Imagine having no radio where you live, no TV, no way of being let in on news of any kind No media. No newspapers. TOTAL ISOLATION would be your world.
This has been the lot of bush dwellers in our area of the Congo. Superstition, fear, discouragement, depression, loneliness, and boredom are the products of this kind of isolation.
A dream of Jim's since 1981 when he along with some of our staff began praying for an effective follow up to consistent widespread evangelism, Radio Glory was finally birthed 23 years later in July, 2004.
Many would have given up on the dream much sooner.
However, one of Jim's gifts is faith, and so discouragement is not his lot, even if it means waiting, and waiting, and waiting.
Even if it means people doubting the validity of his dream.
Even if it means no funding to finance the dream.
Even if it goes against the norm; i. e. a radio station flourishing in the bush of Congo, 400 miles from the capital city?
Yes,
Because the dream was given by God.
Because the dream was to benefit the poor who are a class of people very close to the heart of God.
Because the motive of the broadcasting was not only to diffuse the isolation, but to exult the Word of God, which God holds equal to His Name.
Because God is faithful and if He gives the dream, He will fulfill it, despite the obstacles.
Because God is worthy.
Hold fast to your God-honoring dreams.
Wait on Him, and in the waiting, be sure you praise His Holy Name,
For He inhabits the praises of His people.
Remember how David assigned 4,000 people in the temple to the job of PRAISING GOD.
Remember that there are myriads of angels whose occupation in heaven is to praise the Lord 24/7.
Remember who you are talking to: The Ancient of Days, the Great I AM, the Creator, and Redeemer of all mankind.
Remember that you are fearfully and wonderfully made by the One who knows all your down sittings and uprisings.
Remember that while we were yet sinners, Christ, the Darling of Heaven, died for us.
Remember that the Israelites continued to stray in the wilderness for 40 years because they did not remember what great works God wrought in their lives delivering them out of Egypt.
Dream, pray, wait, hold fast, praise, and remember. Don't be sucked up by the world's attitude of entitlement. Run from it.
Relinquishment of your will to His and humbling yourself before Him are what He loves and where He is most comfortable and closest to, and the conditions that cause Him to respond.
We are entitled to nothing but Hell apart from Christ.
But oh! What measures He has taken to rescue us from Hell.
"Accepted in the Beloved." The maintainer of my lot. My Alpha and Omega.
My God, I stand in awe of you and your ways.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Lord of Breaking Through
"David smote the Philistines at Baal-Perazim and he said, 'God has broken my enemies by His hand, like the bursting forth of water.' Therefore, they called the name of that place Baal-Perazim--Lord of breaking through."
In a few weeks, we take off for another world we have been privileged to work in for nearly 33 years. As fertile a ground as the land of Congo is spiritually, there are real enemies of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. They come in all shapes, sizes, and guises there just as they do here. They crave power, position, and money at any cost. Like weeds, they spring up and take over ground that is not rightfully theirs.
Having had their hands in the affairs of Nkara-Ewa for more than 50 years first by invitation to take over the state-operated school system, this "church" community has now become fleshly, corrupt, and immoral. In fact, I would go so far as to call them evil. Their strength is deceit; they have crafted lying into an art form.
Property issues settled legally long ago through government-drawn documents given first of all to Dr. & Mrs. Laban Smith, and then confirmed to Laban's wife, Marcella, years after Laban's death have continued to surface, despite the real proof of ownership. Their presence and influence of the mission property of Nkara has been a curse disguised in the cloak of a "church" group known as the Community of Baptist Churches in Congo.
The newly elected Chief pastor of the district voted in last year was found to be guilty of sleeping with more than one woman. He follows a long line of chief "pastors" who have left such legacies as ravagers of national Congolese youths attending the high school at Nkara, confiscating tuition monies for personal gain, lying, cheating, and characteristically living a life-style contrary to the Word of God.
Their 50 year plus presence has gained an incredible stronghold that only God the Holy Spirit can break through.
But we take heart in David's declaration, and we claim with him a spiritual renaming of our Nkara campus: Baal-Perazim, the place where God will break our enemies by His Hand like the bursting forth of water."
Lord, as we return to Congo in a few days, we implore You to come be the Lord of breaking through.
Break through the curse.
Break through the power of their evil presence.
Break through the stronghold they have gained.
Break through the guise and reveal who they really are.
Break through and diffuse their plans to take over Nkara.
Break through their false documents that say "Nkara is theirs."
Break through their traps and our preoccupation of the unknown that is before us.
And in the breaking through, we praise You for the power, blessing, glory and honor you will claim for Yourself.
Amen and amen!
In a few weeks, we take off for another world we have been privileged to work in for nearly 33 years. As fertile a ground as the land of Congo is spiritually, there are real enemies of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. They come in all shapes, sizes, and guises there just as they do here. They crave power, position, and money at any cost. Like weeds, they spring up and take over ground that is not rightfully theirs.
Having had their hands in the affairs of Nkara-Ewa for more than 50 years first by invitation to take over the state-operated school system, this "church" community has now become fleshly, corrupt, and immoral. In fact, I would go so far as to call them evil. Their strength is deceit; they have crafted lying into an art form.
Property issues settled legally long ago through government-drawn documents given first of all to Dr. & Mrs. Laban Smith, and then confirmed to Laban's wife, Marcella, years after Laban's death have continued to surface, despite the real proof of ownership. Their presence and influence of the mission property of Nkara has been a curse disguised in the cloak of a "church" group known as the Community of Baptist Churches in Congo.
The newly elected Chief pastor of the district voted in last year was found to be guilty of sleeping with more than one woman. He follows a long line of chief "pastors" who have left such legacies as ravagers of national Congolese youths attending the high school at Nkara, confiscating tuition monies for personal gain, lying, cheating, and characteristically living a life-style contrary to the Word of God.
Their 50 year plus presence has gained an incredible stronghold that only God the Holy Spirit can break through.
But we take heart in David's declaration, and we claim with him a spiritual renaming of our Nkara campus: Baal-Perazim, the place where God will break our enemies by His Hand like the bursting forth of water."
Lord, as we return to Congo in a few days, we implore You to come be the Lord of breaking through.
Break through the curse.
Break through the power of their evil presence.
Break through the stronghold they have gained.
Break through the guise and reveal who they really are.
Break through and diffuse their plans to take over Nkara.
Break through their false documents that say "Nkara is theirs."
Break through their traps and our preoccupation of the unknown that is before us.
And in the breaking through, we praise You for the power, blessing, glory and honor you will claim for Yourself.
Amen and amen!
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Warm fruit cocktail anyone?
It was a beautiful day in June of 1979 in the Congo.
Jim, Shawn, Nicol, and Todd had just returned from Kinshasa, where they had picked up our first REAL food shipment arriving in Kinshasa from South Africa earlier in the month.
They had first gone by Nkara, our mission campus, to drop off the brand new beautiful aqua and black wood stove. Now we could return Mupia's, which had been left to him by Marcella, Jim's mom years ago, when he used to cook for her. He had graciously allowed us to borrow it until we were able to get our own.
I had flown to the medical mission station of Vanga two weeks before my due date because of some pre-delivery signs. In order to do that, we first had to drive to Kikwit because the airstrip at our mission was not yet completed. It was around the middle of June when we left Nkara with my bags packed, shovels for the road repair one never knew might be needed, food, water, and clothes for the children and Jim.
