Ugh, I hate malaria.
Please pray for my team, as we’re really taking a beating from the mosquitoes. Pattie was crazy with the stuff for three days and Steve’s poor family just keeps getting it over and over again. It seems just as one gets over it, another gets it. They don’t even wait to take the tests anymore; they throw medicine at fevers right away. Poor little Christian—Steve and Iris’s youngest, a little over 1—was so bad for a few days, with a fever up to 104, we were starting to worry we were going to have to fly him and Iris out to Nairobi .
Steve got his golden mosquito last week—his tenth go of malaria. You can tell he’s about at his limit, as he saw some water standing on top of a container the other day and tipped it over in haste. (Such haste that he tipped it over on me.) He’s said that if the team weren’t here, if he wasn’t committed to serving us and leading us, he’d have yanked his family out of here two weeks ago and pulled out to Nairobi to recover.
I refuse to live in fear of mosquitoes, but I really don’t want this malaria stuff. It gets to your head. (I just wrote to my friend Lara and told her, it’s funny because if we’re even a bit emotional, Steve immediately begins to question if we have malaria. Hehe.) And it makes you miserable, miserable, miserable. Praise God for good medicine, though—this is the kind of stuff that kept the average life expectancy for a missionary in Africa once they hit the field at two years way back when.
But, yeah, keep us in your prayers. We’re headed for Nairobi in a week to get supplies, so hopefully we’ll have a chance for our bodies to recover and for the coming dry season to take care of all the mosquitoes.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Translation Issues
We got a copy of the Gospel of John that two of the hardcore missionaries from the ‘50s—Martha and Barbara—put together while they were here. It’s in another dialect, but it’s awesome because it’s close to Lopit, so we can try it out on people. We’re actually working on memorizing John 3:16 right now. One of the pastors here saw it typed out on our practice sheet for the first time and was just amazed that he was reading the Word of God in Lopit. What a powerful thing.
It’s awesome to think that someday we’ll be able to start translating not just John, but the rest of the Bible into Lopit. Wow. But just as we’ve been working on John 3:16, I’ve realized a lot of things about translation that I never considered before.
Take, for example, the idea of Jesus because God’s son and the idea of us being children of God. We have in our Western culture a built-in picture of this relationship as it is with God—our earthly fathers often serve as examples because our cultures were rooted in biblical principles. I mean, even if our country has strayed far from those principles in some way, the effects are still there. (Thank you, Puritans.) But the Lopit don’t have that. There’s no parallel. No hooks on which to hang this idea. So even when we get the words translated, we have to first translate the idea to these people. They know next to nothing about loving fathers or this imagery of Christ as the bridgegroom for the church.
Try explaining prayer to someone who knows only animism. Heck, try explaining it to just about anyone, it’s already hard enough.
Now try everlasting life. But somehow distinguish it from ancestors and the living dead that they know from their culture.
Now give “love” a try. They don’t even have a word for it in their language. We ask our language helpers and they’re just mystified by the idea, searching the whole of their vocabularies and senses that would convey this idea. Again, no hooks. Not even words. No “forgiveness.” Or “family.”
There’s just so much, so much I never realized you have to deal with when you take the Gospel to an unreached people.
Wow.
It’s awesome to think that someday we’ll be able to start translating not just John, but the rest of the Bible into Lopit. Wow. But just as we’ve been working on John 3:16, I’ve realized a lot of things about translation that I never considered before.
Take, for example, the idea of Jesus because God’s son and the idea of us being children of God. We have in our Western culture a built-in picture of this relationship as it is with God—our earthly fathers often serve as examples because our cultures were rooted in biblical principles. I mean, even if our country has strayed far from those principles in some way, the effects are still there. (Thank you, Puritans.) But the Lopit don’t have that. There’s no parallel. No hooks on which to hang this idea. So even when we get the words translated, we have to first translate the idea to these people. They know next to nothing about loving fathers or this imagery of Christ as the bridgegroom for the church.
Try explaining prayer to someone who knows only animism. Heck, try explaining it to just about anyone, it’s already hard enough.
Now try everlasting life. But somehow distinguish it from ancestors and the living dead that they know from their culture.
Now give “love” a try. They don’t even have a word for it in their language. We ask our language helpers and they’re just mystified by the idea, searching the whole of their vocabularies and senses that would convey this idea. Again, no hooks. Not even words. No “forgiveness.” Or “family.”
There’s just so much, so much I never realized you have to deal with when you take the Gospel to an unreached people.
Wow.
Language Blunders
Part of my job here in Africa is to greet people.
Yeah, that’s right, I get paid to greet people.
Alright, well, maybe not just like that. But our ministry right now is language and culture learning with relationship building, so that involves a lot of being out in the community with people. And it’s just the way of life in Lopit that you greet people.
And it was in this that one of my all-time favorite language blunders was birthed.
I’ve said before that everyone wants to know where you’re going and where you’ve been. And when we first got here, this was about the extent of our language learning, so we jumped right into this tradition of inquisition, even if we didn’t know exactly what they were saying in response.
My roommate Pattie met a woman on the path one morning and, being the culturally appropriate missionary she is, asked where this woman was headed. “Awu nang aler,” she said.
“I’m going…” mystery word.
This wasn’t the first time Pattie had heard this word, but she had no idea where “aler” was. We’d come to recognize the village names, the word for the sorghum fields and the word for the peanut fields, and this wasn’t any of them, so she pressed for an explanation.
After a few awkward minutes of the woman miming, Pattie suddenly had a pretty good idea where “aler” was.
It just so happened there was this old Lopit guy who speaks a little English coming down the path, so she stopped him. “What does ‘aler’ mean?”
(I’d like to note that there was absolutely no pause, no awkwardness in this man’s response.)
“To defecate.”
Yeah, she was going to the bathroom down the mountain a bit. I have no idea how many times we asked people this and just nodded our approval or gave an enthusiastic “olibo bino!” (really good!” another one of our early phrases) as they went along.
Oh, language learning.
And our question now is… how do you respond to that?
The traditional thing to say as you leave one another is “eno no libo!” which means…
“Go well!”
Yeah, that’s right, I get paid to greet people.
Alright, well, maybe not just like that. But our ministry right now is language and culture learning with relationship building, so that involves a lot of being out in the community with people. And it’s just the way of life in Lopit that you greet people.
And it was in this that one of my all-time favorite language blunders was birthed.
I’ve said before that everyone wants to know where you’re going and where you’ve been. And when we first got here, this was about the extent of our language learning, so we jumped right into this tradition of inquisition, even if we didn’t know exactly what they were saying in response.
My roommate Pattie met a woman on the path one morning and, being the culturally appropriate missionary she is, asked where this woman was headed. “Awu nang aler,” she said.
“I’m going…” mystery word.
This wasn’t the first time Pattie had heard this word, but she had no idea where “aler” was. We’d come to recognize the village names, the word for the sorghum fields and the word for the peanut fields, and this wasn’t any of them, so she pressed for an explanation.
After a few awkward minutes of the woman miming, Pattie suddenly had a pretty good idea where “aler” was.
It just so happened there was this old Lopit guy who speaks a little English coming down the path, so she stopped him. “What does ‘aler’ mean?”
(I’d like to note that there was absolutely no pause, no awkwardness in this man’s response.)
“To defecate.”
Yeah, she was going to the bathroom down the mountain a bit. I have no idea how many times we asked people this and just nodded our approval or gave an enthusiastic “olibo bino!” (really good!” another one of our early phrases) as they went along.
Oh, language learning.
And our question now is… how do you respond to that?
The traditional thing to say as you leave one another is “eno no libo!” which means…
“Go well!”
More Pictures
Beautiful Baby
KimmiePie and I visited our friend and her new little baby boy. In this picture, he’s two days old… and really cute. He was so tiny, I could hardly believe it. The weirdest thing about babies here is that, though their parents skin is this beautiful dark coal black, the babies are nearly white. This little guy doesn’t have a name yet, but he’ll get one this afternoon in an elaborate naming ceremony.
KimmiePie and I visited our friend and her new little baby boy. In this picture, he’s two days old… and really cute. He was so tiny, I could hardly believe it. The weirdest thing about babies here is that, though their parents skin is this beautiful dark coal black, the babies are nearly white. This little guy doesn’t have a name yet, but he’ll get one this afternoon in an elaborate naming ceremony.
Happy Birthday, Danimal
Our teammate Daniel had his birthday yesterday, so we celebrated in style up in Longija. Longija is pretty much at the top of the mountain, so I think his gift was just getting us all to come up there. He made us cake and surprised us all with sodas he’d brought from Loki a month ago and hauled up the mountain one by one. Drinking pop in Sudan is a special, special thing. You can tell, maybe, how excited Craiger is in this picture. And that’s Kimmie and Pattie with him. No pictures of the birthday boy, sadly.
Heno, Heno, Heno
Kim’s a champ because in this picture, she’s helping Anuk spread heno over her yard. Heno, for all ya’ll not so fluent in Lopit, is dung. Of the cow variety. We have to redo our house soon. I can’t wait for THAT day, to be covered in a mud/dung mixture.
Morika!
This is our little friend Morika. The kids love to help me with my laundry, and she helped me two days ago. We had a good time decking ourselves out in clothes pins. Totally African fashion.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Ummmm, peanut butter ants
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.)
I guess real missionaries eat bugs.
(Sorry, mom.)
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.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Cooking in the bush
How many missionaries does it take to start a chico? Cooking in the bush has been special, especially with the coal chico. The first time we got it out and were struggling to get it going, we had probably a dozen village children at the fence, hollering and trying to tell us what to do. At one point, they all had their cheeks buffed out, blowing through the gate, trying to get us to do the same on the coals. Finally, we just gave in and let them do it.
Sunday Sunrise
Annika and I climbed Oliri (the nearby mountain) last Sunday to watch the sunrise. It’s about an hour and 45 minute hike from my village, so I was out of the house by 4:30. (My parents are probably in shock.) Having thought about it more, I’m not sure how we didn’t get bit by a snake, stung by a scorpion or attacked by a leopard or hyena or crocodile, hiking a bad trail in pitch dark. But it was totally worth it to see the sun come over that horizon. Wow.
Long letters
Alright, gang, these posts are getting pretty long. Sorry, I just type them up hurriedly when I can and don’t really have the chance to cut and prune them like a good journalist should. And there’s so much I want to share with you, so much we need prayer for. Here’s a quick list of prayer requests.
Language learning. I’m getting better, but my homestay and “holiday” in Loki set me back some. And it’s hard!
Relationships. Sometimes I’d like nothing more than to just sit in my house, read the Word and try to shake this tired feeling. So pray that I’ll continue to get out of the house and be super intentional about building relationships, even though it’s really hard with the language barrier.
Focus. I’m fighting distraction. Pray I’ll keep my eyes fixed on Jesus and take every thought captive.
Ministry. We don’t have a formal ministry yet, but keep praying for guidance there and for the ministry our language learning is.
Believers. There aren’t many born-again folks here, but being a believer in Lopit isn’t easy, especially during harvest season when everyone is in the fields by day and drunk by night. Pray for them!
Your prayers are coveted!
Our incredible team and teamleader
19 Aug 06
One of my biggest blessings here is my team. Wow, these people are great. I’m sure part of my thinking they’re so wonderful is due to the proverbial “honeymoon period,” but I’m prepared to cast caution to the wind and say they’re stinkin’ wonderful. We haven’t been without our disagreements and we’ve had to give each other quite a bit of grace because of culture shock, but I’m encouraged by how we’ve pulled together and served one another, especially in prayer. Goodness, does this team pray.
And the general consensus around the Husa house is that our team leader Stephan and his wife Iris are as good as it gets. They’re a great pair. Iris loves us women and I can’t wait to get to know her more. (It’s been a little hard because she’s got four little ones at home, and between them and her, they’ve been in a rotation of sickness.) And Stephan blows me away. His vision for this place and his love for the Lord spur me on. And his character cracks me up. He used to be in the South African army and he’s so hardcore. Yet he’s really compassionate, constantly doting on us women especially.
We laugh about him being a father/big brother to us. The whole falling down the mountain thing gave us plenty evidence of that. The next morning, the village talk was littered with “Oliri” (Stephan’s Lopit name, the mountain near Amirikan) and “Ibedja” (“ee-bed-JA, my Lopit name, runner). I guess he went up and scolded Tito, whose wife I was with, for not taking good care of me and sending me for water just before dark and a huge storm. It got to everyone in the village, because they kept repeating it—wagging their fingers in the air and saying, “Oliri says, ‘You people know better!’ “ Haha. The village put my roommates on house arrest while I was gone, not letting them do anything because “Oliri says, ‘You people should know better!’ “ Oh man I just died when I heard that. What Oliri says is gold. Don’t mess with the crazy Swiss guy.
