Someday I hope to be able to ask them that, to talk with the women in Lopit.
For now, I’ll pray for the gospel to renew this place.
I guess the whole thing—as much as it makes me think perhaps my heart is not strong enough—reminds me why I’m here. These people need the gospel. They need a hope that can be for more than for rain or against the whim of some meat-hungry god. And they need renewed minds. Not Western minds, but minds transformed by the gospel of Jesus Christ. And, really, that’s where it has to start.
And so I pray that you’ll believe God for that with me, that He’ll transform this community with the gospel. Because, truly, truly, He is able.
It’s days like this that make me wonder if my heart can take Africa.
Sure, kids die all the time here. But this particular case really has me paralyzed with emotion, because in it, I’m forced to recognize certain realities of this place.
The child fell into a cooking fire inside the hut—they keep their fires in holes about a foot or so deep. The parents didn’t wake up to the child’s screams. But we’re not talking a typical two-story suburban home here, where the parents could have legitimately (or at least more believably) been far enough away not to hear the kid screaming. We’re talking a grass hut, perhaps 12 feet in diameter, where they’re all sleeping. So how can a parent not wake up? Most likely because they were passed out from drinking balu (beer) and dancing to the rainmaker all night. That’s how it goes around here—all day in the fields, all night drinking beer, often as your children wonder around with their agemates, the youngest of the children strapped to their backs. (You see a lot, too, the results of the drunk mothers dropping their babies off their backs and into fires—horrible burns and disfigurations.)
They say it’s Jok. I guess you could call him the bad god. When something bad happens, it’s Jok and he takes when he wants, they say. If he’s hungry and he wants meat, he takes. So they have no control, you see. It’s a very fatalist way of thinking—if he wants you dead, you died. And so there’s no concern for safety or prevention. Why put a fence or stones around the fireplace? If Jok wants to take the baby with fire, he’ll take it anyway.
As I sit here, filled with emotion, Im’ made to wonder what or if these people are feeling. This may sound strange, but it’s easy to see the Lopit (or many Africans) as devoid of all feelings. And, surely, this is because we experience and handle feelings differently. But you can’t help but wonder. Late night, the village was going nuts, wailing and screaming, mourning the baby’s death. And this morning, Husa and all the surrounding villages are somber. That’s nice to see, because I know they’re feeling. Part of me wonders, too, if it’s not a more genuine, human kind of mourning—this wailing and screaming—than our custom of quietly sniffing as we pass by a coffin and family members, somberly delivering our condolences with measured emotion. But it’s in other things that I want to know what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling.
We went to the funeral and as I sat there, I looked inside the hut.
And I saw the firepit—the same firepit the baby had burned in not 14 hours earlier.
And they were cooking over it.
My whole body felt sick. My senses revolted against me—I swore I could smell the burning flesh—and it was so hard to keep it together.
And then I wondered—how can they not feel this, think this?
Someday I hope to be able to ask them that, to talk with the women in Lopit.
For now, I’ll pray for the gospel to renew this place.
I guess the whole thing—as much as it makes me think perhaps my heart is not strong enough—reminds me why I’m here. These people need the gospel. They need a hope that can be for more than for rain or against the whim of some meat-hungry god. And they need renewed minds. Not Western minds, but minds transformed by the gospel of Jesus Christ. And, really, that’s where it has to start.
And so I pray that you’ll believe God for that with me, that He’ll transform this community with the gospel. Because, truly, truly, He is able.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
This is the Uni-Mog, this hardcore truck that is the singles’ vehicle. Steve took this picture on our way back from Torit. I love the Uni-Mog. I think I’m going to name my first child after it. Around here, people name their kids in the craziest ways. If it’s raining, they name it rain. If it’s harvest time, they name it weeding. I even met a child named UN because it was born when the UN was dropping food. (That was really sad to me in some way.) So I’m going to name mine Uni-Mog because I love the Uni-Mog.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Kim & Asunta
This is my roomie Kim and our little friend Asunta, sleeping on the rocks in our front yard. Asunta is an adorable neighbor girl, but she always makes us laugh because she never fails to smell her hand after she shakes hands with us. This is a mystery we may never unravel. Whatever the case, I just really liked this quite moment in our life in Lopit…
Play ball! And other fun in Lopit
In case anyone was wondering, my side job of spreading the good news of baseball is progressing quite nicely. I rarely can get anyone to play catch with me here—Daniel the German doesn’t know the slightest thing about baseball and I think Craig fears my catcher’s arm—but the other day I took up a game of toss with Steve's house help.