The plan was to drop me off at Kikwit, a 3 1/2 hour drive in our new Suburban, and stay at the guest house there until the MAF plane could come pick me up. Jim and the children would then proceed on to Kinshasa to get supplies, take them back to Nkara, a 15 hr. trip each way, and finally make their way to Vanga to wait for our baby's birth together.
We did not want to impose on the missionaries at Vanga, Dr. Dan and Miriam Fountain, and felt that I would be enough of a challenge to feed, even though we planned to pay for this service. We called MAF on another missionary's radio from Kikwit, and he picked me up at the Kikwit airport nervous and anxious, contemplating my going into labor on his small plane while making our way to Vanga.
The children and Jim left from Kikwit, arriving in Kinshasa that evening after seeing me off. Things went well, and on June 27, they all returned with delicious commodities such as jelly, fruit cocktail, canned meatballs, and wonderful delectables we had yearned for since January.
Vanga was an American Baptist mission station established at the turn of the century. It is located about 57 miles from our campus. The Fountains were highly respected missionaries, and I felt safe there. I slept in a small brick building, read during the day, and prayed that they would make it before Jack's birth. My due date was June 30. The fellowship I enjoyed with other American missionaries was so wonderful it made the wait easier.
Each night an American nurse slept in the same room as I in case I went into labor. We enjoyed good conversations, and she was encouraging and comforting. Her years of nursing experience gave me confidence and strength.
As the Suburban pulled up to the house that morning I was delirious with joy to see my family once again. Jim and the kids unloaded part of the food shipment, and Shawn and I grabbed a can of fruit cocktail and a jar of strawberry jam.
Gary Kapinga, the first person to come and work with us, came back with Jim and the kids from Nkara and offered to fix lunch for us. He made bread. We cooked some of the canned meat, boiled potatoes which we felt were to die for, and looked forward to enjoying fruit cocktail for desert.
Though Gary had the best of intentions in wanting to help us with the meal, when he brought "desert" to us, the kids wept as they tasted their long anticipated treat. Gary had warmed the fruit cocktail on the stove! Hot fruit cocktail! Having never seen anything a can like this, he had no idea that it was served cold.
The next day, June 28, began with contractions which lasted throughout the morning into the early afternoon. It was time.
We made our way up the hill from the vacant MAF house we were staying in back to the small brick building to finish out labor and delivery. At approximately 5:30 that evening, 9 lb, 21 inch long John Scott Smith, was born. He was healthy and strong. We were all thrilled.
So thankful I did not have to deliver him in the back of our vehicle in between destinations, I looked at his amazing little body, so perfect and praised God for His mercies. Not so with every missionary, some of whom had told me they delivered their babies in the back of a truck. I told the Lord I was too much of a chicken to do that and begged him for as normal a delivery experience as possible. He allowed me to have just that.
Just moments after Jack's birth, (named after Jim's brother who had been crushed to death in a rock fall when he was only 18 and Jim 16), Shawn, Nicol, and Todd took turns holding him.
I will forever be grateful for having Jack in Congo. He made me feel very needed and gave me hours of gratification as I had to keep going to take care of him along with our three other children.
What an amazing kindness of God to bring a baby into our lives in the bush of Africa. He was so welcomed and loved by us all. Not to mention, the thrill Jim experienced of having his own child born born in the country of his birth.
Jim, Shawn, Nicol, and Todd had just returned from Kinshasa, where they had picked up our first REAL food shipment arriving in Kinshasa from South Africa earlier in the month.
They had first gone by Nkara, our mission campus, to drop off the brand new beautiful aqua and black wood stove. Now we could return Mupia's, which had been left to him by Marcella, Jim's mom years ago, when he used to cook for her. He had graciously allowed us to borrow it until we were able to get our own.
I had flown to the medical mission station of Vanga two weeks before my due date because of some pre-delivery signs. In order to do that, we first had to drive to Kikwit because the airstrip at our mission was not yet completed. It was around the middle of June when we left Nkara with my bags packed, shovels for the road repair one never knew might be needed, food, water, and clothes for the children and Jim.
The plan was to drop me off at Kikwit, a 3 1/2 hour drive in our new Suburban, and stay at the guest house there until the MAF plane could come pick me up. Jim and the children would then proceed on to Kinshasa to get supplies, take them back to Nkara, a 15 hr. trip each way, and finally make their way to Vanga to wait for our baby's birth together.
We did not want to impose on the missionaries at Vanga, Dr. Dan and Miriam Fountain, and felt that I would be enough of a challenge to feed, even though we planned to pay for this service. We called MAF on another missionary's radio from Kikwit, and he picked me up at the Kikwit airport nervous and anxious, contemplating my going into labor on his small plane while making our way to Vanga.
The children and Jim left from Kikwit, arriving in Kinshasa that evening after seeing me off. Things went well, and on June 27, they all returned with delicious commodities such as jelly, fruit cocktail, canned meatballs, and wonderful delectables we had yearned for since January.
Vanga was an American Baptist mission station established at the turn of the century. It is located about 57 miles from our campus. The Fountains were highly respected missionaries, and I felt safe there. I slept in a small brick building, read during the day, and prayed that they would make it before Jack's birth. My due date was June 30. The fellowship I enjoyed with other American missionaries was so wonderful it made the wait easier.
Each night an American nurse slept in the same room as I in case I went into labor. We enjoyed good conversations, and she was encouraging and comforting. Her years of nursing experience gave me confidence and strength.
As the Suburban pulled up to the house that morning I was delirious with joy to see my family once again. Jim and the kids unloaded part of the food shipment, and Shawn and I grabbed a can of fruit cocktail and a jar of strawberry jam.
Gary Kapinga, the first person to come and work with us, came back with Jim and the kids from Nkara and offered to fix lunch for us. He made bread. We cooked some of the canned meat, boiled potatoes which we felt were to die for, and looked forward to enjoying fruit cocktail for desert.
Though Gary had the best of intentions in wanting to help us with the meal, when he brought "desert" to us, the kids wept as they tasted their long anticipated treat. Gary had warmed the fruit cocktail on the stove! Hot fruit cocktail! Having never seen anything a can like this, he had no idea that it was served cold.
The next day, June 28, began with contractions which lasted throughout the morning into the early afternoon. It was time.
We made our way up the hill from the vacant MAF house we were staying in back to the small brick building to finish out labor and delivery. At approximately 5:30 that evening, 9 lb, 21 inch long John Scott Smith, was born. He was healthy and strong. We were all thrilled.
So thankful I did not have to deliver him in the back of our vehicle in between destinations, I looked at his amazing little body, so perfect and praised God for His mercies. Not so with every missionary, some of whom had told me they delivered their babies in the back of a truck. I told the Lord I was too much of a chicken to do that and begged him for as normal a delivery experience as possible. He allowed me to have just that.
Just moments after Jack's birth, (named after Jim's brother who had been crushed to death in a rock fall when he was only 18 and Jim 16), Shawn, Nicol, and Todd took turns holding him.
I will forever be grateful for having Jack in Congo. He made me feel very needed and gave me hours of gratification as I had to keep going to take care of him along with our three other children.
What an amazing kindness of God to bring a baby into our lives in the bush of Africa. He was so welcomed and loved by us all. Not to mention, the thrill Jim experienced of having his own child born born in the country of his birth.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Why didn't you make this a long time ago?
