Day 25. