Had a strange visitor to the church yesterday.
The rainmaker.
Yeah, Mama Justina showed up at church.
The surprises keep coming!
It was a little awkward, as it was pretty obvious the entire sermon was preached directly at her. (She was sitting right behind me, so I can say with a lot of confidence that if not the message was pointedly addressed, then at least Pastor’s gaze, haha.) They definitely made a big deal about her being there. Not sure yet how exactly I feel about that.
Then, stranger yet, we had tea and lunch with the rainmaker. She was an honored guest at Steve’s place after church.
Lots of the team was there, and a handful of churchfolk, and we were just chilling most of the time. Then Steve and Pastor gave an appropriate speech, thanking her for coming, telling her we appreciate the welcome we’ve received here (she’s pretty much the Mama of the whole of Lopitland) and telling her about the message we came to share. She was attentive and gave her own little speech back, recalling the days when the missionaries first came here, what they and the government brought to the Lopit people—a clinic, a school, a church and clothes. (She focused a lot on the clothes—once, we were naked, then you gave us clothes.) She even talked about fellowshipping with the missionaries at the church.
It’s all very strange. Just strange.
But it was nice for her to come, nice to hear from her, nice to be completely bewildered at what could possibly be going through her head.
Teamfolk have been greeting her now and then, and she’s told them she doesn’t tell the people to bring her things, doesn’t tell them to work for her, etc. I dunno, the whole thing is nuts and I haven’t figured it out, though I hope we can get a glimpse into it someday.
But at least for this day, I can say we had lunch with the rainmaker. After church.
Weird.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
All that for a silly bird…
So we were pretty jazzed this weekend. There was an excited buzz going around the villages about all this stuff they were going to do.
Saturday morning, the women called us out of our house to stand in the drizzle and watch with them as the men ran down the mountain and into the valley. They were all dressed up, fully loaded down with ammo and guns and running full speed, all joining in the valley like little ants and spreading off into two directions around the ends of the U of the mountain range.
It was the great hunting day, and they were off to kill all sorts of delicious animals—some to give to the rainmaker, some to keep for them to enjoy. The kids in Cath and Jen’s village were giddy as they explained the Munu Miji were going to go kill an elephant (!!!) and carry it back to the village. Other, more realistic (or perhaps just pessimistic) folk spoke less of giant elephants and more of gazelles and antelope. But whoever was talking about it was talking big and with wide, excited (yay even hungry) eyes.
So, they went and we waited all day, anxious for the footrace that was supposed to take place later. The Obejas (runners) from our cluster of villages and three or four other clusters were all coming to race one another. Craiger was invited to join them, the lone white representative. (I was also invited to join, by virtue of my white skin, I imagine, and name, Ibeja—the female form of runner. I declined on the virtue of my gender—I would have been the only woman running!) Then there was all the rumblings about the big wrestling match that would take place in the dancing place of the main village later.
Oh, all the excitement! It seemed a bit to me like a town preparing for the summer’s county fair… sans, of course, the funnel cakes, other delicious fair food, carnival rides and—this might be the worst part—the rodeo. But, still, good times were afoot!
Or so we thought.
The Munu Miji (I spell this differently each post) came back with much fanfare, hooting and yelling and dancing and all that as they paraded into the rainmakers compound, still in their garb. They kept coming and coming, but Cath noticed a little something missing—all the bamboo poles with dead animals tied on them. She didn’t see a thing.
So she asked one of the Muni Miji where everything was.
Awkward pause.
He held up a pint-sized carcass.
“All we got was this bird.”
Cath did her best to keep a straight face.
“There was just so much rain, Toriana.”
Sympathetic nodding. I’m not sure how she didn’t die laughing. I guess her and Jen were in fits when they got back home, though.
Imagine, all those Munu Miji, armed to the teeth, trying to stalk all sorts of wild game and finally having to resort to a silly little bird. Can you imagine dozens of AK-47’s pointed at the poor, unlucky thing? I’m surprised there was anything left of it, with all the bullets that must’ve flown in its direction. Oh, I mean, WOW, that’s funny.
And, yes, of course I do feel sort of bad for them—all of them standing there, shivering something terrible from the rain, and presenting a single silly bird to their beloved rainmaker.
And I do feel bad for the guy I met on the path today. His foot was badly swollen and bandaged above his ankle. What happened?! I asked. He was shot in the foot on the hunt.
So, a bird and this poor fella’s leg.
Maybe not quite the carnival it was supposed to be.
Saturday morning, the women called us out of our house to stand in the drizzle and watch with them as the men ran down the mountain and into the valley. They were all dressed up, fully loaded down with ammo and guns and running full speed, all joining in the valley like little ants and spreading off into two directions around the ends of the U of the mountain range.
It was the great hunting day, and they were off to kill all sorts of delicious animals—some to give to the rainmaker, some to keep for them to enjoy. The kids in Cath and Jen’s village were giddy as they explained the Munu Miji were going to go kill an elephant (!!!) and carry it back to the village. Other, more realistic (or perhaps just pessimistic) folk spoke less of giant elephants and more of gazelles and antelope. But whoever was talking about it was talking big and with wide, excited (yay even hungry) eyes.
So, they went and we waited all day, anxious for the footrace that was supposed to take place later. The Obejas (runners) from our cluster of villages and three or four other clusters were all coming to race one another. Craiger was invited to join them, the lone white representative. (I was also invited to join, by virtue of my white skin, I imagine, and name, Ibeja—the female form of runner. I declined on the virtue of my gender—I would have been the only woman running!) Then there was all the rumblings about the big wrestling match that would take place in the dancing place of the main village later.
Oh, all the excitement! It seemed a bit to me like a town preparing for the summer’s county fair… sans, of course, the funnel cakes, other delicious fair food, carnival rides and—this might be the worst part—the rodeo. But, still, good times were afoot!
Or so we thought.
The Munu Miji (I spell this differently each post) came back with much fanfare, hooting and yelling and dancing and all that as they paraded into the rainmakers compound, still in their garb. They kept coming and coming, but Cath noticed a little something missing—all the bamboo poles with dead animals tied on them. She didn’t see a thing.
So she asked one of the Muni Miji where everything was.
Awkward pause.
He held up a pint-sized carcass.
“All we got was this bird.”
Cath did her best to keep a straight face.
“There was just so much rain, Toriana.”
Sympathetic nodding. I’m not sure how she didn’t die laughing. I guess her and Jen were in fits when they got back home, though.
Imagine, all those Munu Miji, armed to the teeth, trying to stalk all sorts of wild game and finally having to resort to a silly little bird. Can you imagine dozens of AK-47’s pointed at the poor, unlucky thing? I’m surprised there was anything left of it, with all the bullets that must’ve flown in its direction. Oh, I mean, WOW, that’s funny.
And, yes, of course I do feel sort of bad for them—all of them standing there, shivering something terrible from the rain, and presenting a single silly bird to their beloved rainmaker.
And I do feel bad for the guy I met on the path today. His foot was badly swollen and bandaged above his ankle. What happened?! I asked. He was shot in the foot on the hunt.
So, a bird and this poor fella’s leg.
Maybe not quite the carnival it was supposed to be.
Keep a’prayin’….
Well, Steve hopped a plane for Nairobi today, on account of him being sicker than a dog.
In fact, he must be sick something fierce, because never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought he would be on a plane out of here. But he’s been hammered by a fever—it comes and goes, and comes back hotter each time—and body pain, looks pretty much half dead most of the time these last few days. And all the malaria tests say no. You wouldn’t know it if you saw him—he can’t seem to get a moment’s rest—but I guess he’s been a little delirious and would have his legs suddenly stop working. Weird. Like I said, though, the idea of Mr. Hardcore being airlifted… pretty wild.
Anyway, pray for him—safety in travel, a calm mind/heart about his family and team back here and, of course, a quick diagnosis and healing. And pray for Iris and the kiddos and our team, here without our fearless leader (yet, rest assured, completely capable and fine).
In fact, he must be sick something fierce, because never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought he would be on a plane out of here. But he’s been hammered by a fever—it comes and goes, and comes back hotter each time—and body pain, looks pretty much half dead most of the time these last few days. And all the malaria tests say no. You wouldn’t know it if you saw him—he can’t seem to get a moment’s rest—but I guess he’s been a little delirious and would have his legs suddenly stop working. Weird. Like I said, though, the idea of Mr. Hardcore being airlifted… pretty wild.
Anyway, pray for him—safety in travel, a calm mind/heart about his family and team back here and, of course, a quick diagnosis and healing. And pray for Iris and the kiddos and our team, here without our fearless leader (yet, rest assured, completely capable and fine).
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Prayer Request
Please pray for my motivation and discipline in language and culture learning, and in building relationships here. It’s just so hard for me to be intentional about being with the ladies, and to be intentional about studying the language. I can get by with what I have, but I certainly need more to be an effective witness here. So please be lifting that up! I have been sufficiently humbled in this whole language thing. I’m really not good at it.