It was May of 1979, two months after our arrival at Nkara-Ewa, the "other world" I was trying so desperately to learn to call "home." Awaiting our food shipment arrival which would take place 400 miles away in Kinshasa, we pursued our new life and new "normal" in a land very foreign to me. It was a world away from the "norm" I left behind.
My new normal was just getting through the day without a melt down or succumbing to the terror of feeling insane. Feeling like we had made a mistake. Feeling as though somehow we had missed God's will.
This surely could not be the life God had carved out so skillfully with loving Hands for us?
I was always told the will of God would fit like a glove. Where was the fit?
How much of the turbulence in my soul was due to my pregnancy hormones?
How much was due to the oppression all around me I couldn't put a name to yet?
How much was real culture shock?
Too wrapped up in just surviving, I was unable to recognize or sort out and process these questions. I couldn't even verbalize them at the time. So, at the end of the day, I lay in the black night of Congo (unless a full moon is out) and quoted Psalm 56:3, "When I am afraid I will trust in Thee." I loved that verse. I loved David because he admitted he was afraid. I was terrified.
His words pumped soothing grace into my soul. "When I am afraid," not "don't be afraid."
He was terror struck. Hunted and dogged. He had control over nothing. He dodged Saul's pursuit of death, never knowing what to expect, where to flee, and dealt on the sly with the once glowing promise that he would one day reign as Israel"s king. Dancing with danger became his portion. Perhaps the glory of Samuel's presence before David's father inaugurating him King of Israel out of all his brothers was now but a dim memory that he found difficult to embrace.
I clung to that verse. I identified with his terror as the shadows of evening fell until in the still quiet of the night, whispering those blessed words over and over, Jesus would come and "sit awhile with me" until sleep finally cradled me.
They say timing is everything. Coming to Congo in the late 70's humanly speaking was bad timing. The president had arrogantly told expatriates to get out. They were no longer welcomed or needed. Congo or Zaire as it was then called could get along very well without them, thank you very much.
So many expatriate businessmen did just that. They pulled out and took their commodities with them, leaving little on the shelves of the stores in Kinshasa but tomato paste and flour. Having no means of transportation yet and not being familiar with where we could get some other food stuffs, we turned to ordering our food from South Africa. Most of the missionary community did the same. I remember filling out that first order with my mouth watering as I contemplated actually tasting some of the items on the list. That order we placed in March we would not see the light of day until June, but we did not know that then. The food order was placed in Kinshasa, 400 miles away from our bush station. It was now May.
Since necessity is the mother of invention and we were all hungry, I decided to venture outside (a rare thing for this pathetic "missionary" to do in those days, and see what I could find. What to my wandering eyes did appear but a patch of spinach growing heartily on a plot of soil that Jim's Mom, Marcella, had planted when she arrived at Nkara the previous November. She died 10 days after her arrival there, but left us a product of her talented green thumb right there in our front yard.
I asked the Lord to show me what to do with all this fresh spinach. Remember the tomato paste? We had plenty of that plus some onions on the shelf in the pantry, both of which I diced and mixed into a black cast iron skillet and heated it on the wood stove. Rice was a readily available commodity. To the tomato past and onion I added pepper, boiled up a big pot of rice, and decided to surprise everyone that evening with my gourmet cooking.
Psalms says it is good to be hemmed in and backed against a corner because it has a way of enlarging us. " You have freed me when I was hemmed in and enlarged me when I was in distress. . . " Ps 4:1 Congo has a way of hemming us into a corner, and the quickest way out is to praise the Lord in the hemming in and in the cornering. That is a form of trust. It enlarges our capacity for the next time. It enlarges our borders. It frees us from the encumbrances of life, from the prison of self-absorption. We must fix our eyes on Jesus to survive. We will find new capacity to jump out of the boat. We don't tend to box Him in as much, and if relinquished to His greater will and good, it produces an attitude of gratitude. We begin to know a little more of Who God really is.
Never was I so thankful for raw spinach, which I had never before treasured. It became precious in my sight. Here was a change in the daily diet of rice and saka saka (African greens cooked in palm oil) that made my palate happy.
That night when the family gathered around the dinner table, I proudly displayed my new concoction. Would I ever have been so excited about presenting my husband and children a dish like this in America? Are you kidding? But because we had suffered what you might call culinary lacks, I was almost gleeful, wondering what their response would be.
We sat down to the table. We partook of the bounty. To my great surprise and delight, my children dove in and ate my offering. The best comment came from Jim. "This is great! Why didn't you make this a long time ago?"
I can't tell you how many times I went to the pantry after that, stared at the sparsely stocked shelves, and said, "Lord what can I make out of this nothing today?" And He gave me ideas over and over again.
I love to quote an incredible Bible school professor Jim and I had the privilege of rubbing shoulders with years ago. Before we were married, Jim was going to quit school because funds were not available to continue. When Dr. Shaw heard of his plans, he said, "Jim, the Lord never steers a parked car." He then rehearsed the story of Abraham sending his servant Eleazar to claim a wife for Isaac. He said, "I being in the way, the Lord led me." Dr. Shaw encouraged Jim to stay in school by faith and trust God for the money. He saw a promising future in this missionary kid's life. So Jim did. A few weeks later, Jim found an envelope in his mail box with a check for the amount of that semester's tuition. "I being in the way, the Lord led me." We do not know to this day who provided that money, but we have an idea.
Sometimes God's leading hurts. It suffers consequences. It is full of testing. It doesn't fit like a glove; in fact, it doesn't seem to fit at all. There are not necessarily answers at the time to the predicaments facing us as a result of doing what we so clearly hearing Him telling us to do. But we cannot faint because of the pain. We must allow God to push us through the pain to the other side, which may be a long way off. However, we must stay in the way. We must keep making ourselves available to Him. We must remain faithful. We must hang in there.
Those first two years I no more felt like a missionary than the goats did that ran through our yard in Congo. The will of God did not fit or feel good at all. I never cried so much in my life, but our glorious Father gave the grace to stay, to stick it out.
Two young men, possibly teenagers or college-aged men in the New Testament were given orders to carry out. One said that he would but he didn't. The other said he wouldn't but he did what he was told to do. I am the latter. I never wanted to go to Africa. For years I ran from the very thing that has helped make me who I am today.
There have to be other missionaries out there who feel the same way I did. You are young and struggling with the hand out God has given you. Life does not look at all as you pictured it would look. Take courage, my dear sister. We are called to share in Christ's sufferings. That spectrum of suffering is multifaceted and varied. This life is short. Let's remember we are just pilgrims. We are aliens. This world is not our home. We are just passing through. We have an adversary, the Devil, who goes about seeking whom he may devour.
Find relief in basking in God's goodness, in knowing you are not called to figure life out. True success is not measured in results or numbers, in popularity or recognition, in wealth or material riches. True success in God's sight is FAITHFULNESS. How many times does the book of Revelation admonish us to persevere.
If God can make a missionary out of me, He can make a missionary out of anyone. All praise, laud, adulation, and glory go to Him who redeems us and our situations as many times as they need redeeming. Beware of settling in to despair, of letting it become your bedfellow. Fight it with praise and letting God's Word be the salve of your sad soul. Don't allow it to paralyze you from exulting Him in the storms of life. Even in the darkness and pain you feel, lift your hands heavenward and tell Him He is worthy of the suffering you may be going through. "Count it all joy" James says when you fall into various trials, even though you feel artificial when you offer those words of praise. David calls thiss a SACRIFICE of praise because we don't feel like praising. Nonetheless He asks us to obey. Obedience is the best. It brings about the peaceable fruits of righteousness. Praise Him because God says you should. Just do it!!
My new normal was just getting through the day without a melt down or succumbing to the terror of feeling insane. Feeling like we had made a mistake. Feeling as though somehow we had missed God's will.
This surely could not be the life God had carved out so skillfully with loving Hands for us?
I was always told the will of God would fit like a glove. Where was the fit?
How much of the turbulence in my soul was due to my pregnancy hormones?
How much was due to the oppression all around me I couldn't put a name to yet?
How much was real culture shock?
Too wrapped up in just surviving, I was unable to recognize or sort out and process these questions. I couldn't even verbalize them at the time. So, at the end of the day, I lay in the black night of Congo (unless a full moon is out) and quoted Psalm 56:3, "When I am afraid I will trust in Thee." I loved that verse. I loved David because he admitted he was afraid. I was terrified.
His words pumped soothing grace into my soul. "When I am afraid," not "don't be afraid."
He was terror struck. Hunted and dogged. He had control over nothing. He dodged Saul's pursuit of death, never knowing what to expect, where to flee, and dealt on the sly with the once glowing promise that he would one day reign as Israel"s king. Dancing with danger became his portion. Perhaps the glory of Samuel's presence before David's father inaugurating him King of Israel out of all his brothers was now but a dim memory that he found difficult to embrace.
I clung to that verse. I identified with his terror as the shadows of evening fell until in the still quiet of the night, whispering those blessed words over and over, Jesus would come and "sit awhile with me" until sleep finally cradled me.
They say timing is everything. Coming to Congo in the late 70's humanly speaking was bad timing. The president had arrogantly told expatriates to get out. They were no longer welcomed or needed. Congo or Zaire as it was then called could get along very well without them, thank you very much.
So many expatriate businessmen did just that. They pulled out and took their commodities with them, leaving little on the shelves of the stores in Kinshasa but tomato paste and flour. Having no means of transportation yet and not being familiar with where we could get some other food stuffs, we turned to ordering our food from South Africa. Most of the missionary community did the same. I remember filling out that first order with my mouth watering as I contemplated actually tasting some of the items on the list. That order we placed in March we would not see the light of day until June, but we did not know that then. The food order was placed in Kinshasa, 400 miles away from our bush station. It was now May.
Since necessity is the mother of invention and we were all hungry, I decided to venture outside (a rare thing for this pathetic "missionary" to do in those days, and see what I could find. What to my wandering eyes did appear but a patch of spinach growing heartily on a plot of soil that Jim's Mom, Marcella, had planted when she arrived at Nkara the previous November. She died 10 days after her arrival there, but left us a product of her talented green thumb right there in our front yard.
I asked the Lord to show me what to do with all this fresh spinach. Remember the tomato paste? We had plenty of that plus some onions on the shelf in the pantry, both of which I diced and mixed into a black cast iron skillet and heated it on the wood stove. Rice was a readily available commodity. To the tomato past and onion I added pepper, boiled up a big pot of rice, and decided to surprise everyone that evening with my gourmet cooking.
Psalms says it is good to be hemmed in and backed against a corner because it has a way of enlarging us. " You have freed me when I was hemmed in and enlarged me when I was in distress. . . " Ps 4:1 Congo has a way of hemming us into a corner, and the quickest way out is to praise the Lord in the hemming in and in the cornering. That is a form of trust. It enlarges our capacity for the next time. It enlarges our borders. It frees us from the encumbrances of life, from the prison of self-absorption. We must fix our eyes on Jesus to survive. We will find new capacity to jump out of the boat. We don't tend to box Him in as much, and if relinquished to His greater will and good, it produces an attitude of gratitude. We begin to know a little more of Who God really is.
Never was I so thankful for raw spinach, which I had never before treasured. It became precious in my sight. Here was a change in the daily diet of rice and saka saka (African greens cooked in palm oil) that made my palate happy.
That night when the family gathered around the dinner table, I proudly displayed my new concoction. Would I ever have been so excited about presenting my husband and children a dish like this in America? Are you kidding? But because we had suffered what you might call culinary lacks, I was almost gleeful, wondering what their response would be.
We sat down to the table. We partook of the bounty. To my great surprise and delight, my children dove in and ate my offering. The best comment came from Jim. "This is great! Why didn't you make this a long time ago?"
I can't tell you how many times I went to the pantry after that, stared at the sparsely stocked shelves, and said, "Lord what can I make out of this nothing today?" And He gave me ideas over and over again.
I love to quote an incredible Bible school professor Jim and I had the privilege of rubbing shoulders with years ago. Before we were married, Jim was going to quit school because funds were not available to continue. When Dr. Shaw heard of his plans, he said, "Jim, the Lord never steers a parked car." He then rehearsed the story of Abraham sending his servant Eleazar to claim a wife for Isaac. He said, "I being in the way, the Lord led me." Dr. Shaw encouraged Jim to stay in school by faith and trust God for the money. He saw a promising future in this missionary kid's life. So Jim did. A few weeks later, Jim found an envelope in his mail box with a check for the amount of that semester's tuition. "I being in the way, the Lord led me." We do not know to this day who provided that money, but we have an idea.
Sometimes God's leading hurts. It suffers consequences. It is full of testing. It doesn't fit like a glove; in fact, it doesn't seem to fit at all. There are not necessarily answers at the time to the predicaments facing us as a result of doing what we so clearly hearing Him telling us to do. But we cannot faint because of the pain. We must allow God to push us through the pain to the other side, which may be a long way off. However, we must stay in the way. We must keep making ourselves available to Him. We must remain faithful. We must hang in there.
Those first two years I no more felt like a missionary than the goats did that ran through our yard in Congo. The will of God did not fit or feel good at all. I never cried so much in my life, but our glorious Father gave the grace to stay, to stick it out.
Two young men, possibly teenagers or college-aged men in the New Testament were given orders to carry out. One said that he would but he didn't. The other said he wouldn't but he did what he was told to do. I am the latter. I never wanted to go to Africa. For years I ran from the very thing that has helped make me who I am today.
There have to be other missionaries out there who feel the same way I did. You are young and struggling with the hand out God has given you. Life does not look at all as you pictured it would look. Take courage, my dear sister. We are called to share in Christ's sufferings. That spectrum of suffering is multifaceted and varied. This life is short. Let's remember we are just pilgrims. We are aliens. This world is not our home. We are just passing through. We have an adversary, the Devil, who goes about seeking whom he may devour.
Find relief in basking in God's goodness, in knowing you are not called to figure life out. True success is not measured in results or numbers, in popularity or recognition, in wealth or material riches. True success in God's sight is FAITHFULNESS. How many times does the book of Revelation admonish us to persevere.
If God can make a missionary out of me, He can make a missionary out of anyone. All praise, laud, adulation, and glory go to Him who redeems us and our situations as many times as they need redeeming. Beware of settling in to despair, of letting it become your bedfellow. Fight it with praise and letting God's Word be the salve of your sad soul. Don't allow it to paralyze you from exulting Him in the storms of life. Even in the darkness and pain you feel, lift your hands heavenward and tell Him He is worthy of the suffering you may be going through. "Count it all joy" James says when you fall into various trials, even though you feel artificial when you offer those words of praise. David calls thiss a SACRIFICE of praise because we don't feel like praising. Nonetheless He asks us to obey. Obedience is the best. It brings about the peaceable fruits of righteousness. Praise Him because God says you should. Just do it!!
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
As your days, so shall your strength be
I ended my last post recalling how I prayed for the rapture to take place each night in bed while listening to the rats gallop across the attic floor shortly after we arrived at the mission campus of Nkara-Ewa.
We had really arrived.
We were really here to stay.
No more dreaming or wondering what life would actually look like in Africa. It was now in front of our faces. We were living life in the BUSH.
Eventually, the D-con we brought took care of the "horses hooves" sound in the attic. Nonetheless, I continued to ask the Lord to come rescue me from my loneliness, culture shock, inability to communicate with the people He called us to minister to, and fear of losing the baby I was carrying because that might be what it took to make me a good missionary! Crazy?, yes, but that was my reality. I pondered losing our baby over and over again.
Why? Because I knew it had happened to others in Africa. Yes, the rapture would be an honorable way to leave it all behind.
I had signed up for ministry at the age of 22 when I married Jim. We were immersed in every phase of outreach at the Warrendale Community Church in Dearborn, Michigan, he for 13 years and I for 10 years. Then we went on a wild ride into music evangelism for 3 years. Being called by God into ministry as a vocation, as a passion, and as a lifetime endeavor is risk taking. Because God chooses to prove Himself again and again for His glory's sake to anyone willing to be a proving ground, He can show up in any fashion He so chooses. Since His ways are so far above our ways, I knew we would not be exempt from some of the suffering missionaries and pastors undergo, even to the point of dying themselves or surrendering their children into the arms of God; i.e., Laban and Marcella Smith.
They were my role models.
They set the stage.
They were my pattern to follow.
They were a legacy in Congo.
They were my legacy.
Still are.
As I faced this real possibility but long-shot probability each day, I began developing a pattern by the grace of God that would more than likely save me from high blood pressure, heart attack, and nervous breakdown big time. I entered the life-support world of RELINQUISHMENT and SURRENDER. If there is one place in the world where one is never in control, it is Congo. More than not, whatever can go wrong usually will go wrong. Despite the curse the country seems to be wearing, the spiritual returns are absolutely incomparable. Congo is so ripe for the Gospel, it makes most struggles pale in comparison to the results seen when the Gospel is delivered and preaching and Bible teaching find place and take root in the hearts of the nationals.
The idea of surrender was not a new theme to me. But I definitely needed to step it up and to take my level of relinquishing much higher. The bar needed to be raised. Dying to self took on whole new dimensions.
Opening the 31 barrels and 7 crates that same week we arrived at Nkara was a delightful distraction. It was so delicious seeing, touching, and using something from our homeland. We love our "stuff", don't we?, and this stuff became a part of who we were 8500 miles from our mother country. Our stuff brought America closer.
One of the most important items we shipped to Congo was a generator to give us electricity each night. Jim did the necessary wiring, purchased fuel to run the generator, and voila! we had lights!!! Oh, the joy of not sitting in the dark, dark nights in Congo with only candle light or kerosene. To this day, one of the reasons I love my husband was that he saw to it we had electricity from the start. Try going without it a couple of nights and see how you fare!
No phones. No gas stove. Cooking was done on a wood stove, which contained a dial up timer on the front. We used to turn that timer on and wait for it to go off. It was the closest thing to a telephone we had. The kerosene refrigerator we ordered from South Africa never really cooled food or water well. There were no kitchen cupboards, and so sheets of plywood became my counters, placed over the shipping barrels once emptied. No running water. All hand carried. We took baths in a big bowl filled with water carried to the house from a far-away stream and then carried up two flights of stairs. Water was more than a precious commodity!
One day I moved an empty barrel in the living room, only to find a family of scorpions living underneath it. If we only knew--you and me--what the Lord has protected us from all these years, we would fall on our faces and praise HIM!!! Even without knowing, let's fall before Him.
In the meantime, I survived by home schooling Shawn, Nicol, and Todd each day and waiting for Jack to join our family.
My feeble attempt at speaking the language caused great distress. Because I was laughed at, I retreated many times due to embarrassment and frustration. Many days out of those first two years I cried. Jim would often stand looking out our bedroom window, forlorn, repeating, "My God, what have I done to my family?"
Here is where the glory began showing its face. . . in stages.
The glory was in the grace of God that enabled us to stay.
The glory was in the grace of God that enabled us to obey.
Obedience is better than sacrifice.
Because Jim was so concerned about my mental and emotional well being, he decided we needed to get out of the bush on a regular basis. Since few groceries were available in Kikwit (60 miles from us) and on a helter-skelter basis, we would travel to Kinshasa, the capital, 400 miles away to pick up food and supplies and fellowship with some people who would become dear friends.
On one such trip I made my way to Dawn Sawatsky's home to attend the Friday morning prayer time. In the center of the bed was a box of tissues and surrounding the bed were we women on our knees petitioning the Great I AM. Next to me that particular day was a single veteran missionary. I would later learn that a missionary could be called a veteran after one term of service. This lady, however, had given most of her life to service in Congo. I found myself gawking at her, wondering how in the world she managed to accomplish that feat. She was joyful, focused, full of faith, and loved to praise the Lord.
It was the month of December. We had been in Congo for a year. As we knelt that day and I imbibed the prayers of these wonderful heroes of the faith, something miraculous happened in my heart.
As what I perceived to be the beautiful incense of their prayers rising up to the throne of The Ancient of Days, I started praising God for the two arms and two legs I had to serve Him. I heard myself saying, "Oh, Lord, if I only had two more hands and two more feet to serve you with, I would gladly do it." All of a sudden (it felt like) I got it! It became real in my heart, not just an intellectual assent, that He kept track of everything I was going through, and nothing would be wasted. He saw my tears. He heard my cries. He knew my fears, and NONE of any of those things would be in vain. None of them. They were not being spent on mediocrity. They were given up to the One Who is Worthy. He was worthy of it all. . . and so much more.
Something was released in me that day. I was never the same again. He spoke peace over me. I experienced the reality of Zephaniah 3:17, "The Lord Your God is in the midst of you. He is Mighty to save. He will rejoice over you with joy; He will rest in silent satisfaction, and in His love He will be silent and make no mention of past sins, or even recall them; He will exult over you with singing"
"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power and riches, wisdom and strength, glory and honor and blessing!"
What glory! what bliss were mine!
We had really arrived.
We were really here to stay.
No more dreaming or wondering what life would actually look like in Africa. It was now in front of our faces. We were living life in the BUSH.
Eventually, the D-con we brought took care of the "horses hooves" sound in the attic. Nonetheless, I continued to ask the Lord to come rescue me from my loneliness, culture shock, inability to communicate with the people He called us to minister to, and fear of losing the baby I was carrying because that might be what it took to make me a good missionary! Crazy?, yes, but that was my reality. I pondered losing our baby over and over again.
Why? Because I knew it had happened to others in Africa. Yes, the rapture would be an honorable way to leave it all behind.
I had signed up for ministry at the age of 22 when I married Jim. We were immersed in every phase of outreach at the Warrendale Community Church in Dearborn, Michigan, he for 13 years and I for 10 years. Then we went on a wild ride into music evangelism for 3 years. Being called by God into ministry as a vocation, as a passion, and as a lifetime endeavor is risk taking. Because God chooses to prove Himself again and again for His glory's sake to anyone willing to be a proving ground, He can show up in any fashion He so chooses. Since His ways are so far above our ways, I knew we would not be exempt from some of the suffering missionaries and pastors undergo, even to the point of dying themselves or surrendering their children into the arms of God; i.e., Laban and Marcella Smith.
