Getting back home is a coy process. I wander around the campus in Kenya basking in warm clear air. I have a lunch made up of leftovers---mango, a soft-boiled egg, some delicious salad provided by Kim Okesson. I bag the leftover jam, hard tack, hot dogs and mango and give it to a man who lingers in the shadows of campus life. He has a lean and hungry look. Later as we leave the gate he is there waving his thanks. He is hungry a lot of the time, I’m sure.
At 6 PM we give the goodbye hugs, pile into the college van/truck and leave after 17 days with this lovely college community—an oasis of God’s people.
Over the road once again - the shakes, rattles, and rolls - in, out and around lorries that stir up dust adding to the haze of the setting sun.
The plane is off on time—11 PM. It’s eight hours of dark flight to Amsterdam. I go through the checkpoint after trying a couple of wrong ways on revolving doors. I must be sleep-deprived for I normally negotiate these mazes easily.
I am to proceed to Starbucks as a point of rendezvous. But there are two in the concourse. I pick the larger one. It’s 6 AM and the place is like a morgue.
I watch two guys wash and squeegee windows surrounding the coffee shop. Soon the staff come to fold all these windows away like a folding wall. Folks are soon queuing up to get a cup of Java to jolt them awake. I find out later that Starbucks is not permitted in this city, only the airport. The Netherlands wants to protect its hundreds of small shops.
I nod off a number of times. 7 o’clock and no hint of dawn. Its overcast—let’s call it rain. In Machakos showers like this would cause much rejoicing to save crops. But here it is just depressing winter. Occasionally some flakes will fall here. But they will not even whiten the ground. So it’s not a cheery scene. UNTIL….
It’s nearly eight, the time of rendezvous. I glance behind me—and there she is. April Joy Gustafson smiling like the sun. She waves, we give a bear hug—and all is changed. April showers her cheer with a bright smile and sparkling eyes. How did such splendor ever come from the likes of me? I know, I know—a much larger gene pool.
She has a coffee while I tell of my adventures. Then it’s off to the train to Amsterdam and the long walk to the hostel.
April decided to volunteer here on the staff of a Christian hostel. Scads of mostly young people float through this city, many of them coming to look for work. They come from all over Europe and the world. April and the staff give listening ears and quiet witness while serving meals and housing these transients. She takes her turn cooking and doing other housekeeping work. The staff lives in a house a five minute bike ride away, while taking turns by twos to sleep in the hostel as law requires.
Speaking of bikes. This is bike city. Thousands in public squares and along the streets. In the rain, on they go, holding an umbrella in one hand and steering with the other. There are bike lanes here in many places. April says she once saw a guy balancing a comfy chair on his head while pedaling away through the traffic. It's as aamzing to me as the African women who walk miles with a 50 pound load on their head.
A 20 minute walk in the rain brings us to the hostel where I meet staff from UK , Czech, and other countries. We sit in the dining area, where I put my gloves and shirt on the radiator to dry. Wish I dared take my pants off and do the same—they are pretty damp. April tells me of their daily Bible explorations and how some guests have professed faith—three being baptized not long ago.
I decide this is good place to change underwear, put on my Henley and otherwise get real about the cold weather in my near future. I head for the men's room, leaving wet stuff on the small radiator.
Now dry, I talk about April's plans, her passion. I find she is really insightful about life, what it means to follow Jesus, and how she can invest herself in kingdom work. She is a woman of prayer and seeking the will of God. I remind her that when she was a kid one would never guess that she would become a people person and adventurous enough to live 10,000 miles from home and be comfortable with it all. She even plans perhaps to go back to her work in the Great North Woods taking college freshman out on backpacking and canoeing trips for another summer. And we talk of her going with me to India next fall. This is the time to see the world and listen for the whisper of God’s Spirit.
It’s time to head back to Schiphol Airport. This time, even though it is now barely drizzling, we take the trolley. An obliging guy on the train platform snaps a photo of us. I mount the train to the upper deck and wave down at her as the car pulls away.
What a profound joy to see this bundle of joy I once held in my lap with her two cousins when they were just a few years old—now a grown woman with a world focus. And above all, she thinks her grandfather is cool. Does life on this side of glory get any better than that? And to think I have four other grand-daughters just as wonderful. (I’ll speak of the three grandsons another time.)
It’s January. But April showers have fallen on the soft earth of this heart.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
A Day with the Family of God in Kenya
Out on a Sunday to the broad hills of valleys of the countryside southeast of Scott Theological College. George and I chat with Dr. Vundi as he races and crawls (depending on the road surface) toward Mukandawi.
On arrival Pastor Elijah greets us. His English is really good as he studied in Winnipeg for several years and has kids in Canada and the USA still. A son is in the US Navy.
A constant in African Inland Churches (the denomination Scott Theological College serves) is that the pastor and any guest preachers meet with the elders (all male) in the small room behind the sanctuary before the service.
Actually, the service has begun as the youth are doing a number before the congregation as they trickle in. The service begins a little before ten and will last until 1 o’clock. Its not a spiritual fast-food affair where you check in, fuel up, and check out like an air terminal. It is the event of the week and the families will relish every minute. More like a tailgate party indoors with all the neighbors.
I am an unexpected fifth wheel, with George the touted preacher. We all are briefed on how the service will unfold. We are on for a greeting, a duet, and George for the message from II Timothy 1.
The choir soon is doing its number. Thirty men and women in an African song about Adam and Eve. Swaying, shuffling, clapping, turning and bowing, with a lead singer and the oft-repeated chorus. A chap next to me and George on the bench whispers the general theme. It’s a long story that resonates with the hardships of life and of God’s grace in Jesus.
Meanwhile some folk just arriving come up to the platform area where George and I are sitting and put down plastic bags with goods inside. From previous experience I know what this is about. George pokes me when he sees one black sack has eyes peeking out—there’s a hen wondering why it has been deposited here. It gives George a suspicious look as if to say “What are YOU staring at—I’m just a lowly chicken in a plastic patch.” Later a second chicken-in-a-bag is placed beside it.
The youth choir sings. The women’ chorus comes next, followed by a song by a dozen or more widows of varying ages. Then approximately 25 men step out to do their part.
Soon the Boy’s Regiment is marching down the aisle under the command of a 13-year-old who barks orders. They do a military drill—real smart, too—that includes singing, parade rest, about face and all. A wee guy about two wanders up and stands between their legs imitating the drill. Priceless! All of this takes place before the platform on a section of the concrete floor that is about the size of the small parquet dance squares we see in restaurants and banquet halls.
Congregational songs are mixed in. An elder goes to the podium with an old-fashioned ledger book into which the notices for the week have been hand written. He reads through the list. Some papers are passed to him with late announcements.
The offering is on this wise. Are you ready? A young woman comes up and starts singing alone. First the pastors and elders file to the table that has four wood boxes with a sliding top attached to a 12 inch wooden handle. George and I follow the nod given us and join the queue. I slip in a bill. Next come the choir members and last the congregation, which by now (an hour and a half into the service) has swelled to about 300. We learn later that the congregation is growing so that they will have to enlarge for the second time so they can accommodate about 500-600. You can hardly have multiple services in sequence, can you, when things go in a single stream from 9:30 to after 2 PM?
Next the bags on the floor are tended to. A guy holds high the contents so those in the back can see. People without cash have brought produce—today it’s mostly mangoes—to be bid on by others. A big ripe watermelon goes for a good sum. Some teen girls take the bags to the purchasers and fetch the money up to the treasurer in front. There a few men’s neckties. Last they unclothe the chickens (one of which poops on the concrete floor) and have some brisk bidding. It’s not long drawn biddy wars here. Just a half-minute while two of three make offers. Soon the birds are placed, like orphans, in a nice family—with good references I suppose.
George and I go up to sing a duet. It’s an old piece I haven’t sung for decades: I Would Like to Tell You What I think of Jesus. It’s a bit rough when you have no rehearsal, but we get a big round of claps.
A prayer or two is mixed in to the order of worship. Then I give greetings from Ellie, my kids and grandkids, the church people. Later the pastor makes a point of a couple enjoying over 53 years of wedded bliss. I mentioned that I had left America under President Bush and would return under a son of Kenya, President Barak Obama. They all cheered. This is so huge in this country.
George now preaches a good simple down-home message about young Timothy who had advantages qualifying him for ministry even though he was young. He had a godly family background, good training under Paul, and gifts of the Holy Spirit. Vundi translates for him.
At the end George makes a presentation to the church from folks in Scotland who send money when George speaks about the church in Kenya. This is quite a few thousand shillings to enhance the widows’ ministry. (You know that HIV-AIDS has left even a lot of younger women widows.)
The pastor says he will report to George how the money is used. I know that some of it will be put into buying some ovens so there will be a way for them to sustain themselves by baking and even selling some breads and cakes.
George then comes up front for a reciprocal gift – a hand carved ebony elephant from the nearby Akamba woodcarvers. Photos snap as the woman in a bright red outfit makes a short speech.
I look at my watch. About 1:30 PM. Things will be winding down now, I think.
But the pastor comes down the aisle and starts speaking about grace. He turns every few sentences to tell George and me the gist of what he just said. He asks a question. There is a hand raised in the back. PTL. Then there is a second. It dawns on me. This is the altar call. No music, no tricks. Two young men come down front. The people are cheering. Pastor leads them in the sinner’s prayer. He asks me to come and pray for them. (Most people under 30 know English.) Then he signals for an elder and two women (whom he told me later he just picked on the spot) to come and say a word to these young guys. It’s beautiful to see their exhortations. The congregation extends their arms in their direction as prayers are made for them. More clapping. One of the men takes the mic and tells his testimony. He had gone to Tanzania to hear a band and have a few drinks. On the way back he had to walk part way and was met by a lion. He prayed that he would give his life if Jesus rescued him. After a tense few minutes the lion ambled off. He was here to make good on what Jesus had done for him. The other lad had been into drugs and his family had been praying for him. He finally turned himself in to the Great Physician.
A final song and prayer and the service ended—after 2 PM.
And you know what? I was refreshed and elated and exchanged greetings with dozens of people – kids, youth, men, women, old folks. We all KNEW we had been in the presence of Jesus, the Savior who lives and still changes lives.
We stayed with the pastor, elders and women leaders for a coke and some bread before packing up to go. And did I mention that George and I will be opening a fruit stand tomorrow? Many of the auctioned mangoes were given to us as a thank-you. George will give many of them away to the gatemen with the hungry mouths to feed.
En route home we stopped at the pastor’s house, where his wife, Grace, and last-born, Esther, had a good meal prepared in a lovely home. Cows were in the cattle shed. Planted trees lined the driveway. Flowers bloomed at the front entry. A nice modest home for Kenya countryside.
To me this is the church being pushed by the winds of the Holy Spirit rather than a model of church growth. Fueled by vital energy rather than budgets. And this is happening all over Kenya, all over Africa, all over India, South America. I am seeing an apostolic freshness here that I wish could be bottled and exported to Europe and America.
Why go to church of a Sunday for a Macdonald’s Happy Meal when you could stay for a multi-course feast and linger with the family in the Father’s House?
On arrival Pastor Elijah greets us. His English is really good as he studied in Winnipeg for several years and has kids in Canada and the USA still. A son is in the US Navy.
A constant in African Inland Churches (the denomination Scott Theological College serves) is that the pastor and any guest preachers meet with the elders (all male) in the small room behind the sanctuary before the service.
Actually, the service has begun as the youth are doing a number before the congregation as they trickle in. The service begins a little before ten and will last until 1 o’clock. Its not a spiritual fast-food affair where you check in, fuel up, and check out like an air terminal. It is the event of the week and the families will relish every minute. More like a tailgate party indoors with all the neighbors.
I am an unexpected fifth wheel, with George the touted preacher. We all are briefed on how the service will unfold. We are on for a greeting, a duet, and George for the message from II Timothy 1.
The choir soon is doing its number. Thirty men and women in an African song about Adam and Eve. Swaying, shuffling, clapping, turning and bowing, with a lead singer and the oft-repeated chorus. A chap next to me and George on the bench whispers the general theme. It’s a long story that resonates with the hardships of life and of God’s grace in Jesus.
Meanwhile some folk just arriving come up to the platform area where George and I are sitting and put down plastic bags with goods inside. From previous experience I know what this is about. George pokes me when he sees one black sack has eyes peeking out—there’s a hen wondering why it has been deposited here. It gives George a suspicious look as if to say “What are YOU staring at—I’m just a lowly chicken in a plastic patch.” Later a second chicken-in-a-bag is placed beside it.
The youth choir sings. The women’ chorus comes next, followed by a song by a dozen or more widows of varying ages. Then approximately 25 men step out to do their part.
Soon the Boy’s Regiment is marching down the aisle under the command of a 13-year-old who barks orders. They do a military drill—real smart, too—that includes singing, parade rest, about face and all. A wee guy about two wanders up and stands between their legs imitating the drill. Priceless! All of this takes place before the platform on a section of the concrete floor that is about the size of the small parquet dance squares we see in restaurants and banquet halls.
Congregational songs are mixed in. An elder goes to the podium with an old-fashioned ledger book into which the notices for the week have been hand written. He reads through the list. Some papers are passed to him with late announcements.
The offering is on this wise. Are you ready? A young woman comes up and starts singing alone. First the pastors and elders file to the table that has four wood boxes with a sliding top attached to a 12 inch wooden handle. George and I follow the nod given us and join the queue. I slip in a bill. Next come the choir members and last the congregation, which by now (an hour and a half into the service) has swelled to about 300. We learn later that the congregation is growing so that they will have to enlarge for the second time so they can accommodate about 500-600. You can hardly have multiple services in sequence, can you, when things go in a single stream from 9:30 to after 2 PM?
Next the bags on the floor are tended to. A guy holds high the contents so those in the back can see. People without cash have brought produce—today it’s mostly mangoes—to be bid on by others. A big ripe watermelon goes for a good sum. Some teen girls take the bags to the purchasers and fetch the money up to the treasurer in front. There a few men’s neckties. Last they unclothe the chickens (one of which poops on the concrete floor) and have some brisk bidding. It’s not long drawn biddy wars here. Just a half-minute while two of three make offers. Soon the birds are placed, like orphans, in a nice family—with good references I suppose.
George and I go up to sing a duet. It’s an old piece I haven’t sung for decades: I Would Like to Tell You What I think of Jesus. It’s a bit rough when you have no rehearsal, but we get a big round of claps.
A prayer or two is mixed in to the order of worship. Then I give greetings from Ellie, my kids and grandkids, the church people. Later the pastor makes a point of a couple enjoying over 53 years of wedded bliss. I mentioned that I had left America under President Bush and would return under a son of Kenya, President Barak Obama. They all cheered. This is so huge in this country.
George now preaches a good simple down-home message about young Timothy who had advantages qualifying him for ministry even though he was young. He had a godly family background, good training under Paul, and gifts of the Holy Spirit. Vundi translates for him.
At the end George makes a presentation to the church from folks in Scotland who send money when George speaks about the church in Kenya. This is quite a few thousand shillings to enhance the widows’ ministry. (You know that HIV-AIDS has left even a lot of younger women widows.)
The pastor says he will report to George how the money is used. I know that some of it will be put into buying some ovens so there will be a way for them to sustain themselves by baking and even selling some breads and cakes.
George then comes up front for a reciprocal gift – a hand carved ebony elephant from the nearby Akamba woodcarvers. Photos snap as the woman in a bright red outfit makes a short speech.
I look at my watch. About 1:30 PM. Things will be winding down now, I think.
But the pastor comes down the aisle and starts speaking about grace. He turns every few sentences to tell George and me the gist of what he just said. He asks a question. There is a hand raised in the back. PTL. Then there is a second. It dawns on me. This is the altar call. No music, no tricks. Two young men come down front. The people are cheering. Pastor leads them in the sinner’s prayer. He asks me to come and pray for them. (Most people under 30 know English.) Then he signals for an elder and two women (whom he told me later he just picked on the spot) to come and say a word to these young guys. It’s beautiful to see their exhortations. The congregation extends their arms in their direction as prayers are made for them. More clapping. One of the men takes the mic and tells his testimony. He had gone to Tanzania to hear a band and have a few drinks. On the way back he had to walk part way and was met by a lion. He prayed that he would give his life if Jesus rescued him. After a tense few minutes the lion ambled off. He was here to make good on what Jesus had done for him. The other lad had been into drugs and his family had been praying for him. He finally turned himself in to the Great Physician.
A final song and prayer and the service ended—after 2 PM.
And you know what? I was refreshed and elated and exchanged greetings with dozens of people – kids, youth, men, women, old folks. We all KNEW we had been in the presence of Jesus, the Savior who lives and still changes lives.
We stayed with the pastor, elders and women leaders for a coke and some bread before packing up to go. And did I mention that George and I will be opening a fruit stand tomorrow? Many of the auctioned mangoes were given to us as a thank-you. George will give many of them away to the gatemen with the hungry mouths to feed.
En route home we stopped at the pastor’s house, where his wife, Grace, and last-born, Esther, had a good meal prepared in a lovely home. Cows were in the cattle shed. Planted trees lined the driveway. Flowers bloomed at the front entry. A nice modest home for Kenya countryside.
To me this is the church being pushed by the winds of the Holy Spirit rather than a model of church growth. Fueled by vital energy rather than budgets. And this is happening all over Kenya, all over Africa, all over India, South America. I am seeing an apostolic freshness here that I wish could be bottled and exported to Europe and America.
Why go to church of a Sunday for a Macdonald’s Happy Meal when you could stay for a multi-course feast and linger with the family in the Father’s House?
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Oven
When the rains waken us at night here we get excited and thank God before turning over for a few more winks. This is the second day of decent rains. I would guess we have had two or more inches by now and it is still showering regularly. I pray that each inch will save a few million lives here as crops recover. So many live right on the edge in Africa.
The odd trio of adjuncts (George Mitchell of Scotland, Nancy Crawford, and I) had our assigned meal at Dr. Vundi and Lillian’s place last evening.
It’s one of those places you love to go. Big welcome. Joyous atmosphere.
Vundi is a BIG guy – I would guess 6’3” and 260 pounds. He is really dark and I wonder how intimidating he would be in the line next to Vince Wilfork of the Patriots! But he is a gentle giant. He has been a pastor and still goes out weekends to preach. He is on faculty here also, teaching homiletics and pastoral theology.
Lillian is a quiet but cheerful woman who has a bright smile and can surprise you with some humor. Their daughter Tina is a student here still. I had her in class last time. She is bright and a joy to banter with. Later her brother Mark would get in from Nairobi. He was a typical teen two years ago. But when he arrived, in strolls this tall young man in a smart pinstripe business suit, smiling like he had swallowed the canary and had the world by the tail. Impressive.
The meal was superb. Tender chicken, mashed, mixed hot veggies, soup-like something or other. So we laughed and told stories and carried on famously for an hour or so over the meal.
But the highlight was a trip to the kitchen. It’s an old but modern small kitchen with the usual range, sink, small refrigerator, counters and cupboards. Sitting on the floor was something new—an oven that had cooked so much of our meal, especially the cake now coming up for dessert. The cake was like a pound or sponge cake with a sweet taste and crusty top.
But it’s the oven that was of interest. It was made entirely of scrap metal and resembled a sort of oversized camp oven you would use outdoors. You could make one with some casual tools and some iron and sheet metal in a day. Inside the large door (that slanted on the angle of a bulkhead door) were two racks for the food to be cooked or baked on and at the bottom a 10” by 10” drop box where you put the fuel. In this case a few lumps of coal glowing brightly but with no leaping flame. There is a damper system to regulate heat.
Lillian has mastered this simple appliance as skilled cooks readily do. With a pass of her hand inside she knows whether it is hot enough for a cake or some bread or even a chicken. And the unit produces comfy warmth on a rainy evening in a place where houses have no heating system—save for a living room fireplace that looks nice but cannot throw any meaningful heat. And in hot weather you just pick the oven up and set it out on the porch.
This simple technology is something Vundi is producing for his community development work. A number have now been made and given to widows—who often have no means of livelihood in this society. The unit costs about $80.
In Vundi and Lillian’s work, they give these ovens to a widow and teach her to bake for herself and to sell in her village. Seems pretty slim for us. But for them it is a huge step toward some income that means their survival.
Earlier in the day Lillian held a workshop for some nearby widows and they baked and decorated a birthday cake that was still sitting proudly on the living room table. Two layers with flowers and words made of icing. Somewhat short of perfection, but a great first try. These women will probably make some money baking for neighbors and local shops. Young Tina entertained their kids while the moms had their Home-Ec lesson. You know how many single women care for kids often their nieces and nephews when HIV-AIDS has taken its toll.
This is what Dr. Vundi is trying to do for community development—simple things, but things that work and have very low startup cost. He holds workshops to teach pastors how they can encourage their people to provide for themselves with a simple oven and some basic crop-growing tips. He sells improved strains of corn that grow twice a high as the local stuff and yield 10 times more often with less water.
Some pastors have to be convinced that this is part of a good ministry even though it is money-making. The book of James is his text. It is harder than you think to convince leaders that it is spiritual ministry to help people with their material needs.
Later Vundi showed me his new website. This is big for him even though it is just a beginning. I suggested that he should add a “Donate” button. People in the west would love to send $80 to provide an oven for some widows in a rural village. He is thinking about that— he wants not to seem mercenary. “It’s not for you—it’s for the people in need,” I encourage him.
This is a family that realizes it is not enough merely to understand the world but to change the world. Karl Marx made that his motto and blew it by using the force of government to impose it from the top. We know the sad result of that. But Vundi is doing it voluntarily from the bottom up.
You might encourage him by checking out the new website. He said you can Google Vundi and Lillian and find it. (He was obviously pleased with their presence on the worldwide web.) Or try grassrootsdevelopmentproject.com
And pray, too. The district officials are pleased with his efforts because it benefits the people and makes them look good. (Politicians!) But one pastor, when he found out there was no money in it for him, tossed Vundi out and would not allow him access to the people of his church. Can you believe it? Thankfully this is rare. But I could tell Vundi was hurt by this.
God is perhaps stoking his oven for those who callously keep bread from the mouths of the hungry. Made God help us all!
Sometimes I wonder how the Lord can be so long-suffering with the lot of us.
Meanwhile families like that of Vundi and Lillian keep plugging away.
The odd trio of adjuncts (George Mitchell of Scotland, Nancy Crawford, and I) had our assigned meal at Dr. Vundi and Lillian’s place last evening.
It’s one of those places you love to go. Big welcome. Joyous atmosphere.
Vundi is a BIG guy – I would guess 6’3” and 260 pounds. He is really dark and I wonder how intimidating he would be in the line next to Vince Wilfork of the Patriots! But he is a gentle giant. He has been a pastor and still goes out weekends to preach. He is on faculty here also, teaching homiletics and pastoral theology.
Lillian is a quiet but cheerful woman who has a bright smile and can surprise you with some humor. Their daughter Tina is a student here still. I had her in class last time. She is bright and a joy to banter with. Later her brother Mark would get in from Nairobi. He was a typical teen two years ago. But when he arrived, in strolls this tall young man in a smart pinstripe business suit, smiling like he had swallowed the canary and had the world by the tail. Impressive.
The meal was superb. Tender chicken, mashed, mixed hot veggies, soup-like something or other. So we laughed and told stories and carried on famously for an hour or so over the meal.
But the highlight was a trip to the kitchen. It’s an old but modern small kitchen with the usual range, sink, small refrigerator, counters and cupboards. Sitting on the floor was something new—an oven that had cooked so much of our meal, especially the cake now coming up for dessert. The cake was like a pound or sponge cake with a sweet taste and crusty top.
But it’s the oven that was of interest. It was made entirely of scrap metal and resembled a sort of oversized camp oven you would use outdoors. You could make one with some casual tools and some iron and sheet metal in a day. Inside the large door (that slanted on the angle of a bulkhead door) were two racks for the food to be cooked or baked on and at the bottom a 10” by 10” drop box where you put the fuel. In this case a few lumps of coal glowing brightly but with no leaping flame. There is a damper system to regulate heat.
Lillian has mastered this simple appliance as skilled cooks readily do. With a pass of her hand inside she knows whether it is hot enough for a cake or some bread or even a chicken. And the unit produces comfy warmth on a rainy evening in a place where houses have no heating system—save for a living room fireplace that looks nice but cannot throw any meaningful heat. And in hot weather you just pick the oven up and set it out on the porch.
This simple technology is something Vundi is producing for his community development work. A number have now been made and given to widows—who often have no means of livelihood in this society. The unit costs about $80.
In Vundi and Lillian’s work, they give these ovens to a widow and teach her to bake for herself and to sell in her village. Seems pretty slim for us. But for them it is a huge step toward some income that means their survival.
Earlier in the day Lillian held a workshop for some nearby widows and they baked and decorated a birthday cake that was still sitting proudly on the living room table. Two layers with flowers and words made of icing. Somewhat short of perfection, but a great first try. These women will probably make some money baking for neighbors and local shops. Young Tina entertained their kids while the moms had their Home-Ec lesson. You know how many single women care for kids often their nieces and nephews when HIV-AIDS has taken its toll.
This is what Dr. Vundi is trying to do for community development—simple things, but things that work and have very low startup cost. He holds workshops to teach pastors how they can encourage their people to provide for themselves with a simple oven and some basic crop-growing tips. He sells improved strains of corn that grow twice a high as the local stuff and yield 10 times more often with less water.
Some pastors have to be convinced that this is part of a good ministry even though it is money-making. The book of James is his text. It is harder than you think to convince leaders that it is spiritual ministry to help people with their material needs.
Later Vundi showed me his new website. This is big for him even though it is just a beginning. I suggested that he should add a “Donate” button. People in the west would love to send $80 to provide an oven for some widows in a rural village. He is thinking about that— he wants not to seem mercenary. “It’s not for you—it’s for the people in need,” I encourage him.
This is a family that realizes it is not enough merely to understand the world but to change the world. Karl Marx made that his motto and blew it by using the force of government to impose it from the top. We know the sad result of that. But Vundi is doing it voluntarily from the bottom up.
You might encourage him by checking out the new website. He said you can Google Vundi and Lillian and find it. (He was obviously pleased with their presence on the worldwide web.) Or try grassrootsdevelopmentproject.com
And pray, too. The district officials are pleased with his efforts because it benefits the people and makes them look good. (Politicians!) But one pastor, when he found out there was no money in it for him, tossed Vundi out and would not allow him access to the people of his church. Can you believe it? Thankfully this is rare. But I could tell Vundi was hurt by this.
God is perhaps stoking his oven for those who callously keep bread from the mouths of the hungry. Made God help us all!
Sometimes I wonder how the Lord can be so long-suffering with the lot of us.
Meanwhile families like that of Vundi and Lillian keep plugging away.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Three Tidbits
Scene One
Three of us block professors go together to a staff home for dinner daily. Nancy Crawford is a Wheaton College graduate and has a PhD in psychology. Dr. George Mitchell is my pal from Glasgow, and myself.
Last night we climbed an outside staircase to the apartment of a newlywed couple—Elias and Chepcha. They were married one month ago to the day. We celebrated that first milestone.
She is not a looker—but what a cooker! “Mom taught me well,” she says. She only said about ten words the whole hour we were there.
Chicken – tender! Mixed vegetables. Potato salad – different. Chapattis, of course.
We three were all tired from grading exams all day. We hoped the conversation would take care of itself. It did.
Nancy knows the protocol—she lives in Nairobi. So she smoothes out all the right things to say, while George and I chime in with comments and smiles.
We ply Elias with questions, as he is now teaching apologetics here. He was one of my students some years back and went on for a philosophy degree. He was also teaching at a Scott satellite school in the north. It has about 40 students now, who no longer have to uproot and travel far south to this campus. Elias has also done live satellite radio programs. He would give some teaching on the Gospels or Psalms and then take calls and answer them. Not only was this live and unrehearsed, but the radio staff would go home and he would be running the whole station at the same time. Guy must be pretty good, that’s all I can say.
This reveals some of the fruits of the laborers here at Scott – a college only 47 years old but having a huge impact. We find Scott graduates in leadership and in teaching positions all over Kenya (and neighboring countries, too), often starting churches and schools in the toughest parts of the land. That includes urban Nairobi with all its crime to very arid outposts to the north where white folks seldom last long. We told Elias that he “has done us proud” as his Mwalim—Teachers. The little we do God multiplies in surprising ways.
Scene Two.
After chapel each morning we all take chai. A single cup of sugary tea and milk that is standard all over Kenya—maybe all over Africa.
George usually heads for the tiny refreshment kiosk next to the chapel after he has taken his chai. He likes to buy a Sprite and sit in the shade of the mango tree to jaw with students. He told me that yesterday there was a middle-aged man there just standing about. It’s someone we see from time to time on campus. He is not a worker here so far as I know.
George notices these people on the fringes. So he asked this man if he would like something to drink. “Yes, please,” came the reply. “Would you like a slice of cake to go with it?” “Bread,” he replied. The girl tending the kiosk sensed what was going on and found a bunch of slices of bread to serve with the drink. The man took it, went to the bench a few feet away. The half-loaf of bread was gone in a matter of minutes. Right in our midst, George had found one of the many in Kenya who are on the edge of deep hunger and he provided him that basic food—daily bread—for this day at least.
Scene three
A knock on the door this afternoon while I am grading my daily quizzes. I suspect it is couple of kids looking for George and his daily handout of balloons.
No—it is two of my students asking for a visit. Patience and Stella. Patience is a slim vivacious girl with fine features and a lively way about her. Stella is quieter but the smile is just as broad. Stella wears a leg brace that bespeaks of polio. She walks slowly with an awkward gait. But she is always cheerful.
They want to know my grading system for the midterm they just got back. So I explain.
Patience recently asked a teacher why he had a PhD degree but had never studied philosophy. He did not know. So I explained to her the medieval trivium and quadrivium division of academic subjects and how everything not theology was philosophy on those days. So that’s why biologists and English professors get a Doctor of Philosophy degree. I can tell she will explain to him with great relish.
I ask them what they think they will be doing in ten years time. Patience is going to go on for a master’s degree and go into ministry as a pastor, even though she may have to study part-time while supporting herself. She says that Scott is very much harder than the Kenya universities. Scott graduates are taken by the universities without an entrance exam because they know Scott grads typically take up to 10 subjects at a time when the average university student is struggling with the standard four. “We have to write papers here all the time, so there is no big challenge for us at the universities,” she boasts. Small college—but big reputation and big impact. The faculty here—now almost all nationals—is doing an outstanding job. So our church’s investment here over the years is well placed.
Stella wants to serve “somewhere in the world as a teacher.” She has a call to go overseas as doors open to minister the Gospel. “Maybe even the USA,” she says. I think that would be great. Here is a black woman, unpretentious, with a handicap, who would not seem a threat to anyone anywhere. What a great potential she has to go to the Muslims, the Hindus, the tribals in Africa, or to the lost in Europe or America. God has given her a great vision.
They apologize for coming “without an appointment.” I thank them for letting me get a glimpse into their eager desire to serve the Lord.
Our God knows what He is doing—outwitting the wise of the world every day with the likes of the least of these that the world mostly ignores.
Three of us block professors go together to a staff home for dinner daily. Nancy Crawford is a Wheaton College graduate and has a PhD in psychology. Dr. George Mitchell is my pal from Glasgow, and myself.
Last night we climbed an outside staircase to the apartment of a newlywed couple—Elias and Chepcha. They were married one month ago to the day. We celebrated that first milestone.
She is not a looker—but what a cooker! “Mom taught me well,” she says. She only said about ten words the whole hour we were there.
Chicken – tender! Mixed vegetables. Potato salad – different. Chapattis, of course.
We three were all tired from grading exams all day. We hoped the conversation would take care of itself. It did.
Nancy knows the protocol—she lives in Nairobi. So she smoothes out all the right things to say, while George and I chime in with comments and smiles.
We ply Elias with questions, as he is now teaching apologetics here. He was one of my students some years back and went on for a philosophy degree. He was also teaching at a Scott satellite school in the north. It has about 40 students now, who no longer have to uproot and travel far south to this campus. Elias has also done live satellite radio programs. He would give some teaching on the Gospels or Psalms and then take calls and answer them. Not only was this live and unrehearsed, but the radio staff would go home and he would be running the whole station at the same time. Guy must be pretty good, that’s all I can say.
This reveals some of the fruits of the laborers here at Scott – a college only 47 years old but having a huge impact. We find Scott graduates in leadership and in teaching positions all over Kenya (and neighboring countries, too), often starting churches and schools in the toughest parts of the land. That includes urban Nairobi with all its crime to very arid outposts to the north where white folks seldom last long. We told Elias that he “has done us proud” as his Mwalim—Teachers. The little we do God multiplies in surprising ways.
Scene Two.
After chapel each morning we all take chai. A single cup of sugary tea and milk that is standard all over Kenya—maybe all over Africa.
George usually heads for the tiny refreshment kiosk next to the chapel after he has taken his chai. He likes to buy a Sprite and sit in the shade of the mango tree to jaw with students. He told me that yesterday there was a middle-aged man there just standing about. It’s someone we see from time to time on campus. He is not a worker here so far as I know.
George notices these people on the fringes. So he asked this man if he would like something to drink. “Yes, please,” came the reply. “Would you like a slice of cake to go with it?” “Bread,” he replied. The girl tending the kiosk sensed what was going on and found a bunch of slices of bread to serve with the drink. The man took it, went to the bench a few feet away. The half-loaf of bread was gone in a matter of minutes. Right in our midst, George had found one of the many in Kenya who are on the edge of deep hunger and he provided him that basic food—daily bread—for this day at least.
Scene three
A knock on the door this afternoon while I am grading my daily quizzes. I suspect it is couple of kids looking for George and his daily handout of balloons.
No—it is two of my students asking for a visit. Patience and Stella. Patience is a slim vivacious girl with fine features and a lively way about her. Stella is quieter but the smile is just as broad. Stella wears a leg brace that bespeaks of polio. She walks slowly with an awkward gait. But she is always cheerful.