She was doing really well all things considered (ie: the fact that she grew up in the bush of Sudan ), and we soon attracted an audience.
Eventually a guy asked if they could too play this game, so I figured, why not teach them about the whole of baseball? Next thing I know, we’ve got a few trees and the corner of the church building as bases and a rather paltry, flimsy stick as a bat.
And suddenly we’re playing baseball.
In Lopit.
And my heart rejoiced.
Sure, it wasn’t baseball in its purest form, but it was baseball nonetheless, and I went away joyful in the way the Lord chose to encourage me.
On other happenings in Lopit…
- I’m still enjoying my new home and new neighbors. I can’t go anywhere in any of the villages without children (or adults) running down from their houses, yelling “Ibedja! Ibedja!” (Ibedja—“ee-bed-JA”—is my Lopit name; it means “runner.”) It makes me feel really special and encouraged, and it shows me all the opportunities for relationships out there.
- My ankle is healing quite well, though it’s definitely been frustrating not being able to get around quickly and easily. Perhaps it was God’s way of slowing me down. The whole of the hills has had me under close watch since it happened. Every where I go, it’s “Ibedja, Ibedja—kai, kai!” (“Go slowly, go slowly!”) It’s a humorous thing, being the runner that everyone always tells to slow down. They were all just so concerned—everywhere I went, “Ibedja, how’s your leg? How’s your arm? You fell down the river. The river, I hear you fell down it. You went to Loki. Was Loki OK? You’re back. Oh but you fell! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How’s your leg? How’s your arm? You fell down the river. But you’re back from Loki now. You’re back? You’re back. The river is bad, the river is bad!” (This is how they talk. No joke.)
- This whole thing with them knowing our every move isn’t so uncommon. I swear, all they talk about all day long is what the white people are doing. I’m afraid that’s hardly an exaggeration. I can’t leave the house without a full barrage of questions about where I’m going and where I’m coming from and an update on the whereabouts of my roommates (Kim is here and here and she went here and here and visited this place and that place) and my other teammates, as well as a briefing on my own actions from the previous day, just in case I was wondering. Yesterday I went to the river for the first time since The Great Biff and everyone in the village called to me as I went by with my laundry on my head, and as I came back. Again with the “kai, kai!” Hilarious.
- I spit on an old lady the other day. Really, flat-out spit on her. And it was culturally appropriate. We were joking around with greetings—they shake hands here for a really long time, so sometimes I just keep shaking until it gets awkward for them, too, or I pretend my arm is going to fall off—and so she unleashed another typical Lopit greeting. She took my head in her hands, blew on one ear, then the other, then spat on my head. I figured two could play at that game. So, yeah, I spit on her. I think I’m fully African now.
- I spent about five hours making a loaf of bread the other day. The joys of bush cooking. I’m glad to report, however, that the bread was quite delicious. It’s weird that cooking can consume so much of my day, but I’m really coming to enjoy it. Maybe bush cooking isn’t so hard after all; it’s the lack of variety that might take some getting used to. (It’d be nice to eat something other than carbs, haha.)
Alright, there you go. I’m really, really loving it here. Thanks again for all the prayers. Please continue them, especially for language learning and relationships! God bless!
She was doing really well all things considered (ie: the fact that she grew up in the bush of Sudan ), and we soon attracted an audience.
Eventually a guy asked if they could too play this game, so I figured, why not teach them about the whole of baseball? Next thing I know, we’ve got a few trees and the corner of the church building as bases and a rather paltry, flimsy stick as a bat.
And suddenly we’re playing baseball.
In Lopit.
And my heart rejoiced.