It got better yesterday. First, some background. During our homestay, there was always this weird guy hanging around the compound I was on. He was actually the one who sent us for water that day and he would just say weird things and even yelled at me one day for not knowing Swahili. But one day he did something exceptionally weird. We were leaving the compound to go to the river and he said, “Ibedja, you must climb the fence.” He said something about when you leave your mother-in-law’s compound and they are still working, you have to climb the fence. I wasn’t buying this, but I had shorts on under my skirt, so I went for it anyway to appease him. At tea after church the next day, I was telling Stephan and the team about this and asking the Lopit guys there what the significance was or if the guy was just being a punk. Stephan got a little ticked and was like, “This guy just wanted to look up your skirt.” That’s what I was thinking, too. Haha.
So he’s been asking to meet this guy and to talk to him for a while. And finally yesterday he had the chance because Mr. Weird come down with us to Amirika. So Steve takes off from his compound on a total mission and finds this guy and just starts drilling him with questions. Pattie and I were with him and our jaws seriously dropped. So he’s asking why he made me climb the fence, why he followed us here, why he made me go get water. And the guys just denying it. The best part was Weird Guy had this notebook thing he was sort of reading through while they talked and eventually Steve grabbed it out of his hand and was like, “You just wanted to look up her skirt, yes?” I almost died. Haha. It went on like that a little and the guy finally admitted it was a “mistake” but never explained why he did it. Steve even got him to apologize. (This is a big deal because Weird is from the rainmaker’s clan, which makes him a lot like royalty.) And then in a last bit of greatness, said “This woman, she has brothers. And you know how brothers are.” Apparently, this idea translates across many cultures. Hehehe.
Anyway, Steve’s hardcore. I can’t wait to learn from him—he’s passionate about theology and glorifying the Lord by learning more about him. So praise God for a great team and a great team leader—both definitely answers to prayer.
One of my biggest blessings here is my team. Wow, these people are great. I’m sure part of my thinking they’re so wonderful is due to the proverbial “honeymoon period,” but I’m prepared to cast caution to the wind and say they’re stinkin’ wonderful. We haven’t been without our disagreements and we’ve had to give each other quite a bit of grace because of culture shock, but I’m encouraged by how we’ve pulled together and served one another, especially in prayer. Goodness, does this team pray.
And the general consensus around the Husa house is that our team leader Stephan and his wife Iris are as good as it gets. They’re a great pair. Iris loves us women and I can’t wait to get to know her more. (It’s been a little hard because she’s got four little ones at home, and between them and her, they’ve been in a rotation of sickness.) And Stephan blows me away. His vision for this place and his love for the Lord spur me on. And his character cracks me up. He used to be in the South African army and he’s so hardcore. Yet he’s really compassionate, constantly doting on us women especially.
We laugh about him being a father/big brother to us. The whole falling down the mountain thing gave us plenty evidence of that. The next morning, the village talk was littered with “Oliri” (Stephan’s Lopit name, the mountain near Amirikan) and “Ibedja” (“ee-bed-JA, my Lopit name, runner). I guess he went up and scolded Tito, whose wife I was with, for not taking good care of me and sending me for water just before dark and a huge storm. It got to everyone in the village, because they kept repeating it—wagging their fingers in the air and saying, “Oliri says, ‘You people know better!’ “ Haha. The village put my roommates on house arrest while I was gone, not letting them do anything because “Oliri says, ‘You people should know better!’ “ Oh man I just died when I heard that. What Oliri says is gold. Don’t mess with the crazy Swiss guy.
It got better yesterday. First, some background. During our homestay, there was always this weird guy hanging around the compound I was on. He was actually the one who sent us for water that day and he would just say weird things and even yelled at me one day for not knowing Swahili. But one day he did something exceptionally weird. We were leaving the compound to go to the river and he said, “Ibedja, you must climb the fence.” He said something about when you leave your mother-in-law’s compound and they are still working, you have to climb the fence. I wasn’t buying this, but I had shorts on under my skirt, so I went for it anyway to appease him. At tea after church the next day, I was telling Stephan and the team about this and asking the Lopit guys there what the significance was or if the guy was just being a punk. Stephan got a little ticked and was like, “This guy just wanted to look up your skirt.” That’s what I was thinking, too. Haha.
So he’s been asking to meet this guy and to talk to him for a while. And finally yesterday he had the chance because Mr. Weird come down with us to Amirika. So Steve takes off from his compound on a total mission and finds this guy and just starts drilling him with questions. Pattie and I were with him and our jaws seriously dropped. So he’s asking why he made me climb the fence, why he followed us here, why he made me go get water. And the guys just denying it. The best part was Weird Guy had this notebook thing he was sort of reading through while they talked and eventually Steve grabbed it out of his hand and was like, “You just wanted to look up her skirt, yes?” I almost died. Haha. It went on like that a little and the guy finally admitted it was a “mistake” but never explained why he did it. Steve even got him to apologize. (This is a big deal because Weird is from the rainmaker’s clan, which makes him a lot like royalty.) And then in a last bit of greatness, said “This woman, she has brothers. And you know how brothers are.” Apparently, this idea translates across many cultures. Hehehe.
Anyway, Steve’s hardcore. I can’t wait to learn from him—he’s passionate about theology and glorifying the Lord by learning more about him. So praise God for a great team and a great team leader—both definitely answers to prayer.
Mountain Mornings
19 Aug 06
Mong, mong, mong to mo tia! (Hello, hello, good morning!)
Good morning, good morning. Greetings from the rocks high above the valley of “Amirikan” in South Sudan.
Mornings here in Lopit might be my favorite time. I do my best to get up and have our bamboo gate unlocked by 6:30. You see, it’s a cultural thing to make yourself visible and greeting everyone in the morning. We weren’t doing this at first and William—our neighbor and self-proclaimed watchdog—told us the women in the village were very unhappy with us.
It’s neat to hear the mountains wake up.
The roosters start the whole chorus with their obnoxious cock-a-doodle-do-ing. Have you ever noticed that when roosters crow in movies, it’s always like once, just as a beautiful sunrise is coming over some Midwestern farmland? Yeah, well, that’s Hollywood for you. The dumb birds go on for hours and hours. And you can hear them from every village, echoing across the mountains. Let me tell you, many of those first days down in Amirikan, I longed to drop-kick one of those roosters… especially the one who camped outside my tent.
But I digress. Back to the village waking up.
You’ve got the roosters. Then the flutes start. Men with flutes each have their own signature cadence, and it’s often meant to tell everyone where they are coming or going. They take their cattle to the fields early, so I often lay in bed, listening to the little mini parades march by, their flute songs accented by the clamor of goat and cow bells and the occasional whine or moo.
Then you hear the bees and flies kick in. Seriously. I know it’s hard to believe, but all of a sudden, it’s like God turns on a switch and hummmmmmmm there they go. It’s like an insect generator kicking in, I kid you not.
And finally, slowly but surely, the voices of the people start. First it’s a low hum, not much different than the bugs and flies. But then it gets louder and louder. Regular voices on the compounds, then yells cutting across the air as one man yells to another in a compound farther up the mountain. (The other day I was thinking how nice it’d be to be able to understand—if only for a minute or two—all the things these people were talking/yelling about in the morning. I’m so curious.)
The children start to yell and play and sing little songs. Oh, and the babies. Oh gracious the babies. They’re crying their heads off. And you can hear the tiny sound of the bells tied around the babies’ ankles as their older siblings bounce them up and down on their backs, trying to comfort them. Before you know it, it’s a full-blown roar and the day has begun.
I love to just sit on my rocks and listen in the mornings. Its sort of an amazing thing, how night turns into day here. I hope when God brings light to the darkness of peoples’ hearts here, it’s just as beautiful and complete.
And it’s a wonderful backdrop for my quiet times in the morning. I grab my Bible and journal and just sit out here, taking it all in and spending time with the Lord. I take my two cups of chi and begin my day in the best way I know how.
And so here I sit this morning, mixing it up a bit with my laptop. It probably won’t be long before I’ve got a crowd of village children swarming around this glowing plastic thing. Oh, wait, I was wrong. I just looked back and saw about 15 little faces pressed to our bamboo fence, staring over my shoulder. I’m sure they have no where to even begin to place this thing.
Hehe, reminds me of a little story. I had a woman over the other day, sitting inside and drinking chi. And when it came time to leave, she went toward the door and just stood there for a second, confused. She grabbed at it. Pushed on it. I think she was darn near close to clawing at it when I realized what was going on and quickly turned the handle. Since I’m constantly being laughed at and forced to laugh at my own silliness and confusion in this culture, it was nice to have a moment where I could laugh inside about someone else being such a fish out of their cultural and experiential water.
Alright, I’ve got some people to greet. Mong, mong! (Goodbye, goodbye!)
Mong, mong, mong to mo tia! (Hello, hello, good morning!)
Good morning, good morning. Greetings from the rocks high above the valley of “Amirikan” in South Sudan.
Mornings here in Lopit might be my favorite time. I do my best to get up and have our bamboo gate unlocked by 6:30. You see, it’s a cultural thing to make yourself visible and greeting everyone in the morning. We weren’t doing this at first and William—our neighbor and self-proclaimed watchdog—told us the women in the village were very unhappy with us.
It’s neat to hear the mountains wake up.
The roosters start the whole chorus with their obnoxious cock-a-doodle-do-ing. Have you ever noticed that when roosters crow in movies, it’s always like once, just as a beautiful sunrise is coming over some Midwestern farmland? Yeah, well, that’s Hollywood for you. The dumb birds go on for hours and hours. And you can hear them from every village, echoing across the mountains. Let me tell you, many of those first days down in Amirikan, I longed to drop-kick one of those roosters… especially the one who camped outside my tent.
But I digress. Back to the village waking up.
You’ve got the roosters. Then the flutes start. Men with flutes each have their own signature cadence, and it’s often meant to tell everyone where they are coming or going. They take their cattle to the fields early, so I often lay in bed, listening to the little mini parades march by, their flute songs accented by the clamor of goat and cow bells and the occasional whine or moo.
Then you hear the bees and flies kick in. Seriously. I know it’s hard to believe, but all of a sudden, it’s like God turns on a switch and hummmmmmmm there they go. It’s like an insect generator kicking in, I kid you not.
And finally, slowly but surely, the voices of the people start. First it’s a low hum, not much different than the bugs and flies. But then it gets louder and louder. Regular voices on the compounds, then yells cutting across the air as one man yells to another in a compound farther up the mountain. (The other day I was thinking how nice it’d be to be able to understand—if only for a minute or two—all the things these people were talking/yelling about in the morning. I’m so curious.)
The children start to yell and play and sing little songs. Oh, and the babies. Oh gracious the babies. They’re crying their heads off. And you can hear the tiny sound of the bells tied around the babies’ ankles as their older siblings bounce them up and down on their backs, trying to comfort them. Before you know it, it’s a full-blown roar and the day has begun.
I love to just sit on my rocks and listen in the mornings. Its sort of an amazing thing, how night turns into day here. I hope when God brings light to the darkness of peoples’ hearts here, it’s just as beautiful and complete.
And it’s a wonderful backdrop for my quiet times in the morning. I grab my Bible and journal and just sit out here, taking it all in and spending time with the Lord. I take my two cups of chi and begin my day in the best way I know how.
And so here I sit this morning, mixing it up a bit with my laptop. It probably won’t be long before I’ve got a crowd of village children swarming around this glowing plastic thing. Oh, wait, I was wrong. I just looked back and saw about 15 little faces pressed to our bamboo fence, staring over my shoulder. I’m sure they have no where to even begin to place this thing.
Hehe, reminds me of a little story. I had a woman over the other day, sitting inside and drinking chi. And when it came time to leave, she went toward the door and just stood there for a second, confused. She grabbed at it. Pushed on it. I think she was darn near close to clawing at it when I realized what was going on and quickly turned the handle. Since I’m constantly being laughed at and forced to laugh at my own silliness and confusion in this culture, it was nice to have a moment where I could laugh inside about someone else being such a fish out of their cultural and experiential water.
Alright, I’ve got some people to greet. Mong, mong! (Goodbye, goodbye!)
Curses and Blessings
To explain a bit of the cultural beast we’re dealing with here, it’s an animistic system—a system of witchdoctors, landlords and rainmakers. It plays out in almost every area of life. They have to get the blessing of the landlord in order to have crops. They have to make the rainmaker new gardens or slaughter cows in order for him to call for the rain. They take their sick to the witchdoctor so he can poke and prod at them, cut them and let their blood and make them do silly things so they can get well. (You often see these scars and things when the people finally come to the clinic to be taken care of with the white man’s medicine.)