They want to know my grading system for the midterm they just got back. So I explain.
Patience recently asked a teacher why he had a PhD degree but had never studied philosophy. He did not know. So I explained to her the medieval trivium and quadrivium division of academic subjects and how everything not theology was philosophy on those days. So that’s why biologists and English professors get a Doctor of Philosophy degree. I can tell she will explain to him with great relish.
I ask them what they think they will be doing in ten years time. Patience is going to go on for a master’s degree and go into ministry as a pastor, even though she may have to study part-time while supporting herself. She says that Scott is very much harder than the Kenya universities. Scott graduates are taken by the universities without an entrance exam because they know Scott grads typically take up to 10 subjects at a time when the average university student is struggling with the standard four. “We have to write papers here all the time, so there is no big challenge for us at the universities,” she boasts. Small college—but big reputation and big impact. The faculty here—now almost all nationals—is doing an outstanding job. So our church’s investment here over the years is well placed.
Stella wants to serve “somewhere in the world as a teacher.” She has a call to go overseas as doors open to minister the Gospel. “Maybe even the USA,” she says. I think that would be great. Here is a black woman, unpretentious, with a handicap, who would not seem a threat to anyone anywhere. What a great potential she has to go to the Muslims, the Hindus, the tribals in Africa, or to the lost in Europe or America. God has given her a great vision.
They apologize for coming “without an appointment.” I thank them for letting me get a glimpse into their eager desire to serve the Lord.
Our God knows what He is doing—outwitting the wise of the world every day with the likes of the least of these that the world mostly ignores.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Fish or cut bait
Each year in Kenya, I room with another happy bachelor (temporarily so and not by desire), Reverend George Mitchell, PhD. Many a Baptist Union church he has served in Scotland over the decades and is a man of God whom to know is to love.
One token of his esteem is that he does over 60 funerals a year. You see, George grew up with the toughs of Glasgow and he loves the common man and they turn to him, especially if they have not been the church-going type. They know he understands the edgier side of life and can speak fearlessly yet with compassion to those who have post their way and need a Pilot of the Soul. And we all know Who that is.
We love him here at Scott Theological College. He is a silver-tongued smithy of words, often now enhanced by power point slides. He writes booklets that he sells to a small market of those he comes in contact with wherever he goes.
But the most endearing thing about George—did I mention also that he plays a respectable trumpet and has a fine voice—is that he does works of compassion all the time. It’s in his blood.
As he goes about Scotland, where he is a popular speaker, he advocates for the poor in Kenya. And people give him money and clothing to stuff in his bags and wallet for the needy when he comes each January.
Not that he’s perfect. Without his wife, Jean, he’d be at sixes and sevens most of the time. I know, I live with guy for three weeks every other year.
But he has a wonderful sense of humor and can tell stories without taking a breath for hours on end. It’s a fine tonic just to pal around with him.
Here’s what he did the last few days of this week.
He went off with Vundi to talk to the leaders of a local Anglican diocese about the biblical work ethic. You see people here just pray for rain when they can be developing local irrigation that could lessen starvation. At the end of his seminar he hands over 250,000 Ksh for an agricultural project Dr, Vundi is spear-heading to help the rural folk grow more food. George has touted this when people back home want to reward George for his ministry to them.
George goes down to visit the gatemen morning and often evening. His has a bag. Take some socks – or maybe a shirt. Here’s a bit o’dosh for you. “O thank you—I’ll be buying food with it today for my family.”
He goes out to the town football pitch (soccer field) to meet the coach and cheer the local kids. “Could you use some uniforms?” So he goes with the coach downtown and buys shirts, shorts, socks in bright colors like that of the Brazil team. “Now could you cut and collect some of the grass here to improve your field and feed some cows the college keeps?” “O sure, Dr. Mitchell, we’ll do just that.” Their eyes are big. They never dreamed they could have uniforms! “You look like Brazil now,” says George, “go play like them then!”
George has bags of ties and scarves to sprinkle about among the students and faculty and staff here. And some shirts and pencils, and dresses and even a suit or two. Whatever he can gather from folk or buy in the thrift.
Each afternoon a tap on the door signals the kids have come looking for a balloon from George’s pocket. “What do you say?” he asks with a broad grin. “Thank you!” they whisper.
Here is a man who teaches Hebrew and Greek, New Testament and numerous other courses in a college in Glasgow, now retired, who knows from his youth what it is to want and is doing all he can about it for others in need. He’s not wealthy himself. But people trust him to deliver the goods to the poorest of the poor as well as to needs of all kinds.
There’s a story about a guy in Wisconsin who was a fabulous fisherman. When others were skunked he always came home with something—every time. The local game warden asked how he did it. “Come on out with me and I’ll show you.” So on a day they put out into the middle of the little lake and let down the anchor. The man pulls out a stick of dynamite, lights it, and hands it toward his companion. "Toss it out and start fishing." “You can’t do that! The warden screams. Fishing by stunning them is against the law!!!” “Look,” says the other, still holding out the sizzling TNT, “are you going talk or fish?”
George is guy who is always fishing. He is a wonderful talker you can listen to all day. But he walks the walk. For Jesus. For the least of these…. For those who are easily invisible as they stand to the side in the shadow while we fly along by on our important errands.
You will be fishers of men, Someone once promised. Are we talking? Or are we fishing? He’s holding out the sizzling stick to you and to me.
One token of his esteem is that he does over 60 funerals a year. You see, George grew up with the toughs of Glasgow and he loves the common man and they turn to him, especially if they have not been the church-going type. They know he understands the edgier side of life and can speak fearlessly yet with compassion to those who have post their way and need a Pilot of the Soul. And we all know Who that is.
We love him here at Scott Theological College. He is a silver-tongued smithy of words, often now enhanced by power point slides. He writes booklets that he sells to a small market of those he comes in contact with wherever he goes.
But the most endearing thing about George—did I mention also that he plays a respectable trumpet and has a fine voice—is that he does works of compassion all the time. It’s in his blood.
As he goes about Scotland, where he is a popular speaker, he advocates for the poor in Kenya. And people give him money and clothing to stuff in his bags and wallet for the needy when he comes each January.
Not that he’s perfect. Without his wife, Jean, he’d be at sixes and sevens most of the time. I know, I live with guy for three weeks every other year.
But he has a wonderful sense of humor and can tell stories without taking a breath for hours on end. It’s a fine tonic just to pal around with him.
Here’s what he did the last few days of this week.
He went off with Vundi to talk to the leaders of a local Anglican diocese about the biblical work ethic. You see people here just pray for rain when they can be developing local irrigation that could lessen starvation. At the end of his seminar he hands over 250,000 Ksh for an agricultural project Dr, Vundi is spear-heading to help the rural folk grow more food. George has touted this when people back home want to reward George for his ministry to them.
George goes down to visit the gatemen morning and often evening. His has a bag. Take some socks – or maybe a shirt. Here’s a bit o’dosh for you. “O thank you—I’ll be buying food with it today for my family.”
He goes out to the town football pitch (soccer field) to meet the coach and cheer the local kids. “Could you use some uniforms?” So he goes with the coach downtown and buys shirts, shorts, socks in bright colors like that of the Brazil team. “Now could you cut and collect some of the grass here to improve your field and feed some cows the college keeps?” “O sure, Dr. Mitchell, we’ll do just that.” Their eyes are big. They never dreamed they could have uniforms! “You look like Brazil now,” says George, “go play like them then!”
George has bags of ties and scarves to sprinkle about among the students and faculty and staff here. And some shirts and pencils, and dresses and even a suit or two. Whatever he can gather from folk or buy in the thrift.
Each afternoon a tap on the door signals the kids have come looking for a balloon from George’s pocket. “What do you say?” he asks with a broad grin. “Thank you!” they whisper.
Here is a man who teaches Hebrew and Greek, New Testament and numerous other courses in a college in Glasgow, now retired, who knows from his youth what it is to want and is doing all he can about it for others in need. He’s not wealthy himself. But people trust him to deliver the goods to the poorest of the poor as well as to needs of all kinds.
There’s a story about a guy in Wisconsin who was a fabulous fisherman. When others were skunked he always came home with something—every time. The local game warden asked how he did it. “Come on out with me and I’ll show you.” So on a day they put out into the middle of the little lake and let down the anchor. The man pulls out a stick of dynamite, lights it, and hands it toward his companion. "Toss it out and start fishing." “You can’t do that! The warden screams. Fishing by stunning them is against the law!!!” “Look,” says the other, still holding out the sizzling TNT, “are you going talk or fish?”
George is guy who is always fishing. He is a wonderful talker you can listen to all day. But he walks the walk. For Jesus. For the least of these…. For those who are easily invisible as they stand to the side in the shadow while we fly along by on our important errands.
You will be fishers of men, Someone once promised. Are we talking? Or are we fishing? He’s holding out the sizzling stick to you and to me.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Way Sunday Should Be
An inauspicious start. I am to go out to a village church to preach and teach today – Sunday. I did not bother to look in my date book because I was sure the time was 7:30 AM. At 7 Benson Gitchui and a student of mine (also Benson) drive up. I am still having some breakfast. Thankfully George invites them in for a cup of coffee. That gives me 10 minutes to finish, put on my tie and jacket, grab my study Bible and jump into the car. I excuse myself by thinking this is Africa not Germany—where everything has to be PRECISE! (And don’t mention The War!)
Benson knows this southbound section of the Nairobi-Mombasa Road. Where it is finished off he goes 70 mph; where the road is still the gravel washboard he can average a skillful 15 mph. A tank truck is creeping along watering down the choking dust.
In a half hour we are turning off the highway and onto dirt tracks. Everything is super dry, so we’ll not be sliding around on the turns or wallow in mud at the creeks.
We wind up and down, surrounded by dry farming shambas. The maize is knee high and ready to tassle out. But if they do not get rain soon all will be lost. The papers here warn of starvation for up to several million Kenyans. The price of grain is shooting up while people have little income to buy it. Businessmen are accused, in some cases, of profiteering. It is a dire mess! And the papers say wealthy countries are leasing land in these poor countries to raise food to be exported home. South Korea is in Madagascar. Ukraine is going to lease out a million acres or so. The new colonialism some are calling it.
Soon we are at the church—a plain rectangular building with a metal roof with a bit of colored glass in the windows. Benches and chairs, a few platform chairs, a table or two at the front. Can seat, I would guess, 250 Kenya style.
Joshua’s wife, Josephine, greets us and her girls serve us rolled chapattis and tea.
The pastor’s house is modest, with a kitchen, living room, and four bedrooms, one of which they use for storage. Did you know that a typical kitchen up here in the rural hills has nothing in it save for maybe a chair. There is no electricity here. Food is prepared on the floor using bowls and some pots—not much different than we would use if stopping on a wilderness trail somewhere to bed down and fix a bit of grub.
Joshua tells me that his wife (I had to ask him if she had a name) was also pastoring a small church in Salama. She has to walk for one hour over the hills to this town and then back after the service. Salama means peace and is home to a Muslim community with a small mosque at the center of the shops along the road. From Salama we later will see the Mukaa orphan home on the distant hilltop.
“We have time to see the river,” Joshua tells me. It is about a ten-minute walk. Sounds good to me. A little stroll before we sit for hours in the coming service—nice. It is sunny and warm, but not hot. Off we go.
We greet parishioners—"chuch membahs"—as we go. They are in their yard having breakfast before heading for church.