School HolYdays
One of our students and friends, Cecelia, brought us a crinkled note yesterday.
From Teacher Taudesio Odwa.
“We had just been informed by the Education Administration Office (we have an administration office?) to close the School for first-term holydays [sic] with effect from 15th April – 15th May. This is for your information, forgive me for not doing so before.”
Riiiiight. First-term holYdays? They haven’t even gotten things up and going yet. And for a MONTH? Ugh.Oh well, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. I can focus on the preschool now. I’m working on scraping paint and cleaning things up so I can paint. And, Lord and finances willing, I’ll be buying curriculum and class materials when we head to Kampala for supplies in a few weeks. So get excited about that. :)
From Teacher Taudesio Odwa.
“We had just been informed by the Education Administration Office (we have an administration office?) to close the School for first-term holydays [sic] with effect from 15th April – 15th May. This is for your information, forgive me for not doing so before.”
Riiiiight. First-term holYdays? They haven’t even gotten things up and going yet. And for a MONTH? Ugh.Oh well, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. I can focus on the preschool now. I’m working on scraping paint and cleaning things up so I can paint. And, Lord and finances willing, I’ll be buying curriculum and class materials when we head to Kampala for supplies in a few weeks. So get excited about that. :)
And then it rained…
God let loose on this place Wednesday night. It was… amazing.
The rain finally came. And came. And came. And came, and came, and came.
It rained all night, and not without fanfare. The lightning would snap and you could see the silhouette of the mountains and far out across the plains. The thunder shook said mountains and rattled everything in our house, including me. My heart actually felt as it if were hiding, for fear, behind my ribs, trembling. My body was quivering. I sat on my bed, writing letters home, and started at every new blast and then giggled with my housemates in awe of the great Conductor of this noisy orchestra. It was beyond my comprehension that these Lopeeps did not tremble with fear, could not recognize the long thunderblasts as the voice of a God wanting to be known, wanting to be glorified. I wonder what they were thinking.
Anyway, that great rain seems to have opened the skies for rainy season, as it’s been wet, wet, wet since. They nearly cancelled school on Thursday. Imagine, a rain day. Ha! Iron sheet roofs make quite a racket under even the tiniest bit of rain, making teaching impossible. I took the chance to celebrate the rain with a muddy, muddy workout bike ride, leaving no puddle untouched. I was soaked through, covered in ick from head to toe… but so, so, so happy to finally have relief from the dry season. And it’s actually raining now—making it a perfect, cool Saturday morning for journaling, studying the Word and writing letters home.
Praise God for the rain!
The rain finally came. And came. And came. And came, and came, and came.
It rained all night, and not without fanfare. The lightning would snap and you could see the silhouette of the mountains and far out across the plains. The thunder shook said mountains and rattled everything in our house, including me. My heart actually felt as it if were hiding, for fear, behind my ribs, trembling. My body was quivering. I sat on my bed, writing letters home, and started at every new blast and then giggled with my housemates in awe of the great Conductor of this noisy orchestra. It was beyond my comprehension that these Lopeeps did not tremble with fear, could not recognize the long thunderblasts as the voice of a God wanting to be known, wanting to be glorified. I wonder what they were thinking.
Anyway, that great rain seems to have opened the skies for rainy season, as it’s been wet, wet, wet since. They nearly cancelled school on Thursday. Imagine, a rain day. Ha! Iron sheet roofs make quite a racket under even the tiniest bit of rain, making teaching impossible. I took the chance to celebrate the rain with a muddy, muddy workout bike ride, leaving no puddle untouched. I was soaked through, covered in ick from head to toe… but so, so, so happy to finally have relief from the dry season. And it’s actually raining now—making it a perfect, cool Saturday morning for journaling, studying the Word and writing letters home.
Praise God for the rain!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
And still no rain…
The clouds haven’t opened yet for us here in Lopit, and I’m not exactly sure what that means.
I’m becoming more convinced that maybe God is just holding it back. Every other place in Sudan has got rain, but not us.
It drizzled just a bit the other day and it set the people dancing like wild. It hasn’t dripped a drop since.
The rainmaker grows more and more nervous, I hear. The Munimiji are wondering what the heck is going on. The rainmaker now claims she put a spell on to make it not rain because people haven’t done enough for her or brought her enough gifts.
Some of the team went on a mini-outreach the other day, to check out a baptism in a village a couple hours away. They said a situation like this happened there, where it didn’t rain and didn’t rain and the rainmaker kept going ‘round and ‘round. Well, they eventually buried said rainmaker alive… and then it poured. I guess that’s not an isolated thing, burying the rainmaker alive. (Eeek.)