They were my role models.
They set the stage.
They were my pattern to follow.
They were a legacy in Congo.
They were my legacy.
Still are.
As I faced this real possibility but long-shot probability each day, I began developing a pattern by the grace of God that would more than likely save me from high blood pressure, heart attack, and nervous breakdown big time. I entered the life-support world of RELINQUISHMENT and SURRENDER. If there is one place in the world where one is never in control, it is Congo. More than not, whatever can go wrong usually will go wrong. Despite the curse the country seems to be wearing, the spiritual returns are absolutely incomparable. Congo is so ripe for the Gospel, it makes most struggles pale in comparison to the results seen when the Gospel is delivered and preaching and Bible teaching find place and take root in the hearts of the nationals.
The idea of surrender was not a new theme to me. But I definitely needed to step it up and to take my level of relinquishing much higher. The bar needed to be raised. Dying to self took on whole new dimensions.
Opening the 31 barrels and 7 crates that same week we arrived at Nkara was a delightful distraction. It was so delicious seeing, touching, and using something from our homeland. We love our "stuff", don't we?, and this stuff became a part of who we were 8500 miles from our mother country. Our stuff brought America closer.
One of the most important items we shipped to Congo was a generator to give us electricity each night. Jim did the necessary wiring, purchased fuel to run the generator, and voila! we had lights!!! Oh, the joy of not sitting in the dark, dark nights in Congo with only candle light or kerosene. To this day, one of the reasons I love my husband was that he saw to it we had electricity from the start. Try going without it a couple of nights and see how you fare!
No phones. No gas stove. Cooking was done on a wood stove, which contained a dial up timer on the front. We used to turn that timer on and wait for it to go off. It was the closest thing to a telephone we had. The kerosene refrigerator we ordered from South Africa never really cooled food or water well. There were no kitchen cupboards, and so sheets of plywood became my counters, placed over the shipping barrels once emptied. No running water. All hand carried. We took baths in a big bowl filled with water carried to the house from a far-away stream and then carried up two flights of stairs. Water was more than a precious commodity!
One day I moved an empty barrel in the living room, only to find a family of scorpions living underneath it. If we only knew--you and me--what the Lord has protected us from all these years, we would fall on our faces and praise HIM!!! Even without knowing, let's fall before Him.
In the meantime, I survived by home schooling Shawn, Nicol, and Todd each day and waiting for Jack to join our family.
My feeble attempt at speaking the language caused great distress. Because I was laughed at, I retreated many times due to embarrassment and frustration. Many days out of those first two years I cried. Jim would often stand looking out our bedroom window, forlorn, repeating, "My God, what have I done to my family?"
Here is where the glory began showing its face. . . in stages.
The glory was in the grace of God that enabled us to stay.
The glory was in the grace of God that enabled us to obey.
Obedience is better than sacrifice.
Because Jim was so concerned about my mental and emotional well being, he decided we needed to get out of the bush on a regular basis. Since few groceries were available in Kikwit (60 miles from us) and on a helter-skelter basis, we would travel to Kinshasa, the capital, 400 miles away to pick up food and supplies and fellowship with some people who would become dear friends.
On one such trip I made my way to Dawn Sawatsky's home to attend the Friday morning prayer time. In the center of the bed was a box of tissues and surrounding the bed were we women on our knees petitioning the Great I AM. Next to me that particular day was a single veteran missionary. I would later learn that a missionary could be called a veteran after one term of service. This lady, however, had given most of her life to service in Congo. I found myself gawking at her, wondering how in the world she managed to accomplish that feat. She was joyful, focused, full of faith, and loved to praise the Lord.
It was the month of December. We had been in Congo for a year. As we knelt that day and I imbibed the prayers of these wonderful heroes of the faith, something miraculous happened in my heart.
As what I perceived to be the beautiful incense of their prayers rising up to the throne of The Ancient of Days, I started praising God for the two arms and two legs I had to serve Him. I heard myself saying, "Oh, Lord, if I only had two more hands and two more feet to serve you with, I would gladly do it." All of a sudden (it felt like) I got it! It became real in my heart, not just an intellectual assent, that He kept track of everything I was going through, and nothing would be wasted. He saw my tears. He heard my cries. He knew my fears, and NONE of any of those things would be in vain. None of them. They were not being spent on mediocrity. They were given up to the One Who is Worthy. He was worthy of it all. . . and so much more.
Something was released in me that day. I was never the same again. He spoke peace over me. I experienced the reality of Zephaniah 3:17, "The Lord Your God is in the midst of you. He is Mighty to save. He will rejoice over you with joy; He will rest in silent satisfaction, and in His love He will be silent and make no mention of past sins, or even recall them; He will exult over you with singing"
"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power and riches, wisdom and strength, glory and honor and blessing!"
What glory! what bliss were mine!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Arrival at Nkara, March, 1979
Happy New Year to you all!
In 1978, God called my husband to the Democratic Republic of Congo. Despite the fact that people told me I also had to have that call on my life, initially that just did not happen. Anything but. However, I loved my husband dearly and followed the voice of God by following the call my husband heard to Africa.
We spent the first 7 weeks there in the capital city of Kinshasa and then moved more interior to the large city of Kikwit, where we stayed another 6 weeks before finally arriving at the mission campus of Nkara, where Jim spent happy childhood years. While in Kikwit, the children picked up much of the Kituba language, learned songs in Lingala and Kituba, and spent hours learning to entertain themselves. Necessity is the mother of invention, and with limited resources like cereal boxes and bits of material, the girls learned to make doll houses and clothes for their dolls. Todd played soccer, and I waited eagerly for our new baby.
I also anticipated how it would feel to experience God's ultimate will for my life--serving Him on the mission field in Congo. Certainly, the feeling of "glory" would be involved. After all, this was the mission field, from which I had always run, heard weird things about, lost my father-in-law to and now his dear Marcella a short time before our arrival. And so there was a perception on my part that despite all the drama and fear, since we went ahead as a couple and family to become missionaries in Africa, there would be some dramatic compensation on God's part.
In preparation for our trip to Africa, we packed 31 50 gallon drums or barrels, 7 crates, and loaded a new Chevy Suburban with a wringer washer, dishes, and other items to set up housekeeping in Congo. They were shipped by boat in October and word came one day that they had arrived at the port city of Matadi, about 900 miles south of Kikwit in early March.
A national businessman by the name of Mungwa, which means salt, provided transportation to pick up all our shipment and transport it to Nkara, another 60 miles north of Kikwit. The children rode in his large semi, and Jim and I drove the Suburban until we reached the hill down to the mission station. Off we went to the place where both of Jim's parents gave their lives. I waited for the glory.
Dr. Smith had been building the home in 1949-1953 in which we now live while in Congo. It was almost completed on that shocking day in January of 1953. At breakfast that morning he told his family, "I feel so good today I could jump over the moon." He had completed almost all of the beautiful stone structure and was putting rafters on the roof of the porch connected to the master bedroom upstairs. Suddenly, things changed forever. His foot slipped, and he fell 6 feet to a cement floor, starting hemorrhaging internally, and after several hours of waiting for one of the other missionaries to drive Laban to Kikwit to the hospital, it was decided that Jim's older brother, Jack, who was just 13 at the time would drive the 6-ton truck himself . They could wait no longer. Jim, his mother, Jack, and some nationals made the slow, horror-filled trek into town to try to keep Laban alive. They arrived at the hospital 9 hours later, and Laban passed away 60 minutes after that.