The rolling expanse of hills would normally be lush green this time of year. But dryness makes it all pastel. It’s not severe yet. So we are praying for some rains to come soon.
It’s downhill on a small road where goats nibble on hedges and plots are lined with sisal plants. That is the common boundary marker surveyors look for. If one tries to move the boundary (as is stealing land) the roots persist for a dozen years and the surveyors will go by that to settle boundary disputes.
At the bottom of the valley we see a dam about 30 feet across, built by “Wilson,” the white man who bought several thousand acres here a century ago. This impounded water and got the people through the droughts. Today there is a tiny trickle coming through the pipe. Below are huge boulders giving way to a pool of greenish water. A boy about 8 years of age is there. When he sees us he strips off his shirt—maybe hoping we will want him to show his prowess. I notice his green shorts have holes worn through the two back pockets and about ready to fail altogether. You see quite a few people with clothes just a thread away from rags.
Joshua shows us the shrine where tribals still offer sacrifices in times of drought. Like, I mean, animals. And the sand that keeps washing down from the hills is there for the taking. But you will suffer if you sell it for money—or even think of selling it.
Along the highway, Benson Gichui had said that there was a sacred tree right where the road had to go. But the tribals would riot it was touched. They found a creative solution. Someone went to the tribals and said that he heard the tree talking—in many languages, not just Kikamba—even the American language and that this would bring havoc to the tribe. Thus sowing fear in their minds, they agreed that this tree was a threat now and would have to be destroyed. So the road crew cut it down. You can see the trunk bulldozed off to the side of the road. Like Dagon headless in the temple of the Philistines.
Back to the watering hole. Goats are coming down to slake their thirst. Wild animals come at night. Joshua urges me to look down a narrow cut in the rocks. No water is seen below. But it is there. He says that boys will jump between these narrow rocks and fall nearly 40 feet into the darkness where the water is and then find a way to clamber out at the lower level. Very dangerous. The fathers warn their boys never to go near this place. Too dangerous! They know, because they jumped into the blackness when they were boys.
Now it is time to return. It’s all up hill. By now the sun is high. I have no hat, no sleeves to cover my arms. No water. The average Mzungu my age might have heat stroke or worse. I make it back and later lecture them that they need to think of what white-skinned people are facing so that they can provide what is needed to preclude problems. Yes—they admit. We should have thought of that. “Tell your wife (Josephine) and the ladies—they will remember!”
At 10:30 the service begins. 50 younger folk in deep blue shirts and black skirt or trousers start the slow shuffle, singing and motioning to the rhythms. I like it! They fill 5 files of about 12 people in front of the platform. They choir director is playing tapes with 3 live bass players and a keyboard guy. Electricity comes from a small generator down the hill snaking a 50 foot extension cord. Prayer by a layman lasts 10 minutes with most of the congregation standing before the Lord. Announcements. Offering. Songs by a trio of teen girls. A song by the ladies’ choir. This is GREAT! I notice the distant clock says 11:45. Then 12:15. I am introduced and start preaching after 12:30. “How long do I have?” I ask. “As long as you need.” O—this is a preacher’s heaven!
I choose the same text as in chapel at Scott: Deuteronomy 34 – Moses’ last hike up Mount Nebo. But since I have several Scott people here I cannot just repeat the message. So we talk about age of those God uses. Moses in 120 when he finishes his work gathering a throng of ex-slaves into a people. St. Paul was mid-sixties when he finishes his assignment upon a cross in seven-hilled Rome. And Jesus was half that age when he accomplished the redemption of the world on the hill of Calvary. Age and length of service mean little. Being faithful to God’s call is everything.
It’s starting toward one o’clock now. The men and boys exit so the women and girls can have their Sunday School time. We assemble under the sparse shade of an acacia tree. I request to face away from the sun in the best shade they, remembering Dr. Goldberg’s warnings about skin damage. What to say with little warning? Ephesians 5 on husbands loving their wives; children honoring parents. It’s all about giving, not getting. I pause for questions. You can tell they are not used to this. Finally a white whiskered Mzee asks what he can do for grandkids who are far from God now. At the end of the day he would come to thank me and we posed for a photo. Precious.
A man about 30 asks what he can say to people when all think they have the truth and do not need to come through Jesus. All the religions and philosophies of the world insist that one come and serve their god first and then maybe Allah or the spirits or the ancestors will do good to you in return. But our God stands alone in serving us unconditionally by doing everything for us first—including dying for us. Then He invites us to come and surrender our lives to His kingdom. Our God makes the first move and gives us the gift of faith so that we can come to him. This makes Christianity not a religion so much as a relationship. This is foreign to Islam and every other religion.
Now it is time to back to the building as the ladies are now finishing. As they adults and wee ones leave about 70 youths fill the front benches. What can I say to them? I start with a verse from Timothy and improvise from there. They actually listen! One 16 year old asks a question. Ten another question.
By now it’s after 2 PM. We are done. Now that’s doing church!
By three we are eating a meal with the elders at the pastor’s house next to the church. Chicken as tough as gristle in a thin soup. Chapattis, of course. Rice, Sukuma Weekie—a dish of cooked greens that has sustained poor people for months when there is nothing else to eat. It’s name derives from “that’s what you make do with the rest of the week when the good food is gone.”
As we leave pastor Joshua has us pick up Josephine and their two kids to make a brief side-trip to an acre of land he bought a few years ago and is having a stone house built. But prices go up while money goes down. So it is just shy of the roof and interior finish. When they can move in, he can drive to his church and drop her off in Salama, saving her two hours of “footing.” Churches are proliferating in Kenya. Joshua will get land to start another congregation to accommodate another several hundred people closer to their houses and shambas (small plot farming). Scholars call this explosion of the Gospel the emerging Southern Church—in Asia, Africa, and Latin America. It’s a pleasure to see a bit of it with my own eyes.
Back to Scott. It’s 6 PM That’s a typical Sunday for folk here. I admit I am tired. Who was it said, “my feets is tired but my soul is rested?”
I am late for supper at Shadrack and Milcah’s place with colleagues George and Nancy. They ask about Ellie and the Drapers. Personal ties with people 10,000 miles apart, yet one in our Lord Jesus, the Messiah, who came for us when we were all dead in our sins and without God, without hope in the world.
Now we walk in the light as He is in the light and have fellowship one with another.
Benson knows this southbound section of the Nairobi-Mombasa Road. Where it is finished off he goes 70 mph; where the road is still the gravel washboard he can average a skillful 15 mph. A tank truck is creeping along watering down the choking dust.
In a half hour we are turning off the highway and onto dirt tracks. Everything is super dry, so we’ll not be sliding around on the turns or wallow in mud at the creeks.
We wind up and down, surrounded by dry farming shambas. The maize is knee high and ready to tassle out. But if they do not get rain soon all will be lost. The papers here warn of starvation for up to several million Kenyans. The price of grain is shooting up while people have little income to buy it. Businessmen are accused, in some cases, of profiteering. It is a dire mess! And the papers say wealthy countries are leasing land in these poor countries to raise food to be exported home. South Korea is in Madagascar. Ukraine is going to lease out a million acres or so. The new colonialism some are calling it.
Soon we are at the church—a plain rectangular building with a metal roof with a bit of colored glass in the windows. Benches and chairs, a few platform chairs, a table or two at the front. Can seat, I would guess, 250 Kenya style.
Joshua’s wife, Josephine, greets us and her girls serve us rolled chapattis and tea.
The pastor’s house is modest, with a kitchen, living room, and four bedrooms, one of which they use for storage. Did you know that a typical kitchen up here in the rural hills has nothing in it save for maybe a chair. There is no electricity here. Food is prepared on the floor using bowls and some pots—not much different than we would use if stopping on a wilderness trail somewhere to bed down and fix a bit of grub.
Joshua tells me that his wife (I had to ask him if she had a name) was also pastoring a small church in Salama. She has to walk for one hour over the hills to this town and then back after the service. Salama means peace and is home to a Muslim community with a small mosque at the center of the shops along the road. From Salama we later will see the Mukaa orphan home on the distant hilltop.
“We have time to see the river,” Joshua tells me. It is about a ten-minute walk. Sounds good to me. A little stroll before we sit for hours in the coming service—nice. It is sunny and warm, but not hot. Off we go.
We greet parishioners—"chuch membahs"—as we go. They are in their yard having breakfast before heading for church.
The rolling expanse of hills would normally be lush green this time of year. But dryness makes it all pastel. It’s not severe yet. So we are praying for some rains to come soon.
It’s downhill on a small road where goats nibble on hedges and plots are lined with sisal plants. That is the common boundary marker surveyors look for. If one tries to move the boundary (as is stealing land) the roots persist for a dozen years and the surveyors will go by that to settle boundary disputes.
At the bottom of the valley we see a dam about 30 feet across, built by “Wilson,” the white man who bought several thousand acres here a century ago. This impounded water and got the people through the droughts. Today there is a tiny trickle coming through the pipe. Below are huge boulders giving way to a pool of greenish water. A boy about 8 years of age is there. When he sees us he strips off his shirt—maybe hoping we will want him to show his prowess. I notice his green shorts have holes worn through the two back pockets and about ready to fail altogether. You see quite a few people with clothes just a thread away from rags.
Joshua shows us the shrine where tribals still offer sacrifices in times of drought. Like, I mean, animals. And the sand that keeps washing down from the hills is there for the taking. But you will suffer if you sell it for money—or even think of selling it.
Along the highway, Benson Gichui had said that there was a sacred tree right where the road had to go. But the tribals would riot it was touched. They found a creative solution. Someone went to the tribals and said that he heard the tree talking—in many languages, not just Kikamba—even the American language and that this would bring havoc to the tribe. Thus sowing fear in their minds, they agreed that this tree was a threat now and would have to be destroyed. So the road crew cut it down. You can see the trunk bulldozed off to the side of the road. Like Dagon headless in the temple of the Philistines.
Back to the watering hole. Goats are coming down to slake their thirst. Wild animals come at night. Joshua urges me to look down a narrow cut in the rocks. No water is seen below. But it is there. He says that boys will jump between these narrow rocks and fall nearly 40 feet into the darkness where the water is and then find a way to clamber out at the lower level. Very dangerous. The fathers warn their boys never to go near this place. Too dangerous! They know, because they jumped into the blackness when they were boys.
Now it is time to return. It’s all up hill. By now the sun is high. I have no hat, no sleeves to cover my arms. No water. The average Mzungu my age might have heat stroke or worse. I make it back and later lecture them that they need to think of what white-skinned people are facing so that they can provide what is needed to preclude problems. Yes—they admit. We should have thought of that. “Tell your wife (Josephine) and the ladies—they will remember!”
At 10:30 the service begins. 50 younger folk in deep blue shirts and black skirt or trousers start the slow shuffle, singing and motioning to the rhythms. I like it! They fill 5 files of about 12 people in front of the platform. They choir director is playing tapes with 3 live bass players and a keyboard guy. Electricity comes from a small generator down the hill snaking a 50 foot extension cord. Prayer by a layman lasts 10 minutes with most of the congregation standing before the Lord. Announcements. Offering. Songs by a trio of teen girls. A song by the ladies’ choir. This is GREAT! I notice the distant clock says 11:45. Then 12:15. I am introduced and start preaching after 12:30. “How long do I have?” I ask. “As long as you need.” O—this is a preacher’s heaven!
I choose the same text as in chapel at Scott: Deuteronomy 34 – Moses’ last hike up Mount Nebo. But since I have several Scott people here I cannot just repeat the message. So we talk about age of those God uses. Moses in 120 when he finishes his work gathering a throng of ex-slaves into a people. St. Paul was mid-sixties when he finishes his assignment upon a cross in seven-hilled Rome. And Jesus was half that age when he accomplished the redemption of the world on the hill of Calvary. Age and length of service mean little. Being faithful to God’s call is everything.
It’s starting toward one o’clock now. The men and boys exit so the women and girls can have their Sunday School time. We assemble under the sparse shade of an acacia tree. I request to face away from the sun in the best shade they, remembering Dr. Goldberg’s warnings about skin damage. What to say with little warning? Ephesians 5 on husbands loving their wives; children honoring parents. It’s all about giving, not getting. I pause for questions. You can tell they are not used to this. Finally a white whiskered Mzee asks what he can do for grandkids who are far from God now. At the end of the day he would come to thank me and we posed for a photo. Precious.
A man about 30 asks what he can say to people when all think they have the truth and do not need to come through Jesus. All the religions and philosophies of the world insist that one come and serve their god first and then maybe Allah or the spirits or the ancestors will do good to you in return. But our God stands alone in serving us unconditionally by doing everything for us first—including dying for us. Then He invites us to come and surrender our lives to His kingdom. Our God makes the first move and gives us the gift of faith so that we can come to him. This makes Christianity not a religion so much as a relationship. This is foreign to Islam and every other religion.
Now it is time to back to the building as the ladies are now finishing. As they adults and wee ones leave about 70 youths fill the front benches. What can I say to them? I start with a verse from Timothy and improvise from there. They actually listen! One 16 year old asks a question. Ten another question.
By now it’s after 2 PM. We are done. Now that’s doing church!
By three we are eating a meal with the elders at the pastor’s house next to the church. Chicken as tough as gristle in a thin soup. Chapattis, of course. Rice, Sukuma Weekie—a dish of cooked greens that has sustained poor people for months when there is nothing else to eat. It’s name derives from “that’s what you make do with the rest of the week when the good food is gone.”
As we leave pastor Joshua has us pick up Josephine and their two kids to make a brief side-trip to an acre of land he bought a few years ago and is having a stone house built. But prices go up while money goes down. So it is just shy of the roof and interior finish. When they can move in, he can drive to his church and drop her off in Salama, saving her two hours of “footing.” Churches are proliferating in Kenya. Joshua will get land to start another congregation to accommodate another several hundred people closer to their houses and shambas (small plot farming). Scholars call this explosion of the Gospel the emerging Southern Church—in Asia, Africa, and Latin America. It’s a pleasure to see a bit of it with my own eyes.
Back to Scott. It’s 6 PM That’s a typical Sunday for folk here. I admit I am tired. Who was it said, “my feets is tired but my soul is rested?”
I am late for supper at Shadrack and Milcah’s place with colleagues George and Nancy. They ask about Ellie and the Drapers. Personal ties with people 10,000 miles apart, yet one in our Lord Jesus, the Messiah, who came for us when we were all dead in our sins and without God, without hope in the world.
Now we walk in the light as He is in the light and have fellowship one with another.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
She was beautiful, spots and all,
Today was Saturday, our day of rest. Just a few quizzes to grade and then the faculty could go play. And play we did. You see, on Sunday is out to the churches to preach and mix with the rural folk. Stressful for a outsider. But that’s tomorrow….
At a ranch even bigger than the Bush ranch in Crawford, TX.
23,000 Acacia Acres. About 15 miles north of Scott. But with the washboard they use for a road it takes 55 minutes to get there. It’s typical African plains, with sparse groves of acacia. Did you know there are scores of varieties of acacia trees? Neither did I.
Three of us went early for a guided wildlife tour with a trained guide (all for $15 each). We saw the usual—giraffes, wart hogs, eland, Oryx (not common elsewhere), zebra, wildebeest, tawny eagle, lilac-breasted roller, and various antelope species, to name a few. And the rare Geranock (Sp?) Looks like a short-necked giraffe. We were in an open top land rover so we could get photos without shooting through glass. It was a warm day with a gentle breeze—no clouds.
But the highlight was my cheetah. You will see me with her in a photo when I get a chance to download my camera.
She was beautiful, though a tad overweight for a cheetah. Most cheetahs are bone-showing thin because hyenas hang out near them. When they make a kill they have to pause to catch their breath and the cheeky hyenas snatch the prey. But my cheetah was orphaned at age 3 in Somalia and ended up here on this Kenya ranch, fed on beef once a day, and kept in a compound at night. She may live to be 25—ten years more than in the wild.
Soon the guys say to save our photos until she comes out. One puts a collar around her neck—but no leash. “We don’t need a leash. If she wanders off we track her with the radio. But usually she stays close by. Just don’t make any sudden motions."
Out she comes. She sniffs us. First Jack and Karen Mitchell. Then me. Really glad I shaved and washed up this morning. She goes to lie in the shade of a thatched shed. We go up one by one to bend down and groom her coat with a brush the handler hands us. Photos are snapping. I am last. And—are you ready for this?—she licks my hand! Maybe she senses we are the same age for our species.
You can feel her black spots. The fur is different somehow. She yawns. Look at those fangs! And did you know cheetahs do not have retractable claws as most cats do? Neither did I. She lies back on her side. Stretches. I guess she is getting bored, for she ambles a few yards to sit on a mound to look out over the plains. I notice she is looking northeast—in the direction of Somalia, her homeland.
The guide now bids us come into a rickety barn that has been there forever. It has some thatch, some tin roofing. Unbelievable. It's got dozens of antique cars and cycles. A bit dusty, sure. But there is a Rolls, a T-bird, a hand-crank 1920s Ford. And that cream colored one? That’s the one Meryl Streep rode in while filming “Out of Africa,” the story of Karen Blixen. Motorcycles going back to the thirties. A couple of creaky bicycles, too. And the walls have wood shelves holding all manner of ancient auto parts. All out here on the plains of Africa miles from any decent density of population to enjoy these treasures.
I turn to go back toward the entry. And who is walking at my side? Ms Cheetah, of course. I think she likes me. That’s understandable. I tell her she’s the only cheetah for me. I don’t want her howling to the full moon next week about my cheetin’ hart. Maybe she mistakes me for a hartebeest. I have a hard time reading the minds of females of all species. I’m thinking of adapting an old Swedish song—“cheetah, my hand-lickin’ sweetheart—I’m crazy nuts about you!”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a lunch awaits us.
Wives and kids have arrived for a buffet under a thatched roof pavilion. All food guaranteed safe for western stomachs. A garden salad, spinach quiche, and cold cooked asparagus spears. Course One.
Go back to the hot table. Mixed vegetables, roasted potatoes, and breaded fish. Course Two.
Then to the custom-order chefs. They hold a 10 inch black skillet. Pour in oil. Add what you like. I choose onion, mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes, fresh diced tomatoes, chopped garlic, braised Hamburg, green peppers. He mixes it over the flame, adds spaghetti. Mmmmm. Course Three.
Course Four. Repeat Course Three, smaller portion.
Course Five. Repeat Course One, smaller portion.
Course Six. Repeat a tiny Course Two.
Since it is Jack Mitchell’s birthday (yesterday) we all get hot apple crisp with ice cream. Course Seven.
That’s the perfect number. I know when I have had enough. No over-eating for me, nossiree!
Disclosure—I did not eat again that day until Kim Okesson and little Anna came to our house with hot muffins at 8 PM. A little glass of milk with the two smallest muffins (George is out so I ate one of his while it was hot, as I’m sure he would want) and I am ready for bed and sweet dreams.
Anyway—we talked out there while the kids chased Frisbees and watched monkeys. I dozed off quite a few times. A professor’s lot is not an easy one! We took a photo of the seven of us who are Wheaton College grads. Then over the washboard home. I managed four catnaps during the ride home, too.
Sweet dreams for me tonight.
She was beautiful—spots and all.
At a ranch even bigger than the Bush ranch in Crawford, TX.
23,000 Acacia Acres. About 15 miles north of Scott. But with the washboard they use for a road it takes 55 minutes to get there. It’s typical African plains, with sparse groves of acacia. Did you know there are scores of varieties of acacia trees? Neither did I.
Three of us went early for a guided wildlife tour with a trained guide (all for $15 each). We saw the usual—giraffes, wart hogs, eland, Oryx (not common elsewhere), zebra, wildebeest, tawny eagle, lilac-breasted roller, and various antelope species, to name a few. And the rare Geranock (Sp?) Looks like a short-necked giraffe. We were in an open top land rover so we could get photos without shooting through glass. It was a warm day with a gentle breeze—no clouds.
But the highlight was my cheetah. You will see me with her in a photo when I get a chance to download my camera.
She was beautiful, though a tad overweight for a cheetah. Most cheetahs are bone-showing thin because hyenas hang out near them. When they make a kill they have to pause to catch their breath and the cheeky hyenas snatch the prey. But my cheetah was orphaned at age 3 in Somalia and ended up here on this Kenya ranch, fed on beef once a day, and kept in a compound at night. She may live to be 25—ten years more than in the wild.
Soon the guys say to save our photos until she comes out. One puts a collar around her neck—but no leash. “We don’t need a leash. If she wanders off we track her with the radio. But usually she stays close by. Just don’t make any sudden motions."
Out she comes. She sniffs us. First Jack and Karen Mitchell. Then me. Really glad I shaved and washed up this morning. She goes to lie in the shade of a thatched shed. We go up one by one to bend down and groom her coat with a brush the handler hands us. Photos are snapping. I am last. And—are you ready for this?—she licks my hand! Maybe she senses we are the same age for our species.
You can feel her black spots. The fur is different somehow. She yawns. Look at those fangs! And did you know cheetahs do not have retractable claws as most cats do? Neither did I. She lies back on her side. Stretches. I guess she is getting bored, for she ambles a few yards to sit on a mound to look out over the plains. I notice she is looking northeast—in the direction of Somalia, her homeland.
The guide now bids us come into a rickety barn that has been there forever. It has some thatch, some tin roofing. Unbelievable. It's got dozens of antique cars and cycles. A bit dusty, sure. But there is a Rolls, a T-bird, a hand-crank 1920s Ford. And that cream colored one? That’s the one Meryl Streep rode in while filming “Out of Africa,” the story of Karen Blixen. Motorcycles going back to the thirties. A couple of creaky bicycles, too. And the walls have wood shelves holding all manner of ancient auto parts. All out here on the plains of Africa miles from any decent density of population to enjoy these treasures.
I turn to go back toward the entry. And who is walking at my side? Ms Cheetah, of course. I think she likes me. That’s understandable. I tell her she’s the only cheetah for me. I don’t want her howling to the full moon next week about my cheetin’ hart. Maybe she mistakes me for a hartebeest. I have a hard time reading the minds of females of all species. I’m thinking of adapting an old Swedish song—“cheetah, my hand-lickin’ sweetheart—I’m crazy nuts about you!”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a lunch awaits us.
Wives and kids have arrived for a buffet under a thatched roof pavilion. All food guaranteed safe for western stomachs. A garden salad, spinach quiche, and cold cooked asparagus spears. Course One.
Go back to the hot table. Mixed vegetables, roasted potatoes, and breaded fish. Course Two.
Then to the custom-order chefs. They hold a 10 inch black skillet. Pour in oil. Add what you like. I choose onion, mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes, fresh diced tomatoes, chopped garlic, braised Hamburg, green peppers. He mixes it over the flame, adds spaghetti. Mmmmm. Course Three.
Course Four. Repeat Course Three, smaller portion.
Course Five. Repeat Course One, smaller portion.
Course Six. Repeat a tiny Course Two.
Since it is Jack Mitchell’s birthday (yesterday) we all get hot apple crisp with ice cream. Course Seven.
That’s the perfect number. I know when I have had enough. No over-eating for me, nossiree!
Disclosure—I did not eat again that day until Kim Okesson and little Anna came to our house with hot muffins at 8 PM. A little glass of milk with the two smallest muffins (George is out so I ate one of his while it was hot, as I’m sure he would want) and I am ready for bed and sweet dreams.
Anyway—we talked out there while the kids chased Frisbees and watched monkeys. I dozed off quite a few times. A professor’s lot is not an easy one! We took a photo of the seven of us who are Wheaton College grads. Then over the washboard home. I managed four catnaps during the ride home, too.
Sweet dreams for me tonight.
She was beautiful—spots and all.
Friday, January 09, 2009
In the family way
It is well-known that Kenyans are into family in a big way.
Kenya has one of the highest birth rates in the world. Children are good gifts of God. More is better.
The back drop for this is a cultural history in which old folks are supported by their kids. So a bigger 401K is better than a small one.
This norm is changing now due to westernization. It may not be good, but the developing nations of the world are copying the rich and powerful nations.
I’ve seen this in small ways myself. When I first came here in 1992 women all wore skirts and dresses. Now in the big cities you see more western outfits. Technology is all imported. Computers are now commonplace in schools like this. Everyone has cell phones.
So rural bush life, while still the norm for millions of people, is shrinking like the glaciers on Mt. Kenya. So the birth rate shrinks for urban people who don’t need a quiverful of kids to support them in their dotage. And while all matters having to do with intimate relations is hush-hush, that too is beginning to change.
Since sister Lois Draper and Bob served here as teachers (Ukamba Bible College) twenty-five years ago, our extended family has adopted a Kenyan family that was living hand-to-mouth just a step away from a thatched roof hut.
I united Peter and Gladys in marriage here in 1993, standing under some trees in a local park. In 1984 Peter had been a teenager who came looking for work to help his widowed mother and four siblings survive grinding poverty. They were living in a couple of mud sheds like you might have in your backyard for garden tools.
A few weeks ago Peter and Gladys saw their 5th child—a boy—added to their family. Their first-born was named after me, giving me special obligations to the family welfare. But modern values are coming to the fore now, as they ask us how to help them ensure that this boy is the last-born. This may seem obvious to us, but it signals a huge shift in mindset for a Kenyan couple.
This is the family that received my big ugly red suitcase I mentioned in the first blog. Paul Mbandi, now the dean here at Scott, met Peter in Nairobi yesterday to transfer this and some cash to Peter.
Peter phoned my hosts here three times wanting to speak to me. After classes were done for the day, I managed to get back to him. He spent five minutes expressing thanks for what we had done. He had called his sisters, who now are working in Nairobi where Peter does ministry, to come and share some of the blessings.
What was in the suitcase? An outfit for an infant boy. They had already dressed him in it to go for his first check-up at the clinic. It had a cuddly lion that Ellie found in Target a week ago. It had 50 T-shirts of adult sizes that said something about Methuen, MA. It had some socks and a pair of trousers and stuff that I would never wear again. To us it was nothing. To them, a treasure. Some of those T-shirts will go to the poor that make up Peter’s tiny congregation eking out a life on the edge of a big city. The rest will be on the backs of this large extended family, not merely a means of keeping warm but as a pledge that somebody cares about them. “A T-shirt given in the name of Christ will in no wise lose its reward.”
And Ellie had sent some money to get Gladys and the baby out jail—I mean hospital.
You see the family here has no assets. No cushion. They live as Jesus did, praying for daily bread.
When Gladys went into labor, they went to the hospital. Without money they were not about to let her into the “Inn.” You can’t blame them, really. How can you run a hospital in a big city where most people are on the edge economically? The government has no safety net for these indigents.
So Gladys sat in the lobby about to explode. Peter said he hung on like a bulldog for several hours (!) insisting they had to take his wife in, prepayment or no. Finally—like the unjust judge—they relented. She delivered a bouncing baby boy.
Getting in was tough. But how to get Gladys and the baby out? After more than a week of a mounting bill, the shillings Ellie sent for them got into Peter’s hands and he paid them off. They all went home rejoicing.
That’s how it goes for the marginal in Kenya.
Marginal? Actually Peter is better off than most. He has a university education and a seminary degree as well. He preaches with a simple loudspeaker wherever he can. He has a few dozen converts who are poorer than he. He and Gladys give out of their poverty to those in need. Some days they do not eat because someone else needed the food more-to end their days of hunger.
Sure the Kenyans often have their hands out. Sure they often make choices we think are a bit reckless. But they are dodging their way through life as best they can.
And these dear brothers and sisters pray for us because they hear that there are layoffs and bank failures shaking our way of life. They know what it’s like to face uncertainty. Yet our troubles are nothing compared to theirs. For us it’s a couple of lean years. For them it’s a permanent condition.
So Gladys will go to the family-planning clinic to make sure this does not happen again.
Yeah—right! Just like our politicians will make sure we don’t have another economic collapse.
For us as for our Kenyan family, the Lord and the family of God is the only sure foundation.
Kenya has one of the highest birth rates in the world. Children are good gifts of God. More is better.
The back drop for this is a cultural history in which old folks are supported by their kids. So a bigger 401K is better than a small one.
This norm is changing now due to westernization. It may not be good, but the developing nations of the world are copying the rich and powerful nations.
I’ve seen this in small ways myself. When I first came here in 1992 women all wore skirts and dresses. Now in the big cities you see more western outfits. Technology is all imported. Computers are now commonplace in schools like this. Everyone has cell phones.
So rural bush life, while still the norm for millions of people, is shrinking like the glaciers on Mt. Kenya. So the birth rate shrinks for urban people who don’t need a quiverful of kids to support them in their dotage. And while all matters having to do with intimate relations is hush-hush, that too is beginning to change.
Since sister Lois Draper and Bob served here as teachers (Ukamba Bible College) twenty-five years ago, our extended family has adopted a Kenyan family that was living hand-to-mouth just a step away from a thatched roof hut.
I united Peter and Gladys in marriage here in 1993, standing under some trees in a local park. In 1984 Peter had been a teenager who came looking for work to help his widowed mother and four siblings survive grinding poverty. They were living in a couple of mud sheds like you might have in your backyard for garden tools.
A few weeks ago Peter and Gladys saw their 5th child—a boy—added to their family. Their first-born was named after me, giving me special obligations to the family welfare. But modern values are coming to the fore now, as they ask us how to help them ensure that this boy is the last-born. This may seem obvious to us, but it signals a huge shift in mindset for a Kenyan couple.
This is the family that received my big ugly red suitcase I mentioned in the first blog. Paul Mbandi, now the dean here at Scott, met Peter in Nairobi yesterday to transfer this and some cash to Peter.
Peter phoned my hosts here three times wanting to speak to me. After classes were done for the day, I managed to get back to him. He spent five minutes expressing thanks for what we had done. He had called his sisters, who now are working in Nairobi where Peter does ministry, to come and share some of the blessings.
What was in the suitcase? An outfit for an infant boy. They had already dressed him in it to go for his first check-up at the clinic. It had a cuddly lion that Ellie found in Target a week ago. It had 50 T-shirts of adult sizes that said something about Methuen, MA. It had some socks and a pair of trousers and stuff that I would never wear again. To us it was nothing. To them, a treasure. Some of those T-shirts will go to the poor that make up Peter’s tiny congregation eking out a life on the edge of a big city. The rest will be on the backs of this large extended family, not merely a means of keeping warm but as a pledge that somebody cares about them. “A T-shirt given in the name of Christ will in no wise lose its reward.”
And Ellie had sent some money to get Gladys and the baby out jail—I mean hospital.
You see the family here has no assets. No cushion. They live as Jesus did, praying for daily bread.
When Gladys went into labor, they went to the hospital. Without money they were not about to let her into the “Inn.” You can’t blame them, really. How can you run a hospital in a big city where most people are on the edge economically? The government has no safety net for these indigents.
So Gladys sat in the lobby about to explode. Peter said he hung on like a bulldog for several hours (!) insisting they had to take his wife in, prepayment or no. Finally—like the unjust judge—they relented. She delivered a bouncing baby boy.
Getting in was tough. But how to get Gladys and the baby out? After more than a week of a mounting bill, the shillings Ellie sent for them got into Peter’s hands and he paid them off. They all went home rejoicing.
That’s how it goes for the marginal in Kenya.
Marginal? Actually Peter is better off than most. He has a university education and a seminary degree as well. He preaches with a simple loudspeaker wherever he can. He has a few dozen converts who are poorer than he. He and Gladys give out of their poverty to those in need. Some days they do not eat because someone else needed the food more-to end their days of hunger.
Sure the Kenyans often have their hands out. Sure they often make choices we think are a bit reckless. But they are dodging their way through life as best they can.
And these dear brothers and sisters pray for us because they hear that there are layoffs and bank failures shaking our way of life. They know what it’s like to face uncertainty. Yet our troubles are nothing compared to theirs. For us it’s a couple of lean years. For them it’s a permanent condition.
So Gladys will go to the family-planning clinic to make sure this does not happen again.
Yeah—right! Just like our politicians will make sure we don’t have another economic collapse.
For us as for our Kenyan family, the Lord and the family of God is the only sure foundation.
He sees the baggage when it falls and hears me when I call
Washboard done! Circling small airport parking pads for an opening, we find no room at this inn. I hop out and go to the entrance indicated. You see, I can’t go in by the regular entrance for I need to show my passport to get to the inner sanctum. I explain to the attendant, who pats me down manually since this is not a general public entrance with full service scanning—it’s for employees.
Someone directs me to BAGGAGE, where I approach a smartly uniformed young woman on duty behind the counter. “I am so sorry, but I have someone’s luggage that went with me all the way to Machakos last night. It belongs to David Dewese.” She lights up. This will get one item off her docket. “I will call him now so he knows it has come!” It’s barely 7AM But I know young David will not resent this call. “Please apologize for me,” I say, “for he is likely a brother in the Lord doing ministry here for two weeks.” From her smile and nod I can tell she is a Christian. She points to the area where lots of neglected luggage is strewn over a patch of red concrete floor. “Your bag is over there.”
I am so grateful to God when I hug tight this beat-up old friend that has shuttled my stuff into the belly of many a plane and doesn’t seem to resent those duct tape patches.
Now for George Mitchell. He made it! We see his wee bald head bobbing about near the carousel. He waits. People come out through customs in a steady stream. An hour later and George is still inside. We can see him now going to the BAGGAGE desk to file a claim for missing luggage.
He has a rare tale to tell when we start on the road home.
In Scotland this winter there has been a plague of flu so resistant to medicine that thousands are ill. The pilots for his flight couldn’t make their assignment. It took an hour or so to find replacements. So when the flight got to Amsterdam it was so late that George had to fly down the concourse mazes to catch the plane to Nairobi. He made it. But obviously the bags did not. Ole George had to make a second trip to the terminal a day later, but did retrieve his stuff—crammed with dresses and shirts and ties and balloons and pencils, etc. that folk back in Scotland donate for him to distribute to the poor here.