Sure, it wasn’t baseball in its purest form, but it was baseball nonetheless, and I went away joyful in the way the Lord chose to encourage me.
On other happenings in Lopit…
- I’m still enjoying my new home and new neighbors. I can’t go anywhere in any of the villages without children (or adults) running down from their houses, yelling “Ibedja! Ibedja!” (Ibedja—“ee-bed-JA”—is my Lopit name; it means “runner.”) It makes me feel really special and encouraged, and it shows me all the opportunities for relationships out there.
- My ankle is healing quite well, though it’s definitely been frustrating not being able to get around quickly and easily. Perhaps it was God’s way of slowing me down. The whole of the hills has had me under close watch since it happened. Every where I go, it’s “Ibedja, Ibedja—kai, kai!” (“Go slowly, go slowly!”) It’s a humorous thing, being the runner that everyone always tells to slow down. They were all just so concerned—everywhere I went, “Ibedja, how’s your leg? How’s your arm? You fell down the river. The river, I hear you fell down it. You went to Loki. Was Loki OK? You’re back. Oh but you fell! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How’s your leg? How’s your arm? You fell down the river. But you’re back from Loki now. You’re back? You’re back. The river is bad, the river is bad!” (This is how they talk. No joke.)
- This whole thing with them knowing our every move isn’t so uncommon. I swear, all they talk about all day long is what the white people are doing. I’m afraid that’s hardly an exaggeration. I can’t leave the house without a full barrage of questions about where I’m going and where I’m coming from and an update on the whereabouts of my roommates (Kim is here and here and she went here and here and visited this place and that place) and my other teammates, as well as a briefing on my own actions from the previous day, just in case I was wondering. Yesterday I went to the river for the first time since The Great Biff and everyone in the village called to me as I went by with my laundry on my head, and as I came back. Again with the “kai, kai!” Hilarious.
- I spit on an old lady the other day. Really, flat-out spit on her. And it was culturally appropriate. We were joking around with greetings—they shake hands here for a really long time, so sometimes I just keep shaking until it gets awkward for them, too, or I pretend my arm is going to fall off—and so she unleashed another typical Lopit greeting. She took my head in her hands, blew on one ear, then the other, then spat on my head. I figured two could play at that game. So, yeah, I spit on her. I think I’m fully African now.
- I spent about five hours making a loaf of bread the other day. The joys of bush cooking. I’m glad to report, however, that the bread was quite delicious. It’s weird that cooking can consume so much of my day, but I’m really coming to enjoy it. Maybe bush cooking isn’t so hard after all; it’s the lack of variety that might take some getting used to. (It’d be nice to eat something other than carbs, haha.)
Alright, there you go. I’m really, really loving it here. Thanks again for all the prayers. Please continue them, especially for language learning and relationships! God bless!
“Wung, wung, dure dung ahang anang!”
(Come, come, all you children, to our house!)
The most amazing thing happened two nights ago, and I’ve been anxious to tell you about it. First, some background.
About a week ago, we had kids come running on to the compound around 8 at night with torches, all excited. We couldn’t figure out what they wanted at first—I could hear my roommate Pattie praying up a storm in her confusion—but we eventually figured out they wanted to sing. You see, the day before I put my iPod outside with some speakers while I was cooking, and all the kids came around and I eventually taught them such wonderful dance moves as the airplane, lawnmower and push-cart.
So here they were, wanting to sing. It started with four. Then it doubled. And more and more came until we eventually had 23 children crowded around our lanterns and Pattie’s guitar. Wow, huh? We sang some Lopit church songs the kids knew then also did some in English. (I think Rachel’s group must have taught them “God is so good,” because they sing it all the time. Unfortunately, they also sing the tune to the chicken dance, also taught to them by Rachel & Co. Haha.) Anyway, we went to bed that night amazed at our impromptu worship session with the kids—these kids don’t go to church, you see—and praying that God would continue to use us in the village despite the fact that we’re not yet doing any formal ministry.
For the next two days, all the kids came to our house at dark, wanting to sing again. Once we were gone and once we were just way too tired, but we promised them we’d do it Tuesday night. And so Tuesday came, and all the children were a-buzz with the news that they were singing and dancing at the Husa house that night. All day, children came by, chattering about it.
But 8 o’clock came around and we were sitting outside in our compound, alone with empty stools. We just looked at each other, shocked and confused.
But then we heard it—the pattering of little feet and shrill laughter—and next thing we knew, the place was jumping. The kids just kept coming and coming. Pattie played the guitar, Kim sang with the kids and I was managing the crowd and searching for anything and everything in our house that could be used as a noisemaker. The kids went absolutely nuts over tin cans with beans. A big hit.
After about half an hour, the three of us stepped back and looked with awe over all the children. I took my flashlight and shined it over them for the first time—they were literally on top of one another, singing and smiling and beating our buckets and bowls. There were more than 40 kids there, all worshiping the Lord—not the witchdoctor, not the rainmaker, not any false gods. But the King of Kings, Lord of Lords.
It was, in a word, awesome.
Even better was that three of our adult friends came, as well. We watched, amazed, as one of them took up a drum (errr… wash bucket) and the other started to lead songs from the Otuka songbook we had.
We hardly speak Lopit. We hardly spoke any that night. But surely God is working. Surely he is communicating to the hearts of these people. They know we’re different. They see our joy.
Oh, that they may see our God.
(Come, come, all you children, to our house!)
The most amazing thing happened two nights ago, and I’ve been anxious to tell you about it. First, some background.
About a week ago, we had kids come running on to the compound around 8 at night with torches, all excited. We couldn’t figure out what they wanted at first—I could hear my roommate Pattie praying up a storm in her confusion—but we eventually figured out they wanted to sing. You see, the day before I put my iPod outside with some speakers while I was cooking, and all the kids came around and I eventually taught them such wonderful dance moves as the airplane, lawnmower and push-cart.
So here they were, wanting to sing. It started with four. Then it doubled. And more and more came until we eventually had 23 children crowded around our lanterns and Pattie’s guitar. Wow, huh? We sang some Lopit church songs the kids knew then also did some in English. (I think Rachel’s group must have taught them “God is so good,” because they sing it all the time. Unfortunately, they also sing the tune to the chicken dance, also taught to them by Rachel & Co. Haha.) Anyway, we went to bed that night amazed at our impromptu worship session with the kids—these kids don’t go to church, you see—and praying that God would continue to use us in the village despite the fact that we’re not yet doing any formal ministry.
For the next two days, all the kids came to our house at dark, wanting to sing again. Once we were gone and once we were just way too tired, but we promised them we’d do it Tuesday night. And so Tuesday came, and all the children were a-buzz with the news that they were singing and dancing at the Husa house that night. All day, children came by, chattering about it.
But 8 o’clock came around and we were sitting outside in our compound, alone with empty stools. We just looked at each other, shocked and confused.
But then we heard it—the pattering of little feet and shrill laughter—and next thing we knew, the place was jumping. The kids just kept coming and coming. Pattie played the guitar, Kim sang with the kids and I was managing the crowd and searching for anything and everything in our house that could be used as a noisemaker. The kids went absolutely nuts over tin cans with beans. A big hit.
After about half an hour, the three of us stepped back and looked with awe over all the children. I took my flashlight and shined it over them for the first time—they were literally on top of one another, singing and smiling and beating our buckets and bowls. There were more than 40 kids there, all worshiping the Lord—not the witchdoctor, not the rainmaker, not any false gods. But the King of Kings, Lord of Lords.
It was, in a word, awesome.
Even better was that three of our adult friends came, as well. We watched, amazed, as one of them took up a drum (errr… wash bucket) and the other started to lead songs from the Otuka songbook we had.
We hardly speak Lopit. We hardly spoke any that night. But surely God is working. Surely he is communicating to the hearts of these people. They know we’re different. They see our joy.
Oh, that they may see our God.
September, already?!
Another week gone by in the bush! I’ll try to spare you the long, boring posts this time. My apologies for the droning on—that’s what happens when you’re laid up for a week with a swollen ankle and then a fever. I promise I’ll keep far too busy to do that ever again.
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