How we are shaped by those who have gone before. . .

Building a hospital in Congo can be very overwhelming. Tonight I am overwhelmed. This is going to be a long post. I may lose you before you finish attempting to read it all. Nonetheless, I feel I must lay my heart and thoughts on the table.

My husband, Jim, is a man of great vision and capacity. He grew up on the mission field and saw the hand of God move powerfully as far back as he can remember. God's power was the backdrop of his childhood. That power unleashed resulted in Jim seeing people, whose darkened minds were controlled by the evil of witchcraft and satanism, turn from cannibalism, child sacrifice and fetish worship to awakening to new life which radically transformed them. Several such outcomes of radical change were their burning of fetishes--the custom of worshiping parrot feathers, goat manure, and squash seeds contained in a gourd was held near and dear to their hearts for decades to honor their ancestors--forsaking cannibalism and child sacrifice, and entering baptism 7 abreast at one time by national pastors in the lake down the hill in front of their home with as many as 1200 individuals in a single day. He still recalls how his mind's eye sees rows of women, maybe as many as twelve in a row, locked arm in arm dressed in their new beautiful African cloth (as opposed to going topless before being saved), singing, "What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus."

Jim saw more than 10,000 of these Bianzi people make such professions of faith and testify of their new resurrected life through baptism. He saw much more. Adventure and drama filled his youthful days, and many evenings were spent listening to his parents discuss the return of Christ. Laban and Marcella were pioneer missionaries. They were gutsy. They plowed in virgin territory. Both their bodies have enriched African soil, someday to be resurrected in total splendor and light. This great stock left him an incredible heritage which he not only embraced early on in life but continues to cherish, greatly respect, and cling to in order that he may honor the Ancient of Days until he stands before Him one fine day in total rapture.

Being shaped by this amazing background has made Jim seize and run with the truth that Jesus Christ is all powerful and can do ANYTHING. In other words, there is nothing that the Lord cannot do! Jim is a man of faith, and he boldly brags on God all the time, fanning the fire of faith in others because he himself has the gift of faith. Do you see where he is coming from?

Recently, Jim has been challenged to involve himself in a monumental task. It entails writing 10 out of 15 comprehensive case points to present to able-bodied philanthropists who may decide to back a major portion of this enormous undertaking of erecting a hospital in the bush of Congo, Africa.

One of the points to be covered is human/societal need. Thus, the topic of this blog. In covering this point, Jim shares how the loss of a human life so dear as his father's as well as other losses over the years may have been prevented had there been a hospital near Nkara. After copying his chicken scratch (sorry Jim, your handwriting leaves a little to be desired), about a week or so ago, I can't seem to stop thinking about that day when Laban Smith left this earth. For the past several days my thoughts continue to wing their way back to those 9 hours of horror, a day forever locked in Jim's mind, a day full of bewilderment, shock, disbelief, and incredible loss, a day that heavily influenced everything about my man--his future, his commitment to Scripture, his goals, his thought patterns, the way he would walk with the Lord--everything. Not only did it alter his life, but the man and his death continue to shape his steps and life pattern and temper who he is and what he does. Not just the heart wrenching experience of watching his Dad's life fad, but the man his father really was. Nothing would ever be the same again because of what took place on that day when he was only ten as well as the years leading up to his dad's home going. On January 24, 1953. Dr. Laban Smith fell just 8 feet, and 9 hours later he was with Jesus. Read it for yourself.

The recount of my father's accident:

Breakfast was a 8 a.m. on Saturday morning. The Shannon Family had traveled 300 miles so that my father, Dr. Laban Smith, could fix Mrs. Shannon's abscessed teeth. He was an oral surgeon but also committed to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, His Lord. Malaria and high blood pressure had made him weak, but he would not stop building the new house of brick, stone, and wood with an aluminum roof.

As he was sitting down at the table, he said, "I feel so good today." I was glad to hear him say that. Dad was my hero. Nothing seemed to stop him. A prayer of thanks, breakfast, and off to work on the 3-story home. Mrs. Shannon's x-rays were not ready yet, so the dental office sat empty that Saturday.

My brother, Jack, and I took Ralph and Jack Shannon to find a fruit tree our African friends had discovered across the Ewa stream. In Congo, this was like finding a candy store, of which the closest one was 65 miles and 5 bumpy hours away.

Hardly crossing the stream, we heard and saw a young man running across the big long tree bridging the stream. "Jack ti Jim, kwisa nswalu. Tata ya beno me kubwa. Yandi kebasisa menga na munoko." Jack and Jim come quickly. Your father has fallen and blood is coming out of his mouth. "Yandi kele mbote ve." He is not good, which means it is very serious.

Jack and Ralph soon out paced me and my friends running back to the house and second story. Instead of a candy tree of fruit came the broken tree of terror, hopelessness, fear, and total desperation. This 10-year-old heart with uncontrollable tear-filled eyes ran the quarter mile to the beautiful new home Dr. Smith was building for his family, expecting to live there for many years.

As I made my way through the kitchen door to the dining room and starting up the stairs, my brother, Jack, met me at the landing. "Jimmy, Dad is lying on the cement floor unconscious and is bleeding out of his mouth badly. He can't talk. He's unconscious. I continued up the steps, turned left, and through the family room to the wide upstairs porch. My mother, Marcella, was kneeling by Dad's side, holding his hand. Her face was one of bewilderment, a voice of deep pleading, " Oh God! Help! Jesus, help!" Mrs. Shannon, a nurse, was cupping his head, examining him. The African nurse, Pierre Nsenge, had his stethoscope draped around his neck, having tested Laban's heart rate and blood pressure. Some of the work staff silently in a daze of prayer, stood at a desperate vigil that "Munganga"--doctor--would come back to normality.

Of course, Laban must be gotten to a doctor and hospital. Marcella's first choice was Vanga, the American Baptist Hospital and their friend, Dr. Osterholm. Mrs. Shannon thought my Uncle's Willys station wagon would be so much smoother than the big 6-ton Chevy truck. My uncle Mit lived at Iwungu, 65 miles away. Mr. Shannon would take Makumbi, Dad's trained driver, to get the Yosts. But at Iwungu, the Yosts were on their way to Kikwit another 60 miles. At Kikwit, Yosts had gone to Kafumba--too far away. Better use his pick up. The fact that My uncle was not available in Iwungu or Kikwit took Mr. Shannon several hours to find out.

He began the return to Nkara for Laban. It had been at least 6 hours since Shannon left. Marcella Smith and Mrs. Shannon decided they could not wait any longer. The decision was to use Laban's 6-ton Chevy truck, and the driver would be Jack Smith, who started to drive t age 7 and was now 13. Dad was gently loaded into the truck by several men led by Dad's dear coworker, Toma, who began to work with Dad 14 years earlier. They picked him up carefully, firmly, tenderly from the porch, cautiously watching each half step they took down the winding staircase. This was the body of the man who led them out of darkness into The Marvelous Light, a representative of Jesus Christ. They gently loaded him into the monstrous truck. I sat in the front. Mom, on her knees, cradled Dad's head in the back of the truck. Mrs. Shannon kneeled by his side. Jack started the truck. Toma would not leave his side. He would see him to the hospital, helping and encouraging Marcella all the way. He also counseled Jack to drive easily and with courage.

The two Lukwa bridges were 20 and 10 feet long, rather narrow, and immediately there was a steep hill to climb. Up the 1/2 mile road leading from the mission Jack drove to the top, made the left turn on the main road, which was hardly fit to be called a road, to Kikwit where the hospital was located.

As we passed the village of Longo--the largest of the Bayanzi Tribe and the village which called Dr. Smith to come tell them of Jesus Christ , God's Son, to which 10,000 Bayanzi's in a matter of 5 years responded wholeheartedly, accepting Dr. Laban Smith's Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ who forgave all who believed all their sins, even their cannibalism--quiet bodies stood, slowly waving, praying Dr. Smith, their missionary and doctor, would live and return to them again.

Jack slowly approached the Lukwa Bridge and stopped so Toma could direct the wheels over the planks. I was told to get out of the truck, but Marcella and Mrs. Shannon stayed with Laban. They would not leave him by himself. They would also go down if the truck and Jack went down.

Reloaded, Jack started up the steep Lukwa River Hill. The truck engine did not stop but smoothly, thank God and Jack, 12 minutes later made it up the winding hill to the level savannah. The drive was normal and smooth as Jack at 13 drove the lumbering beast carefully. His father was on the floor on a mattress.

Driving in the Kwilu Forest and down its hills to end up at the barge of the Kwilu River--always a breathtaking experience, even for professional drivers--how will Jack do? Maybe an experienced driver will be available to put it on the barge. More than once trucks have gone off the front, killing driver, riders, and the loss of all cargo. Our cargo was Dad. The river was over a thousand feet wide, 90 feet deep with a 6 mile an hour flow speed.

At 13, Jack had become a young man trying to save his father. Jim was praying and meeting God in a real way at the age of 10.

Halfway to Kikwit with quiet but strong supported national staff and Toma, they began to say, "Mr. Shannon's truck is up ahead coming toward us." Jack easily but immediately rolled to a stop. Shannon and Makumbi took Shannon's truck and Shannon took the 6 ton Chevy truck. Jack would not have to drive Dad on to the barge or off of it into the city of Kikwit.

Mr Shannon drove up the hill at 5 p.m., and 45 minutes later he was at the hospital. Toma helped to push Dad and the mattress to the end of the canvas-covered truck. Male nurses were on the ground to receive him and carry him to his room.