It’s starting to effect more than just the water now. Iris says there’s starting to be starvation in the villages. They get people daily coming to beg for food. We had our first such visitors yesterday, as well. I think this is a cultural struggle I’m not at all prepared for.
The hardest thing is, these people get food from the UN or World Food Program. And they tell the UN and WFP that there are about a gazillion more people here than actually are, so they really cash in. And they take the food they get and make beer out of it. So is this not just reaping what they sow? (But what exactly are the children sowing?)
It’s not so bad, yet. And I’m not sure it will get so bad. I wouldn’t have known about it, had Iris not told me and I noticed a few people have left to go for food elsewhere.
Anyway, just pray that God is glorified—in the famine, in the heat, in the dryness and in the rain, if He wills it come.
I’m becoming more convinced that maybe God is just holding it back. Every other place in Sudan has got rain, but not us.
It drizzled just a bit the other day and it set the people dancing like wild. It hasn’t dripped a drop since.
The rainmaker grows more and more nervous, I hear. The Munimiji are wondering what the heck is going on. The rainmaker now claims she put a spell on to make it not rain because people haven’t done enough for her or brought her enough gifts.
Some of the team went on a mini-outreach the other day, to check out a baptism in a village a couple hours away. They said a situation like this happened there, where it didn’t rain and didn’t rain and the rainmaker kept going ‘round and ‘round. Well, they eventually buried said rainmaker alive… and then it poured. I guess that’s not an isolated thing, burying the rainmaker alive. (Eeek.)
It’s starting to effect more than just the water now. Iris says there’s starting to be starvation in the villages. They get people daily coming to beg for food. We had our first such visitors yesterday, as well. I think this is a cultural struggle I’m not at all prepared for.
The hardest thing is, these people get food from the UN or World Food Program. And they tell the UN and WFP that there are about a gazillion more people here than actually are, so they really cash in. And they take the food they get and make beer out of it. So is this not just reaping what they sow? (But what exactly are the children sowing?)
It’s not so bad, yet. And I’m not sure it will get so bad. I wouldn’t have known about it, had Iris not told me and I noticed a few people have left to go for food elsewhere.
Anyway, just pray that God is glorified—in the famine, in the heat, in the dryness and in the rain, if He wills it come.
Epal Iyohoi
(“Whoops. We screwed up.”)
Lately we’ve had a lot of fun playing with the women, sitting with them on their compounds at night.
They’re actually quite hilarious and find great pleasure in making fun of us—what we say, what we do. And I love the times when we get off a good joke—one that cuts across the cultural barrier and is in clear enough Lopit. You know it’s good because they’ll keep repeating it to one another. We’re sitting in a chaotic cluster and you make some precious comment or screw up the language so badly, someone finds it funny. They go on to repeat it to the next person. (“Ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”/”Andi said…”)
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Cecelia hijo, ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
And it just keeps on like that.
You know you’ve made a really good one (or said something really stupid) when it circles around for a second time. Or comes back to haunt you the next day, from someone who wasn’t even in the cluster at that time.
On one blessed night, we discovered the Lopit word for when you’re really tired and your head starts to bob up and down, emongita. (I love when complex ideas are caught in one word. I heard there is a word for “I know you know I know you know” in one Kenyan language. That’s so sweet.) Well Kim couldn’t resist and ran with it, telling them the story of how I was emongita-ing in the car on the way back from Torit and she couldn’t even look at me, lest she die of laughter. Well, the ladies thought it was equally funny, and now have taken on Kim’s cry—Emongita Ibeja sahian DANG! (Andi nods off ALL THE TIME.)—and bring it up whenever possible.
(Don’t worry, I have since tokened a phrase they find equally funny: Kim has gas ALL THE TIME. Language learning is so much fun.)
Anyway, all that to say, we have a lot of fun with them. And finally being able to laugh with them has been a huge deal.
So last night we wanted to have Lodina and Abuba and their kids over here for dinner. We’ve had some of our other neighbors before and decided it was time to serve up a special meal for them. Well, they were a little strange about it. They tried to get out of it, wouldn’t answer us directly when we called over the fence. Then they didn’t come and didn’t come until it was really late (they kept saying we’ll come when it’s darker), then left the kids at home because the path was “too dangerous.” (They are our direct neighbors and would have to walk maybe 30 feet.) They were really quite and looked terribly nervous. We hardly laughed! We even made food we knew they would like—none of our European garbage. We just chalked it up to our house being strange.But then we figured it out. They walked outside to leave, my flashlight in hand, and went into a bit of a panic when they heard women on the path. They shut off the torch really fast, then huddled together with their backs to the gate and shushed us. We were like… What the heck are you doing? They sort of giggled and handed back the torch, saying they’d just go slowly, slowly. Abuba’s stifled laughter and joked, “Pray for us.” Finally they had the all-clear and snuck back home.