I’ve never had to deal with curses and blessings. And, really, I don’t know how to tell which one is going on. We thought they were cursing us when they’d take our heads, blow on both ears and spit in our faces. Turns out that’s a really good greeting. (And… really… really… sick…) We’ve been told we can’t have our curtains open in our house while we’re inside because people will look in from the outside and give us the evil eye to put a curse on us. Some think, I’m sure, that I fell down the mountains because a curse had been put on me. It’s a hard thing to deal with—they think every good thing comes from the god “Holum” (or something like that) and every bad thing comes from “Jok.” They often “send” Jok along to other villages so he takes his bad there. A child dies, it’s Jok. It rains, it’s Holum. Or the rainmaker, depending on who you’re talking to. Not only is this difficult for us Westerners to understand, but it makes a very complex problem for new believers who have grown up in this system. You have people who say they are Christians—normally, they think just because they have a Christian (English) name, they’re a Christian (remnants of an old Catholic ministry gone awry here, I’m told)—who are still working in the rainmaker’s garden or calling on Jok or slaughtering goats for the landlord.
Here’s one neat story for you, though. Cath, one of my teammates, was doing her homestay at a guy’s house and the wind picked up quite a bit. He said he wished the wind would stop and the rain would come, because they needed it for the gardens. So Cath asked, do you believe my God can stop the wind and bring the rain? And he said yes. And so they prayed for it. And sure enough, the wind stopped and it poured. And this guy just danced and danced in the rain. He knew who brought it. I pray he soon knows from whom all good things come!
I’ve never had to deal with curses and blessings. And, really, I don’t know how to tell which one is going on. We thought they were cursing us when they’d take our heads, blow on both ears and spit in our faces. Turns out that’s a really good greeting. (And… really… really… sick…) We’ve been told we can’t have our curtains open in our house while we’re inside because people will look in from the outside and give us the evil eye to put a curse on us. Some think, I’m sure, that I fell down the mountains because a curse had been put on me. It’s a hard thing to deal with—they think every good thing comes from the god “Holum” (or something like that) and every bad thing comes from “Jok.” They often “send” Jok along to other villages so he takes his bad there. A child dies, it’s Jok. It rains, it’s Holum. Or the rainmaker, depending on who you’re talking to. Not only is this difficult for us Westerners to understand, but it makes a very complex problem for new believers who have grown up in this system. You have people who say they are Christians—normally, they think just because they have a Christian (English) name, they’re a Christian (remnants of an old Catholic ministry gone awry here, I’m told)—who are still working in the rainmaker’s garden or calling on Jok or slaughtering goats for the landlord.
Here’s one neat story for you, though. Cath, one of my teammates, was doing her homestay at a guy’s house and the wind picked up quite a bit. He said he wished the wind would stop and the rain would come, because they needed it for the gardens. So Cath asked, do you believe my God can stop the wind and bring the rain? And he said yes. And so they prayed for it. And sure enough, the wind stopped and it poured. And this guy just danced and danced in the rain. He knew who brought it. I pray he soon knows from whom all good things come!
Spiritual Warfare
17 Aug 06
I was thinking last night, and I’m afraid it must appear that all I’m doing up here in Lopit is trouncing around in the mountains, falling down ravines and eating strange food. The problem is it’s a lot easier to tell those stories—the funny ones about cultural oddities—than to really get into the spiritual stuff that’s happening here. First, I guess, because I don’t always understand the spiritual things. Truly, I’m from the West, and these sorts of spiritual warfare aren’t familiar, they don’t into the system by which I unconsciously organize my experiences, my thoughts, my perceptions. And so it’s really hard to process through them in my own journaling, let alone put them to words that people back home can understand.
Last night, I had my first touch of fear since getting into Africa. The girls from Sohot (a village about a half-hour hike away) came over for dinner and as they were leaving right around missionary midnight (9 o’clock), we heard these strange wailing sounds from outside. And for some reason it just struck a fear in us. You know how you can feel your hair stand up on end? It was one of those times. And I’m not even sure why. You hear a lot of strange noises in these mountains—from drunk people yelling to children singing to women screaming to flutes… fluting—and I hadn’t really been alarmed by any before this. But these cries were ultra-foreign and chilled me to the bone. So we just joined together and prayed. And praise God, that his perfect love casts out fear. And the wailing also stopped.
The girls saw the source of the cries on the way home—some old guy just crouched on the path, rocking back and forth. They weren’t really sure what was going on, but they managed to pass him without trouble.
But, really, I was just reminded again of how I don’t really have hooks on which to hang these new experiences. So pray that as we learn the language and culture, we’ll be given the knowledge of how to understand and deal with these situations.
I was thinking last night, and I’m afraid it must appear that all I’m doing up here in Lopit is trouncing around in the mountains, falling down ravines and eating strange food. The problem is it’s a lot easier to tell those stories—the funny ones about cultural oddities—than to really get into the spiritual stuff that’s happening here. First, I guess, because I don’t always understand the spiritual things. Truly, I’m from the West, and these sorts of spiritual warfare aren’t familiar, they don’t into the system by which I unconsciously organize my experiences, my thoughts, my perceptions. And so it’s really hard to process through them in my own journaling, let alone put them to words that people back home can understand.
Last night, I had my first touch of fear since getting into Africa. The girls from Sohot (a village about a half-hour hike away) came over for dinner and as they were leaving right around missionary midnight (9 o’clock), we heard these strange wailing sounds from outside. And for some reason it just struck a fear in us. You know how you can feel your hair stand up on end? It was one of those times. And I’m not even sure why. You hear a lot of strange noises in these mountains—from drunk people yelling to children singing to women screaming to flutes… fluting—and I hadn’t really been alarmed by any before this. But these cries were ultra-foreign and chilled me to the bone. So we just joined together and prayed. And praise God, that his perfect love casts out fear. And the wailing also stopped.
The girls saw the source of the cries on the way home—some old guy just crouched on the path, rocking back and forth. They weren’t really sure what was going on, but they managed to pass him without trouble.
But, really, I was just reminded again of how I don’t really have hooks on which to hang these new experiences. So pray that as we learn the language and culture, we’ll be given the knowledge of how to understand and deal with these situations.
Village telegram, Part II
17 Aug 06
So about that village telegram I was talking about. It just got better.
Today I was laid up at the house with this bum ankle, but we were having the team over later for dinner and needed to get messages to all of them.
There are always little kids hanging out outside our house, so I decided it’d be fun to have a little experiment. I wrote notes to the fellas in Longija, the ladies in Sohot and one family in Fuerra. It took a lot of gesturing and looking silly, but I finally got the message across to the kids that I wanted them to take the notes to the other villages. Luckily, us foreign folk—even the Kenyan family—stick out and everyone knows who we are, so I just had to keep repeating their names.
The experiment was a success, as within an hour we had each of the kids back on the compound, out of breath but with reply notes from two of the three huts. Haha. I was pretty giddy. Who needs email? Who needs cell phones?
I love the bush.
So about that village telegram I was talking about. It just got better.
Today I was laid up at the house with this bum ankle, but we were having the team over later for dinner and needed to get messages to all of them.
There are always little kids hanging out outside our house, so I decided it’d be fun to have a little experiment. I wrote notes to the fellas in Longija, the ladies in Sohot and one family in Fuerra. It took a lot of gesturing and looking silly, but I finally got the message across to the kids that I wanted them to take the notes to the other villages. Luckily, us foreign folk—even the Kenyan family—stick out and everyone knows who we are, so I just had to keep repeating their names.
The experiment was a success, as within an hour we had each of the kids back on the compound, out of breath but with reply notes from two of the three huts. Haha. I was pretty giddy. Who needs email? Who needs cell phones?
I love the bush.
Moral Dilemma
16 Aug 06
I felt a little guilty coming home from Loki and hearing more reports of little children dying of malaria. It’s just tearing through this area right now and every day I hear of another little one dying.
And here I was, I just tweaked an ankle and an arm, and I had the resources to be flown out. It’s been a struggle for me, accepting that. I don’t think I have yet.
I hate seeing them sick. There is some kind of cold going around, too. All the kids have runny noses and these deep coughs that just make my body hurt for them. And their parents don’t take them to the clinic. They take them to the witchdoctor. The last resort is the clinic.
It seems so backward to me, the Westerner.
An AIM doc told us the story once of all these African children dying in hospitals of things as simple as dehydration and diarrhea. Handfuls of them would die everyday in the hospital he was working at. And all they needed was rehydration drinks and a little attention. Ugh.
I felt a little guilty coming home from Loki and hearing more reports of little children dying of malaria. It’s just tearing through this area right now and every day I hear of another little one dying.
And here I was, I just tweaked an ankle and an arm, and I had the resources to be flown out. It’s been a struggle for me, accepting that. I don’t think I have yet.
I hate seeing them sick. There is some kind of cold going around, too. All the kids have runny noses and these deep coughs that just make my body hurt for them. And their parents don’t take them to the clinic. They take them to the witchdoctor. The last resort is the clinic.
It seems so backward to me, the Westerner.
An AIM doc told us the story once of all these African children dying in hospitals of things as simple as dehydration and diarrhea. Handfuls of them would die everyday in the hospital he was working at. And all they needed was rehydration drinks and a little attention. Ugh.
Coming Home
16 Aug 06
I got back to Lopit safe and sound this afternoon, but not without some bush missionary troubles.
We flew in a little mosquito of a plane and had to leave half of my stuff in Loki so we could make weight. Then we landed on this absolutely gorgeous mountaintop about halfway between here and Loki. We were dropping off supplies for another missionary. I don’t want you to get the idea we’re landing at full-blown airports here. Heck, these aren’t anywhere near that. They’re just cleared strips of grass and dirt—our one here in Lopit can’t even handle a plane big enough to carry our entire team. Anyway…
Our landing was fine, but as we were taxing down the airstrip, all of a sudden the back of the plane just sunk to the ground. Apparently, we’d hit a soft spot—probably ants had hallowed out the ground underneath—and the entire left wheel of the plane was in the ground. Eek. (I’m sort of convinced it was because of all the weight I’ve gained since I got here.) Praise God, though, AIM AIR pilots are amazing and really good at what they do—they need to be just to land on these kind of airstrips—so they calmly accessed the situation and borrowed some of the locals’ machetes to dig the wheel out.
But it was a funny thing, just knowing we were in the middle of no where and would have probably been stuck there for a while before we could get out. But God is good and got me back to Lopit only an hour late for our team meeting.
I got back to Lopit safe and sound this afternoon, but not without some bush missionary troubles.
We flew in a little mosquito of a plane and had to leave half of my stuff in Loki so we could make weight. Then we landed on this absolutely gorgeous mountaintop about halfway between here and Loki. We were dropping off supplies for another missionary. I don’t want you to get the idea we’re landing at full-blown airports here. Heck, these aren’t anywhere near that. They’re just cleared strips of grass and dirt—our one here in Lopit can’t even handle a plane big enough to carry our entire team. Anyway…
Our landing was fine, but as we were taxing down the airstrip, all of a sudden the back of the plane just sunk to the ground. Apparently, we’d hit a soft spot—probably ants had hallowed out the ground underneath—and the entire left wheel of the plane was in the ground. Eek. (I’m sort of convinced it was because of all the weight I’ve gained since I got here.) Praise God, though, AIM AIR pilots are amazing and really good at what they do—they need to be just to land on these kind of airstrips—so they calmly accessed the situation and borrowed some of the locals’ machetes to dig the wheel out.
But it was a funny thing, just knowing we were in the middle of no where and would have probably been stuck there for a while before we could get out. But God is good and got me back to Lopit only an hour late for our team meeting.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Our neighbors
When we first got into our house, there was a group of children there waiting to greet us. They really like to come visit because we have some kind of fruit tree in our front yard.
Caravan into Sudan
Here’s our caravan on the way into Sudan. Check out that view! We had three LandCruisers and the 911—this huge German monster that carried all our stuff.
Home Sweet Home
This is a part of one of the villages here. The family compounds are built on terraces and tucked into the hills. It’s really, really cool, but can get confusing when you’re trying to find your way home. It’s sort of like those suburban neighborhoods where every house looks the same.
Goats for dinner
Our last night on the AIC compound we had a big feast. We even slaughtered two goats! (And, yes, I watched. I’m going to have to learn how.) The ladies humored Sharon—the Matusik’s oldest daughter—and I while we tried to help them cook.