Jack and Jim were waiting outside the hospital room where Laban lay. Their mother, Marcella, had come out once and told them that it wouldn't be long "until he goes." Their young minds could not grasp the meaning of her words. She then returned to Laban's room, and soon after that they heard the unforgettable groaning, "Oh! My God!" pouring out from Marcella's soul. She walked out of the room to the place where Jack and Jim were sitting. "Boys, he's gone to be with the Lord," to which Jim replied, "Can he come back?" Marcella left in silence and returned to Laban's room.
Jim and Jack started singing, "Do Lord, Oh do Lord, Oh, do remember me." He was buried a few days later in Kikwit. Thousands and thousands of people attended his funeral. Jim and Jack were in shock.
Would God require that of me? to give up my husband to His service as Marcella was asked to do? Would God ask me to give up one of my children to serve him? What about the baby I was carrying in my womb? My mind raced with awful scenarios about being stranded in the remote bush with a starving baby, after having run out of supplies to take care of him. Jim's brother, Jack, as an 18-year-old was killed in a rock fall. His baby brother had died at the age of 14 months. Would death be my experience as well? After all, people do die on the mission field through martyrdom, accidents, malaria gone wild, and untreated diseases they don't even know they have. They have personality conflicts with other missionaries, power struggles just like their friends in America, breakdowns, and broken hearts. Since I had married into this family who had experienced a life full of tragedy on one hand and exultant, incredible responses to the Gospel and spiritual victories on the other, I asked myself, "What would my lot be?" The fear could be gripping at times at the start of my new, inexperienced missionary career.
After all, my family were blue collar, practical, hard-working, backbone America type of people, who didn't move around a lot and never traveled outside the US. They loved structure, sameness, safety, 9 to 5 jobs, and did not embrace the Savior I loved. My husband grew up in a family of risk-taking, ruggedly living, faith-filled, God-loving adventurers who cried from their souls, "Bring it on, Lord." What was i thinking when I married Jim???
Mungwa's big truck made its way down what we now call aerobic hill, with our children sitting on top of the goods for the last few miles and Jim and I following in the new Suburban we had purchased the year before near Muskegon MI. Muskegon this was not. Lavish green hills and valley awaited us surrounded by a horse-shoe shaped hill. This was Nkara.
Jim got out of the Suburban, and I took over driving so he could capture it on video. Hundreds of people were waiting for us in front of the beautiful three-story brick and sandstone home Laban had built, hoping one day to house his boys returning to Africa to carry on the work. Of the two, Jack was the one who so wanted to return. He wanted to come back as a medical doctor. That dream was snuffed out one cold night in January, 1958, five years after Laban died. When dating Jim, he told me he couldn't even bring himself to talk about his brother's death until about 5 or 6 years. That was in 1964, the year we dated and married.
Childhood is such a gift. Totally oblivious to the gravity of our making the decision to go and actually moving to Congo, Shawn, Nicol, and Todd bounced off the truck, greeted people, and ran down the hill in front of our house to the lake.
We made our way through the crowd and went into the home we had visited in 1969 to see if the Lord was truly calling us to this far-away land. Surely, as I entered the doors, the glory I was waiting for would greet me.
Instead the colors of the walls almost made me pass out along with the smells my sensitive nose took in. The living room was a drab green with bright red baseboards, followed by a mustard yellow dining room, once again accented by red trim. The kitchen was a mixture of the mustard yellow and green, Bathrooms down and up were chocolate brown with black trim, and everywhere was the smell of livestock, who in the Africa culture are very welcome to occupy space in the house. Five families had lived in that home for I don't know how long. Forty-eight windows made for great ventillation, but also allowed other critters to travel about freely because there were no screens on any of these windows.
There were no kitchen cupboards, no appliances, little furniture. We would learn later that a reprobate "pastor" upon Marcella's death which took place in Jim's office downstairs, had stolen a refrigerator, beds, mattresses, clothes, and even the children's toys Marcella had purchased upon her arrival in Congo.
This same man lent us his? bed, his? dining room table and chairs, and his? living room furniture until we could buy our own. A feeling of dread and alienation swept over me as we got through the next several weeks. I couldn't communicate to anyone. There was no running water. I could hardly bring myself to use the toilet upstairs (there was none downstairs) because I was sure a snake lived inside it and might reach up and bite my tush.
We went to sleep by the sound of galloping rats in the attic. Somehow we acquired some rat poison, and when it took affect, we used to wait for the rats to drunkenly make their down to the second floor looking for water. It was our Saturday Night Live. The nearest doctor was 60 miles away, and we had no phone or short wave radio to communicate in case I went into labor. Was this a mistake? Did we somehow miss what seemed to be such clear directions from the Lord?
I began thinking about how we could get out of this mess we found ourselves in, especially me, for my husband spoke the language, which all came back to him after a 26 year absence. I was lost, homesick, and afraid. Then the idea came on my bed one night that we could leave honorably if the rapture took place! So each night I prayed and prayed that the Lord would do just that--rapture us from this isolated misery I found myself in. There was no glory here. Something had gone terribly wrong. We wouldn't dare turn around and go home. Too many people praying. Too many people giving sacrificially so we could make the move, and who would want to face Dr. David Allen's bony finger pointing at us saying, "What are you doing here. You're supposed to be in Africa serving the Lord." But if Jesus raptured us, all problems would be solved!!! It didn't happen.
In 1978, God called my husband to the Democratic Republic of Congo. Despite the fact that people told me I also had to have that call on my life, initially that just did not happen. Anything but. However, I loved my husband dearly and followed the voice of God by following the call my husband heard to Africa.
We spent the first 7 weeks there in the capital city of Kinshasa and then moved more interior to the large city of Kikwit, where we stayed another 6 weeks before finally arriving at the mission campus of Nkara, where Jim spent happy childhood years. While in Kikwit, the children picked up much of the Kituba language, learned songs in Lingala and Kituba, and spent hours learning to entertain themselves. Necessity is the mother of invention, and with limited resources like cereal boxes and bits of material, the girls learned to make doll houses and clothes for their dolls. Todd played soccer, and I waited eagerly for our new baby.
I also anticipated how it would feel to experience God's ultimate will for my life--serving Him on the mission field in Congo. Certainly, the feeling of "glory" would be involved. After all, this was the mission field, from which I had always run, heard weird things about, lost my father-in-law to and now his dear Marcella a short time before our arrival. And so there was a perception on my part that despite all the drama and fear, since we went ahead as a couple and family to become missionaries in Africa, there would be some dramatic compensation on God's part.
In preparation for our trip to Africa, we packed 31 50 gallon drums or barrels, 7 crates, and loaded a new Chevy Suburban with a wringer washer, dishes, and other items to set up housekeeping in Congo. They were shipped by boat in October and word came one day that they had arrived at the port city of Matadi, about 900 miles south of Kikwit in early March.
A national businessman by the name of Mungwa, which means salt, provided transportation to pick up all our shipment and transport it to Nkara, another 60 miles north of Kikwit. The children rode in his large semi, and Jim and I drove the Suburban until we reached the hill down to the mission station. Off we went to the place where both of Jim's parents gave their lives. I waited for the glory.