Marcella and Mrs. Shannon were talking to the head doctor, Fimi, describing what had happened.

Laban was given morphine to put him to rest. Jack and Jim were brought in to see their dad. He seemed to be resting. All was quiet. We were praying and trusting in Dr. Fimi. Mom led us back out to the truck where Jack and I sat in the front just waiting, praying, bewildered, hoping==waiting for mom to come back and say something to us. In an hour of arriving at the hospital, things went fast. After a half hour, mom came out to the truck and said, "Boys, I think your daddy will be leaving us soon." I said, "Where is he going?" "To be with Jesus," she said. " He will have a new home and be with God." Courageously, Marcella returned to Laban's side.

Fifteen minutes later Marcella let out with a desperate, lonely wail of a 49-year-old wife and partner who saw her husband's soul and spirit depart his body to be with His Lord, Savior, Creator, and God, whom he loved and served faithfully.

Mom came to the truck. Her cry told us something bad had happened, but we hoped to her that he was worse but not dead. However, she said, "Boys, your dad is with Jesus. He died a few minutes ago." Jim asked, "Will Jesus let him talk to us tonight?" "No, Jim. Daddy can't talk to us on earth. You will someday." "Mom, what does Daddy look like now?" "He is in glory in the presence of Jesus and God, the Father. In Revelation it says, 'The saints are dressed in white clothes, and they are all glorious within."

Uncle Howard Street drove his panel truck to take us down to the mission hostel to eat and sleep. The next day the funeral would be in the dining and living room area which was connected and open. The Belgian Governor of the Kwilu District told Marcella that Dr. Smith is "one of ours, and we will make his coffin, and we want him to be buried here in Kikwit."

That dad's body could not walk, talk, build, evangelize, fix teeth, be present, protect, lead, but be put into a casket and that in the ground was unthinkable, strange, another world. But that would happen to my father, a man of doing, solidness, life, purpose, a love for God and the Bible. However, now he was in the presence of Jesus Christ. He was seeing his son, Gary, who died 6 years before on furlough. The dreams and realities of life after death were his to know now--more real than the physical of 53 years. Earth cannot describe it. Paul said, "To be with the Lord is far better."

Howard Street preached the funeral. A Mennonite ladies' trio sang Saved by Grace, Face to Face, and I Shall Know Him. We did not know there were so many cars in the Kwilu District as Belgian officials, businessmen, and their wives, and the many Portuguese families who were involved in the palm oil industry came to honor Dr. Smith, who was their dentist but also the man whom they could easily talk to. And out of the love of his heart for them and for the Lord Jesus Christ, he had in such tenderness and joy shared the Gospel of Jesus Christ. How interesting, as they sat in his dental chair and he shared Christ with them, he spoke in the Kituba language. When they could, they would respond in the Kituba language. He never pushed, never forced but in grace. Now they were saying goodbye to him. A long line, practically bumper to bumper, most unusual in that part of the Congo, followed Mr. Street's green suburban Chevrolet up the mile-long road to the cemetery. Hundreds of Africans were there. Many missionaries and government people who knew and greatly respected Laban were there for the funeral.

As we walked out of the guest house, it was amazing to see all the cars waiting nearby in the compound which they had filled, who could not even attend the funeral, but wanted to be part of the funeral procession. Missionary men let his body down into the grave with straps and, as Mom, Jack, and I stood off to the right, I remember that hit so hard--my father was being put into the ground. But the soul and spirit were with the Lord. Dad and Mom had so prepared Jack and me for what happens to the Christian when they die because they talked about heaven as if they were had been there. The world we lived in changed and changed me in many ways I can't even tell. Dad was no longer with us, but he was with the Lord. I would see him again.

And so a boy losing his father at age 10--what is that all about? I don't know. What I do often ponder are these possibilities:

Would Jim have become the man of faith he is today if his father would have lived?

Was his father's death the catalyst along with his older brother's death that made him promise God he would give Him a year and read a chapter everyday for a year to test God and see if he was who he said he was.

Is Jim's drive so strong because he lost his hero at such a tender age?

Would the Lord Jesus Christ be so vital in Jim's life had he not had to thrust himself on his only real source of comfort besides his mother at that age?

Would he seek the mind of Christ without experiencing the sufferings of Christ; i.e. the horrific death of his dad?

Would he ever have gone back to Congo to give his life for the African people he loves so much without being stripped of the life of his father?

I have no idea, but I thank God for having shared 44 years with a man who

walks the walk instead of just blabbing a bunch of empty, air-filled words and unkept promises.

has chosen to walk away from bitterness and self-pity

whose lips are full of praise all the time for the Great I Am

who locks his sight into things afar off which are unseen rather than centering his short life on earth on things that are tangible

and I am still overwhelmed with the idea of building a hospital in the bush of Congo! HELP!!!