Meet my new family
Friday, August 18, 2006
No sleeping in here
Note: This is the second blog via air mail to be posted. Make sure you read to the end ... it is very powerful and what an AWESOME testimony of past missionaries and their work and sacrifices. -- Ginger
July 30, 2006 ...
I thought I'd be able to sleep in a little this morning, but come 6:30, bombs started erupting all around my tent. And by bombs, I mean mangos. I guess the night guard thought the crack of dawn was the perfect time to start harvesting mangos from the tree over out tent.
All I could do was laugh, especially as his daughter, probably 8- or 9-years-old, stood just outside our mosquito net doors and stared at us in our beds. Staring is a completely acceptable part of the African culture, especially when the object of your stare is a white person.
A great beginning to a great day, haha.
We had our first Sunday service here in Lopit and it was really superb. We had to intoduce ourselves like always, but this time was different because we were finally here in our own church -- our new church home. Stephan (team leader) introduced us all, starting with Craig from Australia, then Martin and Daniel. then Cath from South Africa, The Musuvus from Kenya, then us girls from the States. To sit there and see six countries represented (Stephan is himself from Switzerland and South Africa) and to hear how so many churches and people all over the globe were praying for our team and for the advancement of the gospil in Lopit ... Wow! Just Wow!
There weren't a ton of people at the church -- there are only a handful of Christians in the entire mountains -- but there were some there who were just joyful in the Lord and really walking with Jesus. What an encouragement!
The legacy of previous AIM missionaries here is incredible. They still all know -- evey way up in the hills -- about Barbara and Martha, two women who were here in the 50s. They really pioneered the work in Lopit. And then there is Thelma from Australia. I think she was here in the 80s during a window when people could get in. They know them so well because these women set out to learn their language. What a testament to our approach, an affirmation that learning language really does matter.
Then we mention Lanny Arensen. I've told you about him before. He's now the international director at AIM, but back in 1978 -- I think it was -- he came to Lopit with his wife, Janice. they stayed here for eight years -- until 1986 -- (again, approximate), when Janice was shot in an ambush on the road to Kenya. After that, I think all missionaries were forced out anyway but the thing is, people still know Lanny's name. Even people who were likely very young when he was here, they know him. Apparently missionaries are such big deals, their stories are passed down in village tales/history. The legacy is huge.
It used to be that the Lopit didn't allow AIM to build houses in the hills and live in those villages. They were made to stay at the bottom of the hills in the AIC compound. Lanny told us this a few weeks ago. But now we are building houses in the village -- five of them, even! -- and the people are not only accepting, but they have worked hard and sacrificed much to get us settled in the houses and gave us the plots without any problems or payment. How crazy is that?
Lanny really believes that Janice's blood helped open up these doors we have before us now. He thinks the guy who is chief of the main village now was in the car that day, and he's sure it's played a part. Surely, the people see our commitment, Lanny and Janice's commitment, in what we were willing to sacrifice. And just like this mango tree above my head was planted by Janice and I daily enjoy its fruit, so too is my team enjoying the fruit in ministry of Janice's death.
July 30, 2006 ...
I thought I'd be able to sleep in a little this morning, but come 6:30, bombs started erupting all around my tent. And by bombs, I mean mangos. I guess the night guard thought the crack of dawn was the perfect time to start harvesting mangos from the tree over out tent.
All I could do was laugh, especially as his daughter, probably 8- or 9-years-old, stood just outside our mosquito net doors and stared at us in our beds. Staring is a completely acceptable part of the African culture, especially when the object of your stare is a white person.
A great beginning to a great day, haha.
We had our first Sunday service here in Lopit and it was really superb. We had to intoduce ourselves like always, but this time was different because we were finally here in our own church -- our new church home. Stephan (team leader) introduced us all, starting with Craig from Australia, then Martin and Daniel. then Cath from South Africa, The Musuvus from Kenya, then us girls from the States. To sit there and see six countries represented (Stephan is himself from Switzerland and South Africa) and to hear how so many churches and people all over the globe were praying for our team and for the advancement of the gospil in Lopit ... Wow! Just Wow!
There weren't a ton of people at the church -- there are only a handful of Christians in the entire mountains -- but there were some there who were just joyful in the Lord and really walking with Jesus. What an encouragement!
The legacy of previous AIM missionaries here is incredible. They still all know -- evey way up in the hills -- about Barbara and Martha, two women who were here in the 50s. They really pioneered the work in Lopit. And then there is Thelma from Australia. I think she was here in the 80s during a window when people could get in. They know them so well because these women set out to learn their language. What a testament to our approach, an affirmation that learning language really does matter.
Then we mention Lanny Arensen. I've told you about him before. He's now the international director at AIM, but back in 1978 -- I think it was -- he came to Lopit with his wife, Janice. they stayed here for eight years -- until 1986 -- (again, approximate), when Janice was shot in an ambush on the road to Kenya. After that, I think all missionaries were forced out anyway but the thing is, people still know Lanny's name. Even people who were likely very young when he was here, they know him. Apparently missionaries are such big deals, their stories are passed down in village tales/history. The legacy is huge.
It used to be that the Lopit didn't allow AIM to build houses in the hills and live in those villages. They were made to stay at the bottom of the hills in the AIC compound. Lanny told us this a few weeks ago. But now we are building houses in the village -- five of them, even! -- and the people are not only accepting, but they have worked hard and sacrificed much to get us settled in the houses and gave us the plots without any problems or payment. How crazy is that?
Lanny really believes that Janice's blood helped open up these doors we have before us now. He thinks the guy who is chief of the main village now was in the car that day, and he's sure it's played a part. Surely, the people see our commitment, Lanny and Janice's commitment, in what we were willing to sacrifice. And just like this mango tree above my head was planted by Janice and I daily enjoy its fruit, so too is my team enjoying the fruit in ministry of Janice's death.
Arrival in Lopit
Note: This blog was received via air mail (snail mail) just this week so that is the reason for the delay ... Ginger
July 29, 2006 ...
Tonight, I shared a pit latrine with a toad, two chameleons and a myriad of other African critters.
Just now, a mango crashed down loudly on my tent from the tree above our camp.
I can hear pesky murmur of children's voices from somewhere in the village ... or maybe that is simply the mosquitoes. (It is 11 o'clock, I suppose.)
Africa is such a crazy place.
We arrived here in lopit a few days ago, after being inducted into missionary life by a ridicuously bumpy 8-hour drive across the Kenya/Sudan border and all the way into these hills.
It was nuts, seeing all that countryside fly by as we manuevered our way along the dirt -- never paved -- road and around the many potholes and random detours.
We saw so many people -- with varying degrees of clothing -- along the way, most of whom stood waving, seemingly baffled by our terribly white skin. Once, we stopped to lunch under some nice trees. There were men and women there from some tribe who fussed over us terribly. These three women took turns holding Salome -- my German teammember's red-haired one-year-old baby girl -- and eventually tried to persuade Doris to leave her with them. (Doris didn't take them up on the deal.)
It was so surreal, the whole trip here we saw so many goats and camels and baboons and things. The land seemed to go on forever, only occassionally interrupted by a cluster of huts or a water pump. It felt like a dream.
I had to carefully choose my bush to pee behind -- the land is riddled with landmines from the war, but they've cleared the roads and a 5-meter buffer. Still, I never could have imagined myself being careful of landmines while popping a squat in the Sudan. That's crazy.
What's more, once when Kim and I had found the perfect bush, there was some sort of mysterious animal making noises inside it. Curious. I guess I'll never know if said mysterious animal was dangerous or if my life was in danger. HaHa.
I took my first bush showers with confidence and took on the aforementioned pit latrines with ease. I've been about two early morning cock-a-doodle-doos from drop-kicking a rooster who'd taken perch just outside my tent. We're all contemplating ways to shut up that cat in heat. A man sweeps outside my tent each morning. He's sweeping the clay/dirt ground though, which I may never understand.
I played catch just as soon as I could after I got here. It wasn't long before my teammate Craig missed my throw. It went awry and put a dent in my teamleader's landcruiser. I always like to get things off on the right foot.
In the last couple of days, we've moved the game outside the compound, drawing quite a bit of attention from the village people. You won't believe this, but the lopit women have pretty good arms, all things considered. Alright, my pillow calls and I need to get the dik-dik (strange deer-like pet) out of our tent before she wakes up my tentmates ... (such an Africa moment.)
Mong!
July 29, 2006 ...
Tonight, I shared a pit latrine with a toad, two chameleons and a myriad of other African critters.
Just now, a mango crashed down loudly on my tent from the tree above our camp.
I can hear pesky murmur of children's voices from somewhere in the village ... or maybe that is simply the mosquitoes. (It is 11 o'clock, I suppose.)
Africa is such a crazy place.
We arrived here in lopit a few days ago, after being inducted into missionary life by a ridicuously bumpy 8-hour drive across the Kenya/Sudan border and all the way into these hills.
It was nuts, seeing all that countryside fly by as we manuevered our way along the dirt -- never paved -- road and around the many potholes and random detours.
We saw so many people -- with varying degrees of clothing -- along the way, most of whom stood waving, seemingly baffled by our terribly white skin. Once, we stopped to lunch under some nice trees. There were men and women there from some tribe who fussed over us terribly. These three women took turns holding Salome -- my German teammember's red-haired one-year-old baby girl -- and eventually tried to persuade Doris to leave her with them. (Doris didn't take them up on the deal.)
It was so surreal, the whole trip here we saw so many goats and camels and baboons and things. The land seemed to go on forever, only occassionally interrupted by a cluster of huts or a water pump. It felt like a dream.
I had to carefully choose my bush to pee behind -- the land is riddled with landmines from the war, but they've cleared the roads and a 5-meter buffer. Still, I never could have imagined myself being careful of landmines while popping a squat in the Sudan. That's crazy.
What's more, once when Kim and I had found the perfect bush, there was some sort of mysterious animal making noises inside it. Curious. I guess I'll never know if said mysterious animal was dangerous or if my life was in danger. HaHa.
I took my first bush showers with confidence and took on the aforementioned pit latrines with ease. I've been about two early morning cock-a-doodle-doos from drop-kicking a rooster who'd taken perch just outside my tent. We're all contemplating ways to shut up that cat in heat. A man sweeps outside my tent each morning. He's sweeping the clay/dirt ground though, which I may never understand.
I played catch just as soon as I could after I got here. It wasn't long before my teammate Craig missed my throw. It went awry and put a dent in my teamleader's landcruiser. I always like to get things off on the right foot.
In the last couple of days, we've moved the game outside the compound, drawing quite a bit of attention from the village people. You won't believe this, but the lopit women have pretty good arms, all things considered. Alright, my pillow calls and I need to get the dik-dik (strange deer-like pet) out of our tent before she wakes up my tentmates ... (such an Africa moment.)
Mong!
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Water... fall.
Alright, so everyone is wondering what the junk happened. First, I'll tell you that the x-ray machine was there, there was a guy to work it and the films came back great--no breaks! Praise Jesus! And, better yet, it worked out that I can get on a flight home tomorrow morning. God works against all odds. ;) I'm super happy because I'm really homesick for Lopit and my teammates. I've only been gone two days. I'm pathetic.
Anyway, the story...
I went with one of the village ladies to get water from the river that isn't far from my house. It's actually hard to call the place a river. It's more of this rock ravine thing--almost like two big slabs of rock are folded together and water runs through the crease. I actually really love the place--it's where the ladies bathe and get water, the first place we really saw them as people and not just worker bees. But maybe more on that some other time.
So these rock slabs are at a pitch on either side--probably 65-70 degrees--and you've got to carefully walk on a slant so you don't go tumbling down the mountain. This was my first time trying to do the water-on-my-head thing. They carry these huge 20L jerry cans (is that how you spell that?) of water on their heads. So the lady I'm paired with for my homestay decided I needed to help her do this. Fine with me; I like new experiences. Problem is she didn't tell me, so I had bad flipflops on and my glasses. (You can't look down at the ground through glasses while you've got a thing of water on your head.)
Sooooo, anyway, I make the first trip OK. It's about a halfmile each way. The second time I was doing alright, too -- I'd filled my jerry can and got it on my head and everything. But here's the thing about the rock faces that we're walking across. There are little spots where water crops up out of no where and forms a stream down into the main stream. They moss up a bit and get really slippery. The kids love it--they use the whole "river" as a waterslide of sorts and squeal happily all the way down. There are little dropoffs at some points, though, so they try to catch either other beforee they fly over them.
Ok, so, by now, you know what's happened. I take a few steps with the jerry can and unknowingly step on a small puddle of water. My feet fly out from underneath me and the jerry can and I land HARD on the rockface. My elbow and ankle get most of the impact. It gets worse, though. I start sliding DOWN the waterfall/river thing--flying down out of control, my body grating against the rough rock. It felt a lot like I was on a cheese grater. Anyway, I kept flying down, probably 20 feet, until I was in the stream. Luckily, though, there was this old lady there who grabbed me before I flew over an edge.