Next morning he is so happy that his joy awakens me. He has a change of clothes now! And his own toothbrush! So he is washing up whilst singing basso arias from Handel’s Messiah. “For He is like a refiner’s fire and shall shake the heavens and the earth…,” rolling along like a winter wren, singing the scriptures. It could be annoying. But somehow I find it beautiful.
If Jesus were here now He might tell the parable of the Lost Luggage. “Rejoice with me, I have found that which was lost!”
God has seen two of his sparrows falling to the ground without their proper underwear and sox. And from heaven He has heard their cry and seen to it that not a bag of lost luggage is neglected. I think He knows the number of suitcases that are circling the globe in these flying tubes we call jet planes. And we have our stuff.
All is well that ends well, they say.
Sometimes it’s just “All’s well that ends.”
Someone directs me to BAGGAGE, where I approach a smartly uniformed young woman on duty behind the counter. “I am so sorry, but I have someone’s luggage that went with me all the way to Machakos last night. It belongs to David Dewese.” She lights up. This will get one item off her docket. “I will call him now so he knows it has come!” It’s barely 7AM But I know young David will not resent this call. “Please apologize for me,” I say, “for he is likely a brother in the Lord doing ministry here for two weeks.” From her smile and nod I can tell she is a Christian. She points to the area where lots of neglected luggage is strewn over a patch of red concrete floor. “Your bag is over there.”
I am so grateful to God when I hug tight this beat-up old friend that has shuttled my stuff into the belly of many a plane and doesn’t seem to resent those duct tape patches.
Now for George Mitchell. He made it! We see his wee bald head bobbing about near the carousel. He waits. People come out through customs in a steady stream. An hour later and George is still inside. We can see him now going to the BAGGAGE desk to file a claim for missing luggage.
He has a rare tale to tell when we start on the road home.
In Scotland this winter there has been a plague of flu so resistant to medicine that thousands are ill. The pilots for his flight couldn’t make their assignment. It took an hour or so to find replacements. So when the flight got to Amsterdam it was so late that George had to fly down the concourse mazes to catch the plane to Nairobi. He made it. But obviously the bags did not. Ole George had to make a second trip to the terminal a day later, but did retrieve his stuff—crammed with dresses and shirts and ties and balloons and pencils, etc. that folk back in Scotland donate for him to distribute to the poor here.
Next morning he is so happy that his joy awakens me. He has a change of clothes now! And his own toothbrush! So he is washing up whilst singing basso arias from Handel’s Messiah. “For He is like a refiner’s fire and shall shake the heavens and the earth…,” rolling along like a winter wren, singing the scriptures. It could be annoying. But somehow I find it beautiful.
If Jesus were here now He might tell the parable of the Lost Luggage. “Rejoice with me, I have found that which was lost!”
God has seen two of his sparrows falling to the ground without their proper underwear and sox. And from heaven He has heard their cry and seen to it that not a bag of lost luggage is neglected. I think He knows the number of suitcases that are circling the globe in these flying tubes we call jet planes. And we have our stuff.
All is well that ends well, they say.
Sometimes it’s just “All’s well that ends.”
Thursday, January 08, 2009
To good to be true
After a superfluity of hugs and handshakes at church this morning, I am ready to go on my 8th excursion to Scott Theological College in Machakos, Kenya. Ellie came with me in 2005 and it was a disater for her. So I left her weeping inconsolably at the door as Jim and Zach Herrick whisked me away to Boston. She makes a huge sacrifice, stoking two wood stoves to keep the frost off the windows in Haverhill while I head south of the equator where summer sends the mercury to 80 degrees each day. But her new book is getting good reviews, so she can think of that with satisfaction. (Go to www.eleanorgustafson.com to read all about it.)
NorthWest Airlines gets me in to Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam at 8:05 AM, so I have some time to wander about the terminal before emplaning for Nairobi. I ask where Starbucks is so I’ll know where to meet April on the return flight in 3 weeks. I didn’t see Starbucks with my own eyes, but the friendly espresso girls tell me the direction. I’ve no time to go that far in the great spidery arms that these airports are. But at least I know it’s there.
Maybe I’ll have an ice cream, meanwhile. Ah –no, maybe not. $4 per scoop. And they will not fool me again. Some years ago when Ellie and I were here to visit her cousin and family (stationed in Europe with the U.S. Army) we got ice cream in Amsterdam. I kid you not—the scoops were the size of melon balls—you know the kind you use to scoop out cantaloupes back in the fifties? My cone with two scoops was gone in two bites. About the same amount of ice cream I shamelessly lick off the bottom of a decent size ice cream bowl. Sure, the stuff here is Haagen Daz. No better quality anywhere. But I could hardly TASTE it, let alone enjoy a close-your-eyes-and-smile tryst with whatever flavor it was. So today I just nod and wink at the kiosk and keep on trolling my carryon behind me.
Ah! Check “USA Today” for football scores. Too bad about Tony Dungee’s Colts getting sliced out of the post-season in sudden death overtime. But that’s what makes sports so popular. Anything can happen.
It’s now 9:30 A.M. and the sun is just coming over the horizon here. Where am I, the North Pole? No wonder Europe has fallen from its place in the heavens. Think how depressing this would be, year after year. Light is good! Sunlight is better! Then I recall that I am at the same latitude as Labrador.
Snoozing a lot en route, the trip over the Saraha desert goes by quickly. At Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Kenya the flight is on time and I am soon in the Visa line. Been here, done this before. But are these Kenyans are s..l..o..w. The nationals clear their queue quickly so I am waved over. Pay my crisp 50 USD and I have only baggage to handle now. (BTW, fellow bachelor-for-3-weeks George Mitchell came only with British pounds this year and had to go to exchange to get dollars. This in Kenya a former British colony and part of the Commonwealth!)
I grab a trolley (free use here) and look for bags. I canna’ believe it! There’s my ugly-as-sin red bag with all the Methuen shirts Ed Platz donated already on the carousel. And my black case next to it. This is to good to be true! Usually I have to wait until the last for my bags—you know, first on last off. Someone is smiling on me this trip! I grab them both, get waived through bag inspection (sigh of relief—they won’t hassle me over the new camera going to Deborah Brown’s friend Dalmas).
Look around for a familiar face or at least a sign with “Gustafson” on it. Bingo! There is Douglas Kaloki, the Scott driver, with his brother. We are loaded up and on the road in minutes, heading to Machakos.
The road is unbelievably BAD. It’s being re-built, so 60% is base—no hot top. Wash-board city. Any blood clots lingering in my legs from 15 hours of sitting in the Airbus are being shaken and pulverized. Almost feels good—almost.
By 11 we are dragging my bags into the cottage here. It’s lovely at night. The black, black sky shows stars an arm length away. The big dipper is low in the sky as I am in the southern hemisphere now. God is too good.
Then it happened. A reality check BIG TIME (for me, anyway.) I open my black bag and find strange contents! O NO!!!!!!!!!!! I should have checked it. I have another’s bag and mine is back at the airport! Bonnell’s are still up. I check with them. They call the airport—no luck with their cell phone. Joseph Ndebe’s lights are on—we’ll go there. He tries the airport, since we now know the owner’s identity from his Bible. He’s from TN and is here for a few weeks working with Baptist youth in Nairobi. At least he is not off on a safari to the boonies!
I’ll go back with Kaloki at 5 AM as he goes to fetch George Mitchell coming from Scotland. But—can I sleep with this uncertainty? I had been reading in a devotional about trusting God always, even when worry is almost excusable. So I relax as best I can to get a few hours of napping before I’m off over the washboard again in quest of MY STUFF!
Will our hero’s luggage be waiting at the airport?
To be continued….
NorthWest Airlines gets me in to Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam at 8:05 AM, so I have some time to wander about the terminal before emplaning for Nairobi. I ask where Starbucks is so I’ll know where to meet April on the return flight in 3 weeks. I didn’t see Starbucks with my own eyes, but the friendly espresso girls tell me the direction. I’ve no time to go that far in the great spidery arms that these airports are. But at least I know it’s there.
Maybe I’ll have an ice cream, meanwhile. Ah –no, maybe not. $4 per scoop. And they will not fool me again. Some years ago when Ellie and I were here to visit her cousin and family (stationed in Europe with the U.S. Army) we got ice cream in Amsterdam. I kid you not—the scoops were the size of melon balls—you know the kind you use to scoop out cantaloupes back in the fifties? My cone with two scoops was gone in two bites. About the same amount of ice cream I shamelessly lick off the bottom of a decent size ice cream bowl. Sure, the stuff here is Haagen Daz. No better quality anywhere. But I could hardly TASTE it, let alone enjoy a close-your-eyes-and-smile tryst with whatever flavor it was. So today I just nod and wink at the kiosk and keep on trolling my carryon behind me.
Ah! Check “USA Today” for football scores. Too bad about Tony Dungee’s Colts getting sliced out of the post-season in sudden death overtime. But that’s what makes sports so popular. Anything can happen.
It’s now 9:30 A.M. and the sun is just coming over the horizon here. Where am I, the North Pole? No wonder Europe has fallen from its place in the heavens. Think how depressing this would be, year after year. Light is good! Sunlight is better! Then I recall that I am at the same latitude as Labrador.
Snoozing a lot en route, the trip over the Saraha desert goes by quickly. At Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Kenya the flight is on time and I am soon in the Visa line. Been here, done this before. But are these Kenyans are s..l..o..w. The nationals clear their queue quickly so I am waved over. Pay my crisp 50 USD and I have only baggage to handle now. (BTW, fellow bachelor-for-3-weeks George Mitchell came only with British pounds this year and had to go to exchange to get dollars. This in Kenya a former British colony and part of the Commonwealth!)
I grab a trolley (free use here) and look for bags. I canna’ believe it! There’s my ugly-as-sin red bag with all the Methuen shirts Ed Platz donated already on the carousel. And my black case next to it. This is to good to be true! Usually I have to wait until the last for my bags—you know, first on last off. Someone is smiling on me this trip! I grab them both, get waived through bag inspection (sigh of relief—they won’t hassle me over the new camera going to Deborah Brown’s friend Dalmas).
Look around for a familiar face or at least a sign with “Gustafson” on it. Bingo! There is Douglas Kaloki, the Scott driver, with his brother. We are loaded up and on the road in minutes, heading to Machakos.
The road is unbelievably BAD. It’s being re-built, so 60% is base—no hot top. Wash-board city. Any blood clots lingering in my legs from 15 hours of sitting in the Airbus are being shaken and pulverized. Almost feels good—almost.
By 11 we are dragging my bags into the cottage here. It’s lovely at night. The black, black sky shows stars an arm length away. The big dipper is low in the sky as I am in the southern hemisphere now. God is too good.
Then it happened. A reality check BIG TIME (for me, anyway.) I open my black bag and find strange contents! O NO!!!!!!!!!!! I should have checked it. I have another’s bag and mine is back at the airport! Bonnell’s are still up. I check with them. They call the airport—no luck with their cell phone. Joseph Ndebe’s lights are on—we’ll go there. He tries the airport, since we now know the owner’s identity from his Bible. He’s from TN and is here for a few weeks working with Baptist youth in Nairobi. At least he is not off on a safari to the boonies!
I’ll go back with Kaloki at 5 AM as he goes to fetch George Mitchell coming from Scotland. But—can I sleep with this uncertainty? I had been reading in a devotional about trusting God always, even when worry is almost excusable. So I relax as best I can to get a few hours of napping before I’m off over the washboard again in quest of MY STUFF!
Will our hero’s luggage be waiting at the airport?
To be continued….
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