Kikwit, a place you can spend a week in in a night

So after arriving in Kinshasa, Democratic of Republic on Dec 8, 1978, my husband, Jim and our three children Shawn, Nicol, and Todd with one more on the way, and I were rescued by a unique couple called the Voths. The next seven weeks we learned a few ropes in the capital city, met some wonderful fellow missionaries, and then it was time to leave.

We flew on a Mission Aviation Fellowship plane to the city of Kikwit, a town of then around 700,000 people, including several mennonite missionaries, none of whom we knew before. After Solomon (cook at the missionary guest house where we were residing) exhausted his culinary arts, specializing in burnt toast, eggs cooked quite well, and plain rice for lunch and dinner, our taste buds got desperate for a change. Gloriously, one day Jim went to the post office where we had established a mailing address, and brought home a large box, really large.

Ode to Joy! A box! For us? What could be inside and who sent it? We excitedly gathered around the table and with bated breath waited to discover what treasures could possibly be inside. The box was addressed to Jim's mom from his mom, and she sent it fourteen months before its arrival date by boat. Two things I remember clearly that were inside were her girdle and some packages of dried gravy. Shawn (10) and I grabbed the packs and jumped up and down all over the room. We exclaimed, "Brown gravy! Now we can have delicious gravy to go with our plain rice." The lack of variety in our food for 21 days released in us all a deep sense of gratitude for something so basic as a gravy mix! Rice never tasted so good after that!

Loneliness settled in and made itself at home in our family. Times were hard in Congo. Gasoline was hard to come by. We had no car. The missionary families in Kikwit used very conservative measures to make things last, which meant no one offered to pick us up for church, fellow shipping in homes, holding or attending Bible study, or just visiting one another. By now, I was 6 months' pregnant and had actually lost weight. Be that as it may, we all longed to be with other people, and so walking became our mode of transportation despite the heat and pregnancy issues.

The first gathering we attended was a Bible study at an older couple's home. I remember walking up hill and down for what seemed a long time to get there. No children were present. There were no other missionary children in Kikwit the same ages as our kids, but that was not a problem. We were all so homesick that age didn't matter. All we felt that night was the wonder of being with people and the momentary subsiding and dulling of the prickling pain of culture shock. Our children experienced the comfort of men and women who could be their grand parents whom thy missed terribly. We sat together and held hands the whole time.

Missionaries are their own breed of extremely independently thinking, opinionated, survivors. They have to be. Sometimes the mix is like oil and water. I grew to absolutely love two women missionaries in Kikwit. One was a single lady, and the other was married, who could possibly have been my mother. Both had served the Lord for years and years in Congo. They were a marvel to me. Two other servants of the Lord there did no understand my pain. One told me to just snap our of it, and the other's stern way made me want to run out of the room whenever she came around.

Then one day in waltzed a woman to the guest house I can see in my mind's eye as though she is standing before me now. Tall, built like my mother-in-law, well-endowed, hair done up in a bun, wearing a typical missionary flowered dress, black old lady shoes as I used to call them (they tied and had stout heels), no make up, but what a face she had: full of love, chiseled out of a broad spectrum of life I had yet to know, including hardship, joy, sorrow, miraculous acts of survival by God Himself, predicaments that only the Lord could get her out of, wisdom and CONTENTMENT!!! We spent just minutes together, but she made a profound impact on me. She equated the Presence of a Holy God. Immediately sensing my not fitting in, she put her arms around me. Instantly I felt peace. Then she said something I couldn't have disagreed with more. Something so strange and so unlikely unbelievable, and unwanted I shirked inside.

She said, "Congo gets in your blood." Short. Pungent. Ridiculous.

It will never get in my blood, I screamed inside. But it did. . . eventually.

Life continued in Kikwit for the next six weeks. Jim made regular trips to the post office, where at that time we actually received mail. Each time we greatly anticipated his return. Would there be more packages? Yes! One day another box came. This time we found food items that were to die for! Cocoa mix, packaged mac and cheese, canned meats, peanut butter, and goodies we had not tasted in more than a month. Food never tasted so good. The Voths came through once again.

That same night Nicol and I went into the dimly lit kitchen, and our kerosene lantern showed us around. We combined the cocoa mix with powdered milk and sugar and drank in the deliciousness of hot chocolate. It was heavenly. Visitors from the area knocked at our front door. Jim, Shawn, and Todd were not there. I brought the lantern through the living room and for some reason let the strangers in. They sat there with us. We didn't understand a word they said; nor did they understand us, but their concern for us transcended our lingual lacks. Because they knew that in the States we were never without electricity, knew that Jim's mom had died, and knew that Africa was not our homeland, they wanted to comfort us. So we sat in silence and took in their love.

Easter was upon us. It was April, 1979, We all walked to church together and then to a wonderful resurrection celebration. There must have been 20 of us missionaries meeting together. And you know what? One of the items was real potatoes made into potato salad. Oh bliss!

While in Kikwit, Jim was able to visit his mother's gravesite. His father is buried there as well. But they are not next to each other. Both bodies are buried in African soil to be resurrected one glorious day. Both are legends in Congo. Totally sold out, not really counting their lives dear unto themselves, they put their hands to the plow and never looked back. Heroes. Servants of the Most High God. How indebted I am to them for not taking the easy way out, the simpler route, for doing the hard stuff by God's grace. They set the bar high. They inspired. They both finished the race well. Marcella and Laban, I don't know how to thank you. Words aren't enough. You made decisions that changed my life forever!!! I love you.

Next step is moving into the Interior or the Bush of Congo. Kikwit would become a much wanted retreat with paved roads, on again, off again air conditioning, other expatriots, and shops opening up with a little bit of real food in them.