Enter a culture difference. The appropriate African response? Laughter. They don't cry, they don't get too upset. Just laugther. Intense. So I'm lying there, drenched and bleeding all over and these ladies are laughing at me. And they have no idea how badly I'm hurt. All I can see is my elbow, which already had two huge lumps as big as golf balls on it.
I finally manage to get up and all I can squeak out in Lopit is "home, home." The woman I'm with--who, it would be appropriate to mention now, has been a jerk to me all week--hands me the jerry can again. And so I basically limp back home, trying to call out my roommates name as soon as I'm within earshot of our hut. I saw some women I knew on the way, all who only asked me where my water was or tried to grab me. (In their defense, they didn't know I was so hurt.)
So, yeah, I finally get back and my roommates finally come out. The children had tried to get them by village telegram -- I guess they were at our gate yelling "Pattie, Pattie... Ibedga! (my Lopit name)" -- but my roomies just thought they were wanting to race me like always.
Enter the most humbling night of my life. I was just wailing and crying. I have a really high tolerance for pain and a super prideful heart, so it was horrible sitting there and having everyone serve me. They had to radio my team leader and he and his wife came running up the mountain. Then Daniel just happened to come by (God brought him, he said) and they sent him up for more pillows... and candy. (My roommates know me well already.) All this during a terrible rain storm. They called and checked on flights coming by so they could fly me out if my arm and/or ankle was broken. Getting hurt in the bush is serious stuff. Ugh. It really makes you realize how far out here we are.
Anyway, it was a long night of codine and being doted over. A lesson in humility for me. But it just reaffirmed how awesome my teammates are to me. And how good God is, that I could catch a diversion for just $40 the next day. (When a lady was hurt here a couple months back, it cost $4000 to get her out.) And I did get two bags of German sweets out of it. (Man, did I feel special.)
Alright, there you go. The X-rays were fine. The only problem is there isn't an aircast or pair of crutches within 1000 miles of this place, so I'm just hobbling around. And I'm not sure how I'm going to get back up the mountain to my hut -- Stephan carried me down yesterday afternoon. (Probably not the most culturally appropriate thing to do... but what choice did we have?) But I'll be glad to be back.
The end! Thanks for all your prayers. Keep praying for a quick healing. Living in the mountains with a sprained ankle isn't all that great of a deal.
Anyway, the story...
I went with one of the village ladies to get water from the river that isn't far from my house. It's actually hard to call the place a river. It's more of this rock ravine thing--almost like two big slabs of rock are folded together and water runs through the crease. I actually really love the place--it's where the ladies bathe and get water, the first place we really saw them as people and not just worker bees. But maybe more on that some other time.
So these rock slabs are at a pitch on either side--probably 65-70 degrees--and you've got to carefully walk on a slant so you don't go tumbling down the mountain. This was my first time trying to do the water-on-my-head thing. They carry these huge 20L jerry cans (is that how you spell that?) of water on their heads. So the lady I'm paired with for my homestay decided I needed to help her do this. Fine with me; I like new experiences. Problem is she didn't tell me, so I had bad flipflops on and my glasses. (You can't look down at the ground through glasses while you've got a thing of water on your head.)
Sooooo, anyway, I make the first trip OK. It's about a halfmile each way. The second time I was doing alright, too -- I'd filled my jerry can and got it on my head and everything. But here's the thing about the rock faces that we're walking across. There are little spots where water crops up out of no where and forms a stream down into the main stream. They moss up a bit and get really slippery. The kids love it--they use the whole "river" as a waterslide of sorts and squeal happily all the way down. There are little dropoffs at some points, though, so they try to catch either other beforee they fly over them.
Ok, so, by now, you know what's happened. I take a few steps with the jerry can and unknowingly step on a small puddle of water. My feet fly out from underneath me and the jerry can and I land HARD on the rockface. My elbow and ankle get most of the impact. It gets worse, though. I start sliding DOWN the waterfall/river thing--flying down out of control, my body grating against the rough rock. It felt a lot like I was on a cheese grater. Anyway, I kept flying down, probably 20 feet, until I was in the stream. Luckily, though, there was this old lady there who grabbed me before I flew over an edge.
Enter a culture difference. The appropriate African response? Laughter. They don't cry, they don't get too upset. Just laugther. Intense. So I'm lying there, drenched and bleeding all over and these ladies are laughing at me. And they have no idea how badly I'm hurt. All I can see is my elbow, which already had two huge lumps as big as golf balls on it.
I finally manage to get up and all I can squeak out in Lopit is "home, home." The woman I'm with--who, it would be appropriate to mention now, has been a jerk to me all week--hands me the jerry can again. And so I basically limp back home, trying to call out my roommates name as soon as I'm within earshot of our hut. I saw some women I knew on the way, all who only asked me where my water was or tried to grab me. (In their defense, they didn't know I was so hurt.)
So, yeah, I finally get back and my roommates finally come out. The children had tried to get them by village telegram -- I guess they were at our gate yelling "Pattie, Pattie... Ibedga! (my Lopit name)" -- but my roomies just thought they were wanting to race me like always.
Enter the most humbling night of my life. I was just wailing and crying. I have a really high tolerance for pain and a super prideful heart, so it was horrible sitting there and having everyone serve me. They had to radio my team leader and he and his wife came running up the mountain. Then Daniel just happened to come by (God brought him, he said) and they sent him up for more pillows... and candy. (My roommates know me well already.) All this during a terrible rain storm. They called and checked on flights coming by so they could fly me out if my arm and/or ankle was broken. Getting hurt in the bush is serious stuff. Ugh. It really makes you realize how far out here we are.
Anyway, it was a long night of codine and being doted over. A lesson in humility for me. But it just reaffirmed how awesome my teammates are to me. And how good God is, that I could catch a diversion for just $40 the next day. (When a lady was hurt here a couple months back, it cost $4000 to get her out.) And I did get two bags of German sweets out of it. (Man, did I feel special.)
Alright, there you go. The X-rays were fine. The only problem is there isn't an aircast or pair of crutches within 1000 miles of this place, so I'm just hobbling around. And I'm not sure how I'm going to get back up the mountain to my hut -- Stephan carried me down yesterday afternoon. (Probably not the most culturally appropriate thing to do... but what choice did we have?) But I'll be glad to be back.
The end! Thanks for all your prayers. Keep praying for a quick healing. Living in the mountains with a sprained ankle isn't all that great of a deal.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Much-needed prayer...
hey gang...
yesterday i biffed it down a rock face and screwed up my arm and leg pretty bad. they air-lifted me out of sudan this afternoon and i'm writing you now from loki, kenya.
i'm heading into the hospital tomorrow for some x-rays. we're praying there actually is an x-ray machine here. the red cross pulled out a few months ago and handed over all their stuff, but that doesn't mean it's really being used. and, furthermore, if there is someone to use it or x-ray film. so pray first for that and second for good results!
i'm feeling MUCH better than yesterday so i'm confident it's not really anything. but God certainly has taught me a lot about letting other people help me.
i'll give more details and more info when i get it... thanks for the prayers...
amc
yesterday i biffed it down a rock face and screwed up my arm and leg pretty bad. they air-lifted me out of sudan this afternoon and i'm writing you now from loki, kenya.
i'm heading into the hospital tomorrow for some x-rays. we're praying there actually is an x-ray machine here. the red cross pulled out a few months ago and handed over all their stuff, but that doesn't mean it's really being used. and, furthermore, if there is someone to use it or x-ray film. so pray first for that and second for good results!
i'm feeling MUCH better than yesterday so i'm confident it's not really anything. but God certainly has taught me a lot about letting other people help me.
i'll give more details and more info when i get it... thanks for the prayers...
amc
Finally -- from Sudan!
Hello, hello!
Ginger has put up a few posts here for me. Please forgive the lag in communication. We’re dependent on the sun for power, and it’s been rather rainy here the last few days. And I’ve been busy meeting people and learning language.
I hope you enjoy my stories.
Thank you SO MUCH for your prayers. The battle here is just beginning.
In love,
Andi
Ginger has put up a few posts here for me. Please forgive the lag in communication. We’re dependent on the sun for power, and it’s been rather rainy here the last few days. And I’ve been busy meeting people and learning language.
I hope you enjoy my stories.
Thank you SO MUCH for your prayers. The battle here is just beginning.
In love,
Andi
Come Pentecost...
A huge prayer request: Language learning.
I’m struggling right now because I’m still a linguistic mess.
I talk with most of my teammates in English. I talk with the children in my (very, very) broken German. Then I give my fresh Lopit a go while I’m walking in the villages. But I do funny things, like say thank you in Chinese, goodbye in German and beautiful in sign language without even thinking about it. It’s like I’m in foreign language mode or something, using all the wrong languages.
Heeeeeeelp.
Pray specifically that God would give me the grace to roll my r’s. It’s a huge part of the language and I just cannot do it. I can’t even pronounce my own name—they call me Andrea here, in the German way. Haha.
I’m struggling right now because I’m still a linguistic mess.
I talk with most of my teammates in English. I talk with the children in my (very, very) broken German. Then I give my fresh Lopit a go while I’m walking in the villages. But I do funny things, like say thank you in Chinese, goodbye in German and beautiful in sign language without even thinking about it. It’s like I’m in foreign language mode or something, using all the wrong languages.
Heeeeeeelp.
Pray specifically that God would give me the grace to roll my r’s. It’s a huge part of the language and I just cannot do it. I can’t even pronounce my own name—they call me Andrea here, in the German way. Haha.
If you must...
A quick note on communication.
Email is my main form of instant communication, but it’s expensive, expensive. It cost me $45 to get emails the other day because of some attachments. Yikes! This won’t be a common thing—I’ve asked Ginger to filter out this kind of stuff from now on. So, please, I’d LOVE to hear from you. But nothing too long and no attachments. And it might be easier for me to just read the emails. I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to respond. Know that each word is precious to me, however! Don’t get discouraged!
In that same vein, regular mail is GREAT. I’m yet to get any, but the anticipation is killing me. :) People keep asking about things they can send, so I polled my teammates and here are a few things we wouldn’t mind getting from the States.
Seasoning packets—chili, soup, BBQ, anything like that
Kool-Aid—you can send a packet in a regular letter without paying extra.
Candy (always!)
Little baking things (bush cooking = hard)
Sweet Baby Rays BBQ (that’s sort of just for me)
Small tank tops and sleeveless dresses from the Salvation Army would be wonderful for me, as I brought all the wrong clothes. Ha. (That’s more of a wish-list thing.)
I can’t think of anything else right now...
BUT—the big but—as great as it is to get stuff here, it’s really expensive for you to send and sometimes for me to get, with duty and all. A lot of missionaries I know have suggested just telling people to take the money they’d use to send stuff and put it in my account so I can use it to buy things here. Soooo… if you just want to go that route, I’m saving up money for a nice set of Chaco (or something like that) sandals to be sent over here. The ones I have just aren’t going to cut it, and those are the sandals of choice.
Anyway, it’s weird for me to ask for stuff, but people have been asking… so… there you go….
c/o AIM Serv
Box 21171
Nairobi, Kenya 00505
(Write "Missionary Supplies--Not for Commercial Sale" on it.)
Email is my main form of instant communication, but it’s expensive, expensive. It cost me $45 to get emails the other day because of some attachments. Yikes! This won’t be a common thing—I’ve asked Ginger to filter out this kind of stuff from now on. So, please, I’d LOVE to hear from you. But nothing too long and no attachments. And it might be easier for me to just read the emails. I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to respond. Know that each word is precious to me, however! Don’t get discouraged!
In that same vein, regular mail is GREAT. I’m yet to get any, but the anticipation is killing me. :) People keep asking about things they can send, so I polled my teammates and here are a few things we wouldn’t mind getting from the States.
Seasoning packets—chili, soup, BBQ, anything like that
Kool-Aid—you can send a packet in a regular letter without paying extra.
Candy (always!)
Little baking things (bush cooking = hard)
Sweet Baby Rays BBQ (that’s sort of just for me)
Small tank tops and sleeveless dresses from the Salvation Army would be wonderful for me, as I brought all the wrong clothes. Ha. (That’s more of a wish-list thing.)
I can’t think of anything else right now...