Dr. Smith had been building the home in 1949-1953 in which we now live while in Congo. It was almost completed on that shocking day in January of 1953. At breakfast that morning he told his family, "I feel so good today I could jump over the moon." He had completed almost all of the beautiful stone structure and was putting rafters on the roof of the porch connected to the master bedroom upstairs. Suddenly, things changed forever. His foot slipped, and he fell 6 feet to a cement floor, starting hemorrhaging internally, and after several hours of waiting for one of the other missionaries to drive Laban to Kikwit to the hospital, it was decided that Jim's older brother, Jack, who was just 13 at the time would drive the 6-ton truck himself . They could wait no longer. Jim, his mother, Jack, and some nationals made the slow, horror-filled trek into town to try to keep Laban alive. They arrived at the hospital 9 hours later, and Laban passed away 60 minutes after that.
Jack and Jim were waiting outside the hospital room where Laban lay. Their mother, Marcella, had come out once and told them that it wouldn't be long "until he goes." Their young minds could not grasp the meaning of her words. She then returned to Laban's room, and soon after that they heard the unforgettable groaning, "Oh! My God!" pouring out from Marcella's soul. She walked out of the room to the place where Jack and Jim were sitting. "Boys, he's gone to be with the Lord," to which Jim replied, "Can he come back?" Marcella left in silence and returned to Laban's room.
Jim and Jack started singing, "Do Lord, Oh do Lord, Oh, do remember me." He was buried a few days later in Kikwit. Thousands and thousands of people attended his funeral. Jim and Jack were in shock.
Would God require that of me? to give up my husband to His service as Marcella was asked to do? Would God ask me to give up one of my children to serve him? What about the baby I was carrying in my womb? My mind raced with awful scenarios about being stranded in the remote bush with a starving baby, after having run out of supplies to take care of him. Jim's brother, Jack, as an 18-year-old was killed in a rock fall. His baby brother had died at the age of 14 months. Would death be my experience as well? After all, people do die on the mission field through martyrdom, accidents, malaria gone wild, and untreated diseases they don't even know they have. They have personality conflicts with other missionaries, power struggles just like their friends in America, breakdowns, and broken hearts. Since I had married into this family who had experienced a life full of tragedy on one hand and exultant, incredible responses to the Gospel and spiritual victories on the other, I asked myself, "What would my lot be?" The fear could be gripping at times at the start of my new, inexperienced missionary career.
After all, my family were blue collar, practical, hard-working, backbone America type of people, who didn't move around a lot and never traveled outside the US. They loved structure, sameness, safety, 9 to 5 jobs, and did not embrace the Savior I loved. My husband grew up in a family of risk-taking, ruggedly living, faith-filled, God-loving adventurers who cried from their souls, "Bring it on, Lord." What was i thinking when I married Jim???
Mungwa's big truck made its way down what we now call aerobic hill, with our children sitting on top of the goods for the last few miles and Jim and I following in the new Suburban we had purchased the year before near Muskegon MI. Muskegon this was not. Lavish green hills and valley awaited us surrounded by a horse-shoe shaped hill. This was Nkara.
Jim got out of the Suburban, and I took over driving so he could capture it on video. Hundreds of people were waiting for us in front of the beautiful three-story brick and sandstone home Laban had built, hoping one day to house his boys returning to Africa to carry on the work. Of the two, Jack was the one who so wanted to return. He wanted to come back as a medical doctor. That dream was snuffed out one cold night in January, 1958, five years after Laban died. When dating Jim, he told me he couldn't even bring himself to talk about his brother's death until about 5 or 6 years. That was in 1964, the year we dated and married.
Childhood is such a gift. Totally oblivious to the gravity of our making the decision to go and actually moving to Congo, Shawn, Nicol, and Todd bounced off the truck, greeted people, and ran down the hill in front of our house to the lake.
We made our way through the crowd and went into the home we had visited in 1969 to see if the Lord was truly calling us to this far-away land. Surely, as I entered the doors, the glory I was waiting for would greet me.
Instead the colors of the walls almost made me pass out along with the smells my sensitive nose took in. The living room was a drab green with bright red baseboards, followed by a mustard yellow dining room, once again accented by red trim. The kitchen was a mixture of the mustard yellow and green, Bathrooms down and up were chocolate brown with black trim, and everywhere was the smell of livestock, who in the Africa culture are very welcome to occupy space in the house. Five families had lived in that home for I don't know how long. Forty-eight windows made for great ventillation, but also allowed other critters to travel about freely because there were no screens on any of these windows.
There were no kitchen cupboards, no appliances, little furniture. We would learn later that a reprobate "pastor" upon Marcella's death which took place in Jim's office downstairs, had stolen a refrigerator, beds, mattresses, clothes, and even the children's toys Marcella had purchased upon her arrival in Congo.
This same man lent us his? bed, his? dining room table and chairs, and his? living room furniture until we could buy our own. A feeling of dread and alienation swept over me as we got through the next several weeks. I couldn't communicate to anyone. There was no running water. I could hardly bring myself to use the toilet upstairs (there was none downstairs) because I was sure a snake lived inside it and might reach up and bite my tush.
We went to sleep by the sound of galloping rats in the attic. Somehow we acquired some rat poison, and when it took affect, we used to wait for the rats to drunkenly make their down to the second floor looking for water. It was our Saturday Night Live. The nearest doctor was 60 miles away, and we had no phone or short wave radio to communicate in case I went into labor. Was this a mistake? Did we somehow miss what seemed to be such clear directions from the Lord?
I began thinking about how we could get out of this mess we found ourselves in, especially me, for my husband spoke the language, which all came back to him after a 26 year absence. I was lost, homesick, and afraid. Then the idea came on my bed one night that we could leave honorably if the rapture took place! So each night I prayed and prayed that the Lord would do just that--rapture us from this isolated misery I found myself in. There was no glory here. Something had gone terribly wrong. We wouldn't dare turn around and go home. Too many people praying. Too many people giving sacrificially so we could make the move, and who would want to face Dr. David Allen's bony finger pointing at us saying, "What are you doing here. You're supposed to be in Africa serving the Lord." But if Jesus raptured us, all problems would be solved!!! It didn't happen.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
A Twin Delivered
A few days ago, I asked our Bible school students to give their testimony. One was particularly interesting. His name is Kalala and he was raised in a village of another denomination. Kalala is a twin, and in his early twenties, he was chosen to perform ceremonies on twin babies, who, even in the 90s in Congo were frowned upon, though no longer murdered.
I asked him to describe the rites he was asked to carry out. One ritual was that each twin had to be wiped down with a white, chalky substance to invoke blessing from the ancestors (demonic spirits) and prevent illness and death. A minister from the only denomination allowed in that village told him he must die when he found out Kalala had been saved through one of our evangelism campaigns and was opening another church not of the other denomination. But he did not die. He was beaming with the joy of being delivered first through salvation and then through the freeing of God's Word. How exciting to be part of all this! It is exhilarating to the soul.
I asked him to describe the rites he was asked to carry out. One ritual was that each twin had to be wiped down with a white, chalky substance to invoke blessing from the ancestors (demonic spirits) and prevent illness and death. A minister from the only denomination allowed in that village told him he must die when he found out Kalala had been saved through one of our evangelism campaigns and was opening another church not of the other denomination. But he did not die. He was beaming with the joy of being delivered first through salvation and then through the freeing of God's Word. How exciting to be part of all this! It is exhilarating to the soul.
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