Lodina came back later to explain it to us. She said everyone would be very, very angry at them if they knew they were eating here. So they tried to keep it a secret—coming in the dark, leaving the kids at home, being relatively quiet. Suddenly it all made sense. And here we were, yelling at them across the village (normal Lopit practice) to “Get on over here and EAT already!” We invited Lodina’s husband in front of other men. We kicked all the kids off the compound because we had special guests coming. And the list goes on.
Whoops.
We feel like heels, but at least we’re learning….
Lately we’ve had a lot of fun playing with the women, sitting with them on their compounds at night.
They’re actually quite hilarious and find great pleasure in making fun of us—what we say, what we do. And I love the times when we get off a good joke—one that cuts across the cultural barrier and is in clear enough Lopit. You know it’s good because they’ll keep repeating it to one another. We’re sitting in a chaotic cluster and you make some precious comment or screw up the language so badly, someone finds it funny. They go on to repeat it to the next person. (“Ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”/”Andi said…”)
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Cecelia hijo, ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
And it just keeps on like that.
You know you’ve made a really good one (or said something really stupid) when it circles around for a second time. Or comes back to haunt you the next day, from someone who wasn’t even in the cluster at that time.
On one blessed night, we discovered the Lopit word for when you’re really tired and your head starts to bob up and down, emongita. (I love when complex ideas are caught in one word. I heard there is a word for “I know you know I know you know” in one Kenyan language. That’s so sweet.) Well Kim couldn’t resist and ran with it, telling them the story of how I was emongita-ing in the car on the way back from Torit and she couldn’t even look at me, lest she die of laughter. Well, the ladies thought it was equally funny, and now have taken on Kim’s cry—Emongita Ibeja sahian DANG! (Andi nods off ALL THE TIME.)—and bring it up whenever possible.
(Don’t worry, I have since tokened a phrase they find equally funny: Kim has gas ALL THE TIME. Language learning is so much fun.)
Anyway, all that to say, we have a lot of fun with them. And finally being able to laugh with them has been a huge deal.
So last night we wanted to have Lodina and Abuba and their kids over here for dinner. We’ve had some of our other neighbors before and decided it was time to serve up a special meal for them. Well, they were a little strange about it. They tried to get out of it, wouldn’t answer us directly when we called over the fence. Then they didn’t come and didn’t come until it was really late (they kept saying we’ll come when it’s darker), then left the kids at home because the path was “too dangerous.” (They are our direct neighbors and would have to walk maybe 30 feet.) They were really quite and looked terribly nervous. We hardly laughed! We even made food we knew they would like—none of our European garbage. We just chalked it up to our house being strange.But then we figured it out. They walked outside to leave, my flashlight in hand, and went into a bit of a panic when they heard women on the path. They shut off the torch really fast, then huddled together with their backs to the gate and shushed us. We were like… What the heck are you doing? They sort of giggled and handed back the torch, saying they’d just go slowly, slowly. Abuba’s stifled laughter and joked, “Pray for us.” Finally they had the all-clear and snuck back home.
Lodina came back later to explain it to us. She said everyone would be very, very angry at them if they knew they were eating here. So they tried to keep it a secret—coming in the dark, leaving the kids at home, being relatively quiet. Suddenly it all made sense. And here we were, yelling at them across the village (normal Lopit practice) to “Get on over here and EAT already!” We invited Lodina’s husband in front of other men. We kicked all the kids off the compound because we had special guests coming. And the list goes on.
Whoops.
We feel like heels, but at least we’re learning….
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Pray for Cecelia and baby Andrea
Our good friend Cecelia—mother to new little Andrea Ibeja—got really sick yesterday. We thought for a while she might be our first case of cholera in the hills.
They may have ruled that out—the symptoms aren’t quite right—but please pray for her quick and full recovery. We’re worried about the baby, as well.
In the bigger picture, she’s also a niece to the rainmaker; her family could be a huge key to this culture’s change.
They may have ruled that out—the symptoms aren’t quite right—but please pray for her quick and full recovery. We’re worried about the baby, as well.
In the bigger picture, she’s also a niece to the rainmaker; her family could be a huge key to this culture’s change.
Change of seasons…
It’s still hot, hot, hot dry season here, but we may be witnessing a little change in the spiritual season here in Lopitland.
Like I told you before, the rainmaker has come back. She’s the big deal—the mother of the guy who was here before. She came in from Uganda and has been the focus of much worship, much to-do in these last two or three weeks. People have been flooding in from the other Lopit villages to greet her, pay homage, bring gifts and work on her compound and in her field. It’s been the buzz of this place.
But there hasn’t been rain. Not a drop.
It’s actually been hotter and drier since she came.
And it’s left some of the Munimiji wondering.
Yesterday the men beat the drums in all the villages, a call to all the surrounding villages—miles and miles away—for the people to bring their grain to the rainmaker and for the men to ready for the big day of hunting. All the Munimiji take the long, long foot journey to the valley to hunt (their wives, however, carry all of the equipment) for one day and bring back meat offerings for the rainmaker and witchdoctor. But even as the drums throbbed, some of the men were talking to Cath and Jen about the extreme weather and their confusion.
Pastor the other day said that some of the people (probably the ones who would call themselves Christians) would even say God brings the rain, but they think of the rainmaker rather as a go-between for them—that is to say, sort of like a priest representing their pleas before God, not the one who actually brings the rain.
In their conversation with the warrior guys, Cath and Jen told them about the true go-between, our liaison to the throne, the High Priest, the only one by whom we can approach the Father. Cath asked how it was that the rainmaker could even approach the Father, without believing and trusting in the Son, and explained that we must ask God, in Jesus’ name, for the rain to come.
They said, yes, you’re right—you go ahead and pray to Jesus for rain then. But eventually Cath explained that they could pray themselves, and encouraged them to do just that.
The girls relayed the story to us over the radio, when they’d got back from praying with the Munimiji.
It could be this is a huge step—huge.
I’ve wondered lately if the lack of rain—it should be coming by now—is God showing himself, showing his judgment on a people bent on worshipping the creation, not the Creator. I’ve hoped that maybe this is the time He’s chosen to make them see HE is the one who brings the rain, not this lady or any human. And as terrible as this heat is for us as well, I think we’d all gladly taken months and months more of it, if they would only see and turn away from their ways and to Jesus.
We certainly don’t always understand why God does bring rain when He does, as if He is encouraging the people to continue on with the rainmaker. But we know God makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. And His purposes—sovereign and incapable of being kept from coming to pass—and character—good, holy, immutable, just—are perfect in timing and end.
And I—we—will wait on Him.
Like I told you before, the rainmaker has come back. She’s the big deal—the mother of the guy who was here before. She came in from Uganda and has been the focus of much worship, much to-do in these last two or three weeks. People have been flooding in from the other Lopit villages to greet her, pay homage, bring gifts and work on her compound and in her field. It’s been the buzz of this place.
But there hasn’t been rain. Not a drop.
It’s actually been hotter and drier since she came.
And it’s left some of the Munimiji wondering.
Yesterday the men beat the drums in all the villages, a call to all the surrounding villages—miles and miles away—for the people to bring their grain to the rainmaker and for the men to ready for the big day of hunting. All the Munimiji take the long, long foot journey to the valley to hunt (their wives, however, carry all of the equipment) for one day and bring back meat offerings for the rainmaker and witchdoctor. But even as the drums throbbed, some of the men were talking to Cath and Jen about the extreme weather and their confusion.
Pastor the other day said that some of the people (probably the ones who would call themselves Christians) would even say God brings the rain, but they think of the rainmaker rather as a go-between for them—that is to say, sort of like a priest representing their pleas before God, not the one who actually brings the rain.
In their conversation with the warrior guys, Cath and Jen told them about the true go-between, our liaison to the throne, the High Priest, the only one by whom we can approach the Father. Cath asked how it was that the rainmaker could even approach the Father, without believing and trusting in the Son, and explained that we must ask God, in Jesus’ name, for the rain to come.
They said, yes, you’re right—you go ahead and pray to Jesus for rain then. But eventually Cath explained that they could pray themselves, and encouraged them to do just that.
The girls relayed the story to us over the radio, when they’d got back from praying with the Munimiji.
It could be this is a huge step—huge.
I’ve wondered lately if the lack of rain—it should be coming by now—is God showing himself, showing his judgment on a people bent on worshipping the creation, not the Creator. I’ve hoped that maybe this is the time He’s chosen to make them see HE is the one who brings the rain, not this lady or any human. And as terrible as this heat is for us as well, I think we’d all gladly taken months and months more of it, if they would only see and turn away from their ways and to Jesus.
We certainly don’t always understand why God does bring rain when He does, as if He is encouraging the people to continue on with the rainmaker. But we know God makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. And His purposes—sovereign and incapable of being kept from coming to pass—and character—good, holy, immutable, just—are perfect in timing and end.
And I—we—will wait on Him.
“God has died.”
Do you remember those blessed off days in grade school in high school?
I didn’t even mind school so much, but I fondly remember vacation days. It was like enjoying some forbidden fruit—sleeping in on a weekday. What delicious scandal! Absolutely thrilling.
And, though I was still up before the rosters this morning, I’m feeling a bit of that same excitement now, as it’s nearly seven, I’ve been in the Word for three hours and have no compelling, pressing reason to close the Good Book now.
Good Friday, you know. No school.
Or, as the kids told us last night—some of our students had the good mind to come let us know there was no school; we would never have heard that from the “administration” (ie: drunk Willy B.)—we have no class because… “God has died.”
Huh?
Yeah, apparently the message went a little awry somewhere.
Don’t worry, we good missionaries assured them that God (the Father) never died. In fact, he is very much alive; but today is the day Jesus (also God, the Son) went to the cross to die for our sins.
Either way (I rather prefer the latter), we’re off school today. And I know it’s Good Friday and there could be an argument that this isn’t such a joyful day, since it’s when Jesus was tortured on that tree. But, first, there’s no school, and I will admit—that makes this teacher very happy. And, second (and more… spiritually), I feel like I can be happy because I know the end of the story, you know? I can see this day as another in a God’s wonderful work of redemption, when the veil in the Temple—not everything—came tumbling down.
Ah, that blessed Man who went to the cross!
Unfortunately, just as Jesus was resurrected, so will be school.
But, thankfully, while Christ did his good work in just three days, school will take a bit longer—we’ve got four until Monday.
Happy Easter, everyone. He is RISEN!
I didn’t even mind school so much, but I fondly remember vacation days. It was like enjoying some forbidden fruit—sleeping in on a weekday. What delicious scandal! Absolutely thrilling.
And, though I was still up before the rosters this morning, I’m feeling a bit of that same excitement now, as it’s nearly seven, I’ve been in the Word for three hours and have no compelling, pressing reason to close the Good Book now.
Good Friday, you know. No school.
Or, as the kids told us last night—some of our students had the good mind to come let us know there was no school; we would never have heard that from the “administration” (ie: drunk Willy B.)—we have no class because… “God has died.”
Huh?
Yeah, apparently the message went a little awry somewhere.
Don’t worry, we good missionaries assured them that God (the Father) never died. In fact, he is very much alive; but today is the day Jesus (also God, the Son) went to the cross to die for our sins.
Either way (I rather prefer the latter), we’re off school today. And I know it’s Good Friday and there could be an argument that this isn’t such a joyful day, since it’s when Jesus was tortured on that tree. But, first, there’s no school, and I will admit—that makes this teacher very happy. And, second (and more… spiritually), I feel like I can be happy because I know the end of the story, you know? I can see this day as another in a God’s wonderful work of redemption, when the veil in the Temple—not everything—came tumbling down.
Ah, that blessed Man who went to the cross!
Unfortunately, just as Jesus was resurrected, so will be school.
But, thankfully, while Christ did his good work in just three days, school will take a bit longer—we’ve got four until Monday.
Happy Easter, everyone. He is RISEN!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Rainmaker, rainmaker, go away…
I don’t think it will ever cease to be discouraging when our entire village empties as everyone goes to serve the witchdoctor or rainmaker.
I guess that’s the one nice thing about dry season—the rainmaker issue isn’t quite so in-your-face. But now that rainy season is coming, the battle is picking up again.
Yesterday it was recoating the rainmaker’s house in dung that called all of Husa to the well (to get water to make mud) or to the rainmaker’s compound, not too far from here.
This, of course, meant a whole day of being hassled to come get water to bring to the rainmaker. And I do mean the whole day—they woke me up in my yard in the morning and were still haggling me about it as I laid down outside to go to bed.
“Come, awohini water for the rainmaker!”
“Ibeja, why aren’t you going to the well?”
“You’re bad and will be cursed. You’re all bad!”
Meh.
It was especially sad to see the women who came to church on Sunday and heard Steve preach—and Pastor translate into Lopit—about how these are mere men. To see them going just as mindlessly and willingly as anyone else. To try to talk with them, recall with them what Steve said and see how the two things were at odds. All to no avail.
Someday, someday…
In other, more encouraging news, I stopped by the future preschool compound yesterday and saw that Akili and Phillip had indeed arranged for poles to be brought for the bamboo fence—and they’d actually been brought. Things like that don’t normally happen here. So praise God for that.
Yes, everything isn’t so doom and gloom here, haha.
And Easter is coming! Jesus is risen, ruling King!
That ought to be enough to bouy our spirits—it should always be enough…
I guess that’s the one nice thing about dry season—the rainmaker issue isn’t quite so in-your-face. But now that rainy season is coming, the battle is picking up again.
Yesterday it was recoating the rainmaker’s house in dung that called all of Husa to the well (to get water to make mud) or to the rainmaker’s compound, not too far from here.
This, of course, meant a whole day of being hassled to come get water to bring to the rainmaker. And I do mean the whole day—they woke me up in my yard in the morning and were still haggling me about it as I laid down outside to go to bed.
“Come, awohini water for the rainmaker!”
“Ibeja, why aren’t you going to the well?”
“You’re bad and will be cursed. You’re all bad!”
Meh.
It was especially sad to see the women who came to church on Sunday and heard Steve preach—and Pastor translate into Lopit—about how these are mere men. To see them going just as mindlessly and willingly as anyone else. To try to talk with them, recall with them what Steve said and see how the two things were at odds. All to no avail.
Someday, someday…
In other, more encouraging news, I stopped by the future preschool compound yesterday and saw that Akili and Phillip had indeed arranged for poles to be brought for the bamboo fence—and they’d actually been brought. Things like that don’t normally happen here. So praise God for that.
Yes, everything isn’t so doom and gloom here, haha.
And Easter is coming! Jesus is risen, ruling King!
That ought to be enough to bouy our spirits—it should always be enough…
Sweating bullets…
It’s really hot here—about 104 in the shade (I don’t know what with the heat index)—and I’m about two more drops of sweat from going nuts.
I guess this makes me a whiny missionary, but please pray for our sanity!
And pray for rain—we have no water!!!
I guess this makes me a whiny missionary, but please pray for our sanity!
And pray for rain—we have no water!!!
HOM WORK
Sometimes I make the mistake of saying “Good morning!” when I walk into the classroom before class technically starts.
This spurs my students immediately and queerly into action, as they shoot to their feet and robotically respond, “Good morning, teacher!”
The routine continues with equal robotic flare.
“How are you, students?”
“We are fine, thank you. How are yewwwww?”
“I’m fine, students. You may be seated.”
Then they all fall to their makeshift seats, as if someone cut their legs out from under them.
I accidently stumbled on to said well-rehearsed routine the second day I taught. I think I’m still botching it some, but I do my best to remember it. I’m sure they were lost without it that first day.
Teaching has been hard so far this week, and we Husa girls have spent two nights dreading the next day’s class, I’m sad to say. We do our best to stay positive, but there’s still no timetable, still no direction, still no help from anyone. And each of our classes derailed so badly Monday that it’s a miracle we all didn’t crumble right then and there.
Another teacher came into Kim’s class and scolded her kids for half an hour.
The drunk headmaster, William (who clearly had a hangover this particular morning), paid my classroom the same visit and demanded to know why they wouldn’t participate, why they refused to learn. His big fuss might not have been so bad, had he not tried to explain the assignment I’d written on the board. He explained it entirely wrong, undid any teaching I’d done and ended with a bang by writing “HOM WORK” really big over it all.
Someday, my students will learn something. I am so hopeful.
This spurs my students immediately and queerly into action, as they shoot to their feet and robotically respond, “Good morning, teacher!”
The routine continues with equal robotic flare.
“How are you, students?”
“We are fine, thank you. How are yewwwww?”
“I’m fine, students. You may be seated.”
Then they all fall to their makeshift seats, as if someone cut their legs out from under them.
I accidently stumbled on to said well-rehearsed routine the second day I taught. I think I’m still botching it some, but I do my best to remember it. I’m sure they were lost without it that first day.
Teaching has been hard so far this week, and we Husa girls have spent two nights dreading the next day’s class, I’m sad to say. We do our best to stay positive, but there’s still no timetable, still no direction, still no help from anyone. And each of our classes derailed so badly Monday that it’s a miracle we all didn’t crumble right then and there.
Another teacher came into Kim’s class and scolded her kids for half an hour.
The drunk headmaster, William (who clearly had a hangover this particular morning), paid my classroom the same visit and demanded to know why they wouldn’t participate, why they refused to learn. His big fuss might not have been so bad, had he not tried to explain the assignment I’d written on the board. He explained it entirely wrong, undid any teaching I’d done and ended with a bang by writing “HOM WORK” really big over it all.
Someday, my students will learn something. I am so hopeful.
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