BUT—the big but—as great as it is to get stuff here, it’s really expensive for you to send and sometimes for me to get, with duty and all. A lot of missionaries I know have suggested just telling people to take the money they’d use to send stuff and put it in my account so I can use it to buy things here. Soooo… if you just want to go that route, I’m saving up money for a nice set of Chaco (or something like that) sandals to be sent over here. The ones I have just aren’t going to cut it, and those are the sandals of choice.
Anyway, it’s weird for me to ask for stuff, but people have been asking… so… there you go….
c/o AIM Serv
Box 21171
Nairobi, Kenya 00505
(Write "Missionary Supplies--Not for Commercial Sale" on it.)
Killing snakes
My third night in my house in the hills.
The children are singing. And I mean maybe hundreds of them. It sounds more horrible than The Chipmunks Christmas collection. I mean, wowza, those kids sing high and loud. And it’s like 11 o’clock! Parents of Lopit, get your children in bed already! And, while you’re at it, get some clothes on those kids! Haha. Juuuuust kidding.
Tonight we had the single fellas over for dinner. It was another long day of working and moving, so we decided a nice dinner on the rock cliff outside our house would be refreshing. We even made food—and it wasn’t horrible! (This, my friends, is a miracle.)
We had a beautiful view of the moonrise over the Three Sisters, the three mountain peaks that define the area. It was so, so incredible. (My camera didn’t get it. Sorry.)
But the real excitement came later.
Mom, stop reading.
So we’re doing dishes and I turn around to see a black snack slithering sideways across our dirt floor. Talk about scary. Pattie (one of my roomies) freaks out, starts jumping around and runs outside, screaming still. I’m laughing and hollering for someone to get me the broom or something heavy. (Unfortunately, the snake was between me and all such blunt tolls.) Kim’s (other roomie) was bringing the volume about how she thinks it’s poisonous and finally—in what I consider a moment of brilliance—suggests the half-full Nalgene bottle on the table as my weapon of choice. Or, I guess, weapon of necessity. (Nalgene bottles are ‘indestructible’ water bottles.)
So I pick that baby up and start taking aim to the tune of Kim yelling, “This is it, Andi! This has got to count!”—and WHAM I nail the thing just below the head, pause, then hit it again before it whips itself into a spiral in pain.
Pattie’s still yelling outside, I’m still laughing and Kim’s applauding the effort. I try to comfort Pattie by saying it’s head, but she’s no drop and still sees there’s traces of life in the thing—she’s been watching it all unfold from the doorway. So I deliver one last punishing blow and erase its head. Whew.
It took a while to get poor Pattie back in the house—I had to bag up my kill and throw it out the other door first—but finally she came in and, after I thoroughly checked her room for any more of the poisonous buggers, she’s now settled happily in bed. (At least I haven’t heard from her in a while.)
But, geesh, how scary. It did do something to remind me of where I’m at and give me a sense of the danger here. I realized, too, later, that this probably isn’t the last snake. And all the encounters might not go so well. That’s what I like the least. (I really don’t want snakes in my bed.)
Haha.
But, yes… the adventures of Africa.
The children are singing. And I mean maybe hundreds of them. It sounds more horrible than The Chipmunks Christmas collection. I mean, wowza, those kids sing high and loud. And it’s like 11 o’clock! Parents of Lopit, get your children in bed already! And, while you’re at it, get some clothes on those kids! Haha. Juuuuust kidding.
Tonight we had the single fellas over for dinner. It was another long day of working and moving, so we decided a nice dinner on the rock cliff outside our house would be refreshing. We even made food—and it wasn’t horrible! (This, my friends, is a miracle.)
We had a beautiful view of the moonrise over the Three Sisters, the three mountain peaks that define the area. It was so, so incredible. (My camera didn’t get it. Sorry.)
But the real excitement came later.
Mom, stop reading.
So we’re doing dishes and I turn around to see a black snack slithering sideways across our dirt floor. Talk about scary. Pattie (one of my roomies) freaks out, starts jumping around and runs outside, screaming still. I’m laughing and hollering for someone to get me the broom or something heavy. (Unfortunately, the snake was between me and all such blunt tolls.) Kim’s (other roomie) was bringing the volume about how she thinks it’s poisonous and finally—in what I consider a moment of brilliance—suggests the half-full Nalgene bottle on the table as my weapon of choice. Or, I guess, weapon of necessity. (Nalgene bottles are ‘indestructible’ water bottles.)
So I pick that baby up and start taking aim to the tune of Kim yelling, “This is it, Andi! This has got to count!”—and WHAM I nail the thing just below the head, pause, then hit it again before it whips itself into a spiral in pain.
Pattie’s still yelling outside, I’m still laughing and Kim’s applauding the effort. I try to comfort Pattie by saying it’s head, but she’s no drop and still sees there’s traces of life in the thing—she’s been watching it all unfold from the doorway. So I deliver one last punishing blow and erase its head. Whew.
It took a while to get poor Pattie back in the house—I had to bag up my kill and throw it out the other door first—but finally she came in and, after I thoroughly checked her room for any more of the poisonous buggers, she’s now settled happily in bed. (At least I haven’t heard from her in a while.)
But, geesh, how scary. It did do something to remind me of where I’m at and give me a sense of the danger here. I realized, too, later, that this probably isn’t the last snake. And all the encounters might not go so well. That’s what I like the least. (I really don’t want snakes in my bed.)
Haha.
But, yes… the adventures of Africa.
Village telegram...
The other day, I had a real ‘This is Africa” moment. I took off barefoot on a walk with my leatherman knife and a mango. It was awesome, just looking out at the scenery and enjoying my fruit. Soon, some little boys ran up wanting some. Later, I finished the thing off (with an old man’s help), licked my knife and carried on. So I started jogging to the water pump—I’ve taken to running in the afternoons and it’s caused quite the stir, you’ll see—and came upon a batch of men coming from the fields with their cows… and AK-47s. Wowza. Did I tell you about these already? They’re like jewelry… for men. They carry them around nonchalantly and to look cool. And if they get excited, sometimes they’ll shoot them off in the air. Or just to say hello. (I’m yet to witness this myself, praise God.)
Anyway, I greeted them and talked for a while. Can you imagine calmly talking to a guy holding an AK-47 or a machete in America?) Then took off to find Husa, where my house is that I’ll be moving into soon. This place is confusing, so I kept asking and pointing and saying “Husa.” Worked like a charm. They’d show me on my way or take me a ways. The little kids would run alongside me for a while until they got tired and died off. But, sure enough, a little later, I’d have another group pacing alongside me. Haha.
Everyone was super concerned that I wasn’t wearing any shoes. They’d point and holler and look confused. I really didn’t know how to respond to that, so I eventually just took to pointing back at their barefeet. At least then they laughed, haha.
In situations like this, it doesn’t take long for everyone in the hills to know what’s going on. By the time I made it up to Husa, everyone knew I was coming. There’s something with the flutes and special notes. I have no idea. All I know is, they knew I was coming and were all standing out to greet me along the way. You can hear the crowds of children coming like herds of cattle from their houses to the trail. Even better was the way back. Everyone knew what was up. “You go to Husa?” “Husa?”
That’s called the village telegram, friends. It’s more reliable than most anything, I promise you. (Certainly us Westerners’ precious cell phones, since they’ll do you no good out here!) I’m sure this will prove helpful when someone gets let into by a scorpion.
Anyway, I greeted them and talked for a while. Can you imagine calmly talking to a guy holding an AK-47 or a machete in America?) Then took off to find Husa, where my house is that I’ll be moving into soon. This place is confusing, so I kept asking and pointing and saying “Husa.” Worked like a charm. They’d show me on my way or take me a ways. The little kids would run alongside me for a while until they got tired and died off. But, sure enough, a little later, I’d have another group pacing alongside me. Haha.
Everyone was super concerned that I wasn’t wearing any shoes. They’d point and holler and look confused. I really didn’t know how to respond to that, so I eventually just took to pointing back at their barefeet. At least then they laughed, haha.
In situations like this, it doesn’t take long for everyone in the hills to know what’s going on. By the time I made it up to Husa, everyone knew I was coming. There’s something with the flutes and special notes. I have no idea. All I know is, they knew I was coming and were all standing out to greet me along the way. You can hear the crowds of children coming like herds of cattle from their houses to the trail. Even better was the way back. Everyone knew what was up. “You go to Husa?” “Husa?”
That’s called the village telegram, friends. It’s more reliable than most anything, I promise you. (Certainly us Westerners’ precious cell phones, since they’ll do you no good out here!) I’m sure this will prove helpful when someone gets let into by a scorpion.
We moved into our houses last night. It was a long, long day of carrying things are hiking. We loaded up heavy bags with our things and food and supplies and had to carry them on our backs and heads all the way up the mountain to our place. Let me tell you—I was exhausted. UGH.
You know those times when you can’t even lift your arms anymore? That’s what it was like. And shaky legs! It’s straight up at times on big bolders.
Our homes are wonderful. They have mud walls and three bedrooms with a kitchen/living area. The bathroom hole even has a box with a toilet seat on it! This is quite the luxury, considering we’ve had just a hole at the AIC compound for the last two weeks. We had almost forgotten how it all worked, haha. I was thinking this morning how weird it will be to hear a toilet flush when we visit Nairobi!
Our houses are tucked so far in the village, it’s sort of confusing trying to get to them. When you are walking there, you don’t look much further than your own feet, since you’re trying not to trip over rocks and things. So you just look up after half an hour of wakling and realize you’re at your front door! It’s great and all, except when you start on the trail back to the compound or try to walk there by yourself. Suddenly, looking at your feet is a problem. And when you’re not looking at your feet, you’re more and more aware that you don’t have a clue where you’re going! A lot of times, all you have to do, though is be white—this is easy and takes no effort—and ask the local people. They’re super helpful. You just point all around and say “American” (what they call the AIC compound) or “Kenya” (what they call the men’s hut in Lonjija) or our village, Husa, or wherever you are going—the well, the clinic, whatever. They’re glad to point you in the right direction or take you there or even carry your things.
(It was hilarious when even the men, even Stephan—a bush missionary/strong army guy who is super hardcore—is struggling with a load and then some local women will just toss it up on her head like it’s no problem. SO GREAT.)
They’ll even watch you as your go for a long time. Once I was probably 300m away and I heard a chorus of shouts from the hilltop I’d just been on. Apparently, I’d missed my turn and they were letting me know!
I had a little situation last night where I got caught coming back by myself in the dark, then the pouring rain. I didn’t want to make a wrong turn, so I went to our Lopit friend Patrick’s compound and three boys led me up quite readily. (Patrick is a Lopit Presby pastor who is great. Rachel, now he’s my hero, too. It’s such a small world!) it’s nice to know we’re so taken care of here. (Insert disclaimer about not being so naïve as to trust everyone. I’ve gotten about a dozen emails about that. But people aren’t all out to get you, either!)
You know those times when you can’t even lift your arms anymore? That’s what it was like. And shaky legs! It’s straight up at times on big bolders.
Our homes are wonderful. They have mud walls and three bedrooms with a kitchen/living area. The bathroom hole even has a box with a toilet seat on it! This is quite the luxury, considering we’ve had just a hole at the AIC compound for the last two weeks. We had almost forgotten how it all worked, haha. I was thinking this morning how weird it will be to hear a toilet flush when we visit Nairobi!
Our houses are tucked so far in the village, it’s sort of confusing trying to get to them. When you are walking there, you don’t look much further than your own feet, since you’re trying not to trip over rocks and things. So you just look up after half an hour of wakling and realize you’re at your front door! It’s great and all, except when you start on the trail back to the compound or try to walk there by yourself. Suddenly, looking at your feet is a problem. And when you’re not looking at your feet, you’re more and more aware that you don’t have a clue where you’re going! A lot of times, all you have to do, though is be white—this is easy and takes no effort—and ask the local people. They’re super helpful. You just point all around and say “American” (what they call the AIC compound) or “Kenya” (what they call the men’s hut in Lonjija) or our village, Husa, or wherever you are going—the well, the clinic, whatever. They’re glad to point you in the right direction or take you there or even carry your things.
(It was hilarious when even the men, even Stephan—a bush missionary/strong army guy who is super hardcore—is struggling with a load and then some local women will just toss it up on her head like it’s no problem. SO GREAT.)
They’ll even watch you as your go for a long time. Once I was probably 300m away and I heard a chorus of shouts from the hilltop I’d just been on. Apparently, I’d missed my turn and they were letting me know!
I had a little situation last night where I got caught coming back by myself in the dark, then the pouring rain. I didn’t want to make a wrong turn, so I went to our Lopit friend Patrick’s compound and three boys led me up quite readily. (Patrick is a Lopit Presby pastor who is great. Rachel, now he’s my hero, too. It’s such a small world!) it’s nice to know we’re so taken care of here. (Insert disclaimer about not being so naïve as to trust everyone. I’ve gotten about a dozen emails about that. But people aren’t all out to get you, either!)
Walking down to the AIC compound today, I was hit again by how surreal this place is and how it will take me a while to get used to some things. There was a herd boy moving his cattle down the trail, so we were walking among these cows and bulls. (The paths are pretty narrow.) It’s so weird to me, considering my perception of cattle spawns from my (albeit limited) rodeo experience. I mean, I’m used to angry animals that buck me off and stomp on me. Or I’m afraid they’ll wheel around and hit me. But this morning I’m walking with cows, slapping their rears so they’ll move out of my way. It’s just little things like that that get me.
So many times, I wish people were here so they could experience this place with me. I sent home a CD of small videos and lots of pictures yesterday but I know that flat images and even videos won’t put a face on this pace like they need to. I really struggle with wanting to share what I love with people I love. So I wish I could share my new home with all of you!!!
(As for the video, Mark will get the stuff… sometime… and I’ll let him post up here about how to get a copy. It’ll probably take a while to get it to the states by mail and even longer for him to put it together. So hang tight, gang, and keep an eye out for that information. Or… just plan to visit. It will SURELY be worth it.)
Oh, and a funny note… Along the path, you have to be really careful to mind the cow, goat and human (?!?!?!) poop. So that’s no fun. But I did learn a cultural lesson from it. Someone stepping in such a mess is still considered “funny,” across many cultures. ;)
So many times, I wish people were here so they could experience this place with me. I sent home a CD of small videos and lots of pictures yesterday but I know that flat images and even videos won’t put a face on this pace like they need to. I really struggle with wanting to share what I love with people I love. So I wish I could share my new home with all of you!!!
(As for the video, Mark will get the stuff… sometime… and I’ll let him post up here about how to get a copy. It’ll probably take a while to get it to the states by mail and even longer for him to put it together. So hang tight, gang, and keep an eye out for that information. Or… just plan to visit. It will SURELY be worth it.)
Oh, and a funny note… Along the path, you have to be really careful to mind the cow, goat and human (?!?!?!) poop. So that’s no fun. But I did learn a cultural lesson from it. Someone stepping in such a mess is still considered “funny,” across many cultures. ;)
I'm here!
Hello from the Lopit hills!
I sent along by the mail some blogs to Ginger (one of my faithful stateside sidekicks), but I imagine she won’t get those for a few weeks yet. So forgive me that this is out of order and perhaps redundant.
I’m safely here in the Sudan and really loving it. Even now, it feels like home. We spent ten days living in tents on Stephan’s compound and learning how to learn a language. I twas a wonderful time of fellowship with my new team and easing our way into life here. There are so many cultural things to consider—not just with the Lopit people, but within our team, as we represent five countries—USA, Germany, Switzerland, South Africa and Australia.
The people here are beautiful. I think I wrote about them some in the letters I sent home, but they really are striking. Their skin is a beautiful black, their cheekbones defined and their smiles, spilling over with love. There are SO many children here—little ones carrying littiler ones!
At church last Sunday, the chief of the area—Victor—spoke to us about working with the children, asking us to help open their eyes to God an the Gospel. As we’ve talked among ourselves, my teammates and I have realized that some of us do feel a burden for the children and working with the church to bring them up in the Gospel. It’s nice to see how God has prepared us specificaclly for this area in so many ways. Though we have no formal ministry for six months—language learning is our ministry now—we will eventually have to decide as a team where we will focus. So please pray for discernment in our future place in this town—that we would keep our eyes open to the needs and requests of the people, just like this one from the chief.
I sent along by the mail some blogs to Ginger (one of my faithful stateside sidekicks), but I imagine she won’t get those for a few weeks yet. So forgive me that this is out of order and perhaps redundant.
I’m safely here in the Sudan and really loving it. Even now, it feels like home. We spent ten days living in tents on Stephan’s compound and learning how to learn a language. I twas a wonderful time of fellowship with my new team and easing our way into life here. There are so many cultural things to consider—not just with the Lopit people, but within our team, as we represent five countries—USA, Germany, Switzerland, South Africa and Australia.
The people here are beautiful. I think I wrote about them some in the letters I sent home, but they really are striking. Their skin is a beautiful black, their cheekbones defined and their smiles, spilling over with love. There are SO many children here—little ones carrying littiler ones!
At church last Sunday, the chief of the area—Victor—spoke to us about working with the children, asking us to help open their eyes to God an the Gospel. As we’ve talked among ourselves, my teammates and I have realized that some of us do feel a burden for the children and working with the church to bring them up in the Gospel. It’s nice to see how God has prepared us specificaclly for this area in so many ways. Though we have no formal ministry for six months—language learning is our ministry now—we will eventually have to decide as a team where we will focus. So please pray for discernment in our future place in this town—that we would keep our eyes open to the needs and requests of the people, just like this one from the chief.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Heading out... maybe.
This might be my last post for a while. We’re hopping a flight to Loki tomorrow, then driving into Sudan on Thursday, and I’m not sure what the email/internet situation will like from then on.
Keep sending the emails—I love getting them—and I’ll reply when I can!
Some prayer requests:
Safe travels for the handful of us at ABO and the rest of our team, who we’ll meet up with in Loki. We have a really long ride in the back of a lorry from Loki to get to our mission compound, I think, so pray for that.
For team unity, as the five of us here meet up with the others who have been scattered across Africa and German.
For our team leaders, as they prepare for us.
For our huts. They’re not quite done because the cholera outbreak from a while back really threw a wrench in the building plans.
For our language learning, which we will start perhaps next week.
And, since this blog is really grey right now, here are some pictures. These are the laundry ladies, who we've become good friends with. They took us to meet their father the other day, too. It's been awesome to talk with them.
This is Samuel, one of the ladies' sons. He is soooo adorable... and loves it when the silly white girls bring him candy.
Keep sending the emails—I love getting them—and I’ll reply when I can!
Some prayer requests:
Safe travels for the handful of us at ABO and the rest of our team, who we’ll meet up with in Loki. We have a really long ride in the back of a lorry from Loki to get to our mission compound, I think, so pray for that.
For team unity, as the five of us here meet up with the others who have been scattered across Africa and German.
For our team leaders, as they prepare for us.
For our huts. They’re not quite done because the cholera outbreak from a while back really threw a wrench in the building plans.
For our language learning, which we will start perhaps next week.
And, since this blog is really grey right now, here are some pictures. These are the laundry ladies, who we've become good friends with. They took us to meet their father the other day, too. It's been awesome to talk with them.
This is Samuel, one of the ladies' sons. He is soooo adorable... and loves it when the silly white girls bring him candy.
A whole new ballgame...
Today I got an email about baseball. It was, I think, the most incredible thing that has happened to me in Africa so far. The latest news from the States: The Cubs are still terrible. And, as I told my other friend, it’s always good to get comforting news from the home front, and what could be more comforting and familiar than a wasted July for the Cubs? It doesn’t get much more familiar than that.
The other day, I tried to pull up the Cubs Web site. It didn’t come up all the way, but it did load the background—a blue field spotted with the Cubs “C” logo—and, really, that was enough for me. It made me so happy. (It’s not like the actual contents of the Web site—say, for example, the Cubs record—would be at all uplifting anyway.)
Truth be told, I’m going through a bit of culture shock. That’s hard for me to say, because the prideful part of me wants to believe I’ll be able to make the transition to an entirely different culture very smoothly and without extreme emotion or turmoil. But, here I am saying it—I’m going through culture shock. God is teaching me that denying it will just make it worse. Besides, a huge thrust of this training has been about adapting to our new culture. Surely, I should be a good steward of what I’m learning and put it into practice. As it turns out, everyone—even the strongest of the strong—goes through culture shock.
So I’ll humble myself to the reality, eat the weird food, handle the many stares, stumble through the broken conversations and cultural misunderstandings, cry the tears and get through it.
And this is only the beginning.
Being in such a new and different place is great, taking in all the strange sights, sounds, smells, practices, people. The only problem is finding a frame of reference.
You don’t realize how much your culture shapes how you think about everything until you’re taken from that culture. Then you’re jarred by these places and experiences that don’t fit the mold of your thinking, how you process life. You get here and you have only a few scraps of information, a few familiar images, to set against a darkness that is simply the blankness of your own experience.
But in time, praise God, the lights go up.
The other day, I tried to pull up the Cubs Web site. It didn’t come up all the way, but it did load the background—a blue field spotted with the Cubs “C” logo—and, really, that was enough for me. It made me so happy. (It’s not like the actual contents of the Web site—say, for example, the Cubs record—would be at all uplifting anyway.)
Truth be told, I’m going through a bit of culture shock. That’s hard for me to say, because the prideful part of me wants to believe I’ll be able to make the transition to an entirely different culture very smoothly and without extreme emotion or turmoil. But, here I am saying it—I’m going through culture shock. God is teaching me that denying it will just make it worse. Besides, a huge thrust of this training has been about adapting to our new culture. Surely, I should be a good steward of what I’m learning and put it into practice. As it turns out, everyone—even the strongest of the strong—goes through culture shock.
So I’ll humble myself to the reality, eat the weird food, handle the many stares, stumble through the broken conversations and cultural misunderstandings, cry the tears and get through it.
And this is only the beginning.
Being in such a new and different place is great, taking in all the strange sights, sounds, smells, practices, people. The only problem is finding a frame of reference.
You don’t realize how much your culture shapes how you think about everything until you’re taken from that culture. Then you’re jarred by these places and experiences that don’t fit the mold of your thinking, how you process life. You get here and you have only a few scraps of information, a few familiar images, to set against a darkness that is simply the blankness of your own experience.
But in time, praise God, the lights go up.
Debriefing...
“Human beings draw close to each other by their common nature, but habits and customs keep them apart.” — Confucius
I have learned so much here about myself and my culture as I’ve learned about Africa and its culture. There’s only so much you can learn from lectures and stories, I know. The real experiences of making huge cultural gaffes are going to be the real teachers here. Just pray I am intentional about being first a learner.
I’ve heard a lot of stories about how missionaries or the UN especially have completely screwed things up and would have done much better for themselves and the people they were trying to serve if they’d just taken the time to be students of the culture.
Take this example.
Some aid workers came into a village and, being the heroes they are, built pit latrines for every family in order to increase sanitation and reduce disease. They left so happy with themselves, so happy to report to their organization that they’ve helped these poor, poor Africans.
A group of missionaries comes through later and finds the situation of sanitation and disease to be worse. How can this be? They get in the culture and talk to the people about what’s going on. They ask them, what do they think they need, how can the situation be made better? (You wouldn’t believe how often organizations tell people what they need as opposed to asking them. But that’s a whole different issue.)
A man stands up and says, “Unlock the pit latrines.” What?
The aid workers who came in were good enough to explain to the villagers how the pit latrines worked and how to help keep them clean. Lock the doors was one of the tips.
So what’s the problem?
In that particular culture, no one talks about going to the bathroom. It’s not culturally appropriate. You’re just not supposed to know. So of course they weren’t going to ask someone for the key for the bathroom. It just doesn’t fit into their culture. So they simply went to the bathroom behind the pit latrines, leaving a more dire situation than they began with.
Had the aid workers only asked, only observed, they would have done so much more for the people there. Instead, they left them worse off. And I doubt they even know, to this day.
Or short-term missionaries who come in and give gospel presentations to whole churches and do altar calls and are amazed when dozens and dozens of people raise their hands to accept Jesus as their Savior. The short-term missionaries go home happy, sure the Lord has done an incredible work in these people. But what they don’t know, what they didn’t take the time to learn, is that in that particular culture, you always agree with a visitor. So of course they raised their hands when they were asked. And they’ll be there next time a group of visiting short-termers comes through, raising their hands.
Or when groups come in and use a village as a model, teaching them how to produce more rice than they can even imagine, more than enough rice to provide for the entire village. But then the organization leaves and someone comes back a couple years later to find the whole thing in shambles and the people back to what they were doing and struggling. But they had trained the villagers. They had left the project in capable hands. What happened?
The village did have a lot of rice, more rice than any village around it. But they didn’t want that. They knew if they had too much food, the surrounding villages would get angry.
It’s the idea of limited good. The mindset that, if I have more good than I need, then I’m stealing that good from someone else. This is why projects like this fail all the time. Not because Africans are stupid, but because we’re not meeting them where they’re at in their culture.
Take the idea of limited good and apply it to African Christians. The idea of an infinitely good God is nearly impossible to understand. That’s sad.
Go ahead and think Africans are dumb. I think most people see them as ignorant and stupid.
But I’m learning that there’s right, there’s wrong, then there’s different.
We’re quick to categorize anything that isn’t familiar as wrong and what is like us as right.
Now, don’t pin me as a complete cultural relativist—that I think right and wrong are determined by the culture. Certainly, there are things that are biblically right and wrong. But more often than not, we take what is traditionally or culturally seen as right and wrong and assume those stances are mirrored in the Bible. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been forced to see a lot of my stances for what they are—based in culture and tradition. It’s been at the same time interesting and frustrating, exhilarating and humbling.
I have about a zillion more stories, a zillion more things I’ve learned and ways I can apply that to other experiences I’ve had. I even have a completely different perspective on the war in Iraq, an insight into the culture that makes me see the whole thing in a new light. (I’ll share it with you sometime if you’d like.)
Anyway, I could go on forever. But I’ll spare you. These last few posts have been more about me processing things than you reading anyway. (No offense.)
I have learned so much here about myself and my culture as I’ve learned about Africa and its culture. There’s only so much you can learn from lectures and stories, I know. The real experiences of making huge cultural gaffes are going to be the real teachers here. Just pray I am intentional about being first a learner.
I’ve heard a lot of stories about how missionaries or the UN especially have completely screwed things up and would have done much better for themselves and the people they were trying to serve if they’d just taken the time to be students of the culture.
Take this example.
Some aid workers came into a village and, being the heroes they are, built pit latrines for every family in order to increase sanitation and reduce disease. They left so happy with themselves, so happy to report to their organization that they’ve helped these poor, poor Africans.
A group of missionaries comes through later and finds the situation of sanitation and disease to be worse. How can this be? They get in the culture and talk to the people about what’s going on. They ask them, what do they think they need, how can the situation be made better? (You wouldn’t believe how often organizations tell people what they need as opposed to asking them. But that’s a whole different issue.)
A man stands up and says, “Unlock the pit latrines.” What?
The aid workers who came in were good enough to explain to the villagers how the pit latrines worked and how to help keep them clean. Lock the doors was one of the tips.
So what’s the problem?
In that particular culture, no one talks about going to the bathroom. It’s not culturally appropriate. You’re just not supposed to know. So of course they weren’t going to ask someone for the key for the bathroom. It just doesn’t fit into their culture. So they simply went to the bathroom behind the pit latrines, leaving a more dire situation than they began with.
Had the aid workers only asked, only observed, they would have done so much more for the people there. Instead, they left them worse off. And I doubt they even know, to this day.
Or short-term missionaries who come in and give gospel presentations to whole churches and do altar calls and are amazed when dozens and dozens of people raise their hands to accept Jesus as their Savior. The short-term missionaries go home happy, sure the Lord has done an incredible work in these people. But what they don’t know, what they didn’t take the time to learn, is that in that particular culture, you always agree with a visitor. So of course they raised their hands when they were asked. And they’ll be there next time a group of visiting short-termers comes through, raising their hands.
Or when groups come in and use a village as a model, teaching them how to produce more rice than they can even imagine, more than enough rice to provide for the entire village. But then the organization leaves and someone comes back a couple years later to find the whole thing in shambles and the people back to what they were doing and struggling. But they had trained the villagers. They had left the project in capable hands. What happened?
The village did have a lot of rice, more rice than any village around it. But they didn’t want that. They knew if they had too much food, the surrounding villages would get angry.
It’s the idea of limited good. The mindset that, if I have more good than I need, then I’m stealing that good from someone else. This is why projects like this fail all the time. Not because Africans are stupid, but because we’re not meeting them where they’re at in their culture.
Take the idea of limited good and apply it to African Christians. The idea of an infinitely good God is nearly impossible to understand. That’s sad.
Go ahead and think Africans are dumb. I think most people see them as ignorant and stupid.
But I’m learning that there’s right, there’s wrong, then there’s different.
We’re quick to categorize anything that isn’t familiar as wrong and what is like us as right.
Now, don’t pin me as a complete cultural relativist—that I think right and wrong are determined by the culture. Certainly, there are things that are biblically right and wrong. But more often than not, we take what is traditionally or culturally seen as right and wrong and assume those stances are mirrored in the Bible. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been forced to see a lot of my stances for what they are—based in culture and tradition. It’s been at the same time interesting and frustrating, exhilarating and humbling.
I have about a zillion more stories, a zillion more things I’ve learned and ways I can apply that to other experiences I’ve had. I even have a completely different perspective on the war in Iraq, an insight into the culture that makes me see the whole thing in a new light. (I’ll share it with you sometime if you’d like.)
Anyway, I could go on forever. But I’ll spare you. These last few posts have been more about me processing things than you reading anyway. (No offense.)
Friday, July 21, 2006
The Greatest Lie Ever Told
“A god begotten in the shadows of a fallen heart will quite naturally be no true likeness of the true God.” – A.W. Tozer
Tuesday, we had a guy come to our training to talk to us about Islam. It was really hard stuff, especially since my knowledge of Islam is limited and ministering to Muslims often involves intricate mind games that I’m equipped for.
But it was good, as he gave us a general overview of pre-Islamic Arabia and the life of Mohammad and tried to put us in the mind of someone who grew up in an Islamic culture. That’s a lot of what we’re learning here at ABO—to put ourselves in the minds of Africans, in the minds of Muslims, in the minds of the people we’re ministering to, in order to more effectively and clearly share the Good News.
Anyway, this guy, Eric, was so intelligent. He knew both the Bible and the Qur’an so well, it amazed me. Truly, God has given him a heart for the Muslims and has blessed his learning and his ministry.
We visited a mosque, too. It was really sad, to be a woman and not even be able to use the same door as the men. To be cut off from them, set aside in an upper balcony that was surrounded by lace curtains. Looking through those curtains down on the men sort of gave me a view of what life as a Muslim woman must be like, always looking out from behind head scarves and from under oppression.
It reminded me of one thing Eric said.
In pre-Islamic Arabia, there was a high instance of infanticide. Boys were valued much higher than girls, so when a woman was in labor, she was made to dig a hole. She gave birth near the hole and, if it were a girl, she was to kick the newborn into the whole, burying her alive.
Now, Muslims will try to paint pre-Islamic times as very dark, so that the tiny light that Mohammad brought seems very bright. If you bring up infanticide, they will say, no, no, no, that is so bad.
But then you ask them, do you not bury your baby girls even today? Sure, it is no longer a physical burial. But they bury them in graves of ignorance by not letting them go to school or marrying them off when they are only four or five years old. They set them aside at the mosques, hide them under head scarves. So, if you oppress them—bury them—in this way, you are surely no better than the people of the pre-Islamic times.
If you to get a Muslim’s attention, this is a great entry point.
But how true.
We went to the mosque simply as students, so the men there took the opportunity to try to convert us to Islam and earn some points in their book.
The point system is quite interesting. You get good points for intending to do good deeds and actually doing good deeds, and you get bad points if you do something bad. Interestingly, however, if you do a good deed, yet have bad intentions—say, you give a beggar alms, but inwardly curse him and his poorness—they don’t negate each other. You just get the good points. And it’s really a toss-up in the end if you get to Paradise or not.
I came out very thankful for my God, the one and only true God, who is at the same time just and gracious. Just in his dealings with his people—the wages of sin are death; all who sin deserve spiritual death, eternity in hell—and gracious in his giving of his Son, who paid the wages for our sins on the cross.
What simple, beautiful truth we have. What a beautiful gift, given freely, to those he calls to himself. What a security, knowing that if we’re in Jesus—if we accept this gift—his blood covers us and we will, on that day of judgment, be looked on by God as pure and blameless and welcomed into eternity, welcomed to behold his face and his glory. Praise God for the Lamb.
Pardon my waxing, but this day hit my heart pretty deeply. The Qur’an is the greatest lie ever told, and the devil catches more and more people in its snares each and every day.
But, praise God, Jesus is alive. Mohammed is utterly and hopelessly dead.
And, as Eric said…
Jesus Christ is winning.
Tuesday, we had a guy come to our training to talk to us about Islam. It was really hard stuff, especially since my knowledge of Islam is limited and ministering to Muslims often involves intricate mind games that I’m equipped for.
But it was good, as he gave us a general overview of pre-Islamic Arabia and the life of Mohammad and tried to put us in the mind of someone who grew up in an Islamic culture. That’s a lot of what we’re learning here at ABO—to put ourselves in the minds of Africans, in the minds of Muslims, in the minds of the people we’re ministering to, in order to more effectively and clearly share the Good News.
Anyway, this guy, Eric, was so intelligent. He knew both the Bible and the Qur’an so well, it amazed me. Truly, God has given him a heart for the Muslims and has blessed his learning and his ministry.
We visited a mosque, too. It was really sad, to be a woman and not even be able to use the same door as the men. To be cut off from them, set aside in an upper balcony that was surrounded by lace curtains. Looking through those curtains down on the men sort of gave me a view of what life as a Muslim woman must be like, always looking out from behind head scarves and from under oppression.
It reminded me of one thing Eric said.
In pre-Islamic Arabia, there was a high instance of infanticide. Boys were valued much higher than girls, so when a woman was in labor, she was made to dig a hole. She gave birth near the hole and, if it were a girl, she was to kick the newborn into the whole, burying her alive.
Now, Muslims will try to paint pre-Islamic times as very dark, so that the tiny light that Mohammad brought seems very bright. If you bring up infanticide, they will say, no, no, no, that is so bad.
But then you ask them, do you not bury your baby girls even today? Sure, it is no longer a physical burial. But they bury them in graves of ignorance by not letting them go to school or marrying them off when they are only four or five years old. They set them aside at the mosques, hide them under head scarves. So, if you oppress them—bury them—in this way, you are surely no better than the people of the pre-Islamic times.
If you to get a Muslim’s attention, this is a great entry point.
But how true.
We went to the mosque simply as students, so the men there took the opportunity to try to convert us to Islam and earn some points in their book.
The point system is quite interesting. You get good points for intending to do good deeds and actually doing good deeds, and you get bad points if you do something bad. Interestingly, however, if you do a good deed, yet have bad intentions—say, you give a beggar alms, but inwardly curse him and his poorness—they don’t negate each other. You just get the good points. And it’s really a toss-up in the end if you get to Paradise or not.
I came out very thankful for my God, the one and only true God, who is at the same time just and gracious. Just in his dealings with his people—the wages of sin are death; all who sin deserve spiritual death, eternity in hell—and gracious in his giving of his Son, who paid the wages for our sins on the cross.
What simple, beautiful truth we have. What a beautiful gift, given freely, to those he calls to himself. What a security, knowing that if we’re in Jesus—if we accept this gift—his blood covers us and we will, on that day of judgment, be looked on by God as pure and blameless and welcomed into eternity, welcomed to behold his face and his glory. Praise God for the Lamb.
Pardon my waxing, but this day hit my heart pretty deeply. The Qur’an is the greatest lie ever told, and the devil catches more and more people in its snares each and every day.
But, praise God, Jesus is alive. Mohammed is utterly and hopelessly dead.
And, as Eric said…
Jesus Christ is winning.
Behind. Around. Before.
This morning’s devotion was pretty quality, so I thought I’d share it with you.
Always listen to the voice that is behind you.
“He will surely be gracious to you at the sound of your cry. As soon as he hears it, he answers you. And though the Lord give you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, yet your Teacher will not hide himself anymore, but your eyes shall see y our Teacher. And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it.’ ” (Isaiah 30: 19-21)
We can be sure of our call and of this voice behind us which prompts, urges and leads us.
The Angel of the Lord is around you.
“The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them.” (Psalm 34:7)
We are protected on all sides.
The Good Shepherd goes before us.
“The sheep hears his voice, and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he had brought out all his own, he goes before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice.” (John 10: 3-4)
This is how oriental shepherds lead, by going ahead, not by goading them from behind.
No matter where you go, the good shepherd has gone before you. He’s already there.
Behind. Around. Before.
Always listen to the voice that is behind you.
“He will surely be gracious to you at the sound of your cry. As soon as he hears it, he answers you. And though the Lord give you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, yet your Teacher will not hide himself anymore, but your eyes shall see y our Teacher. And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it.’ ” (Isaiah 30: 19-21)
We can be sure of our call and of this voice behind us which prompts, urges and leads us.
The Angel of the Lord is around you.
“The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them.” (Psalm 34:7)
We are protected on all sides.
The Good Shepherd goes before us.
“The sheep hears his voice, and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he had brought out all his own, he goes before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice.” (John 10: 3-4)
This is how oriental shepherds lead, by going ahead, not by goading them from behind.
No matter where you go, the good shepherd has gone before you. He’s already there.
Behind. Around. Before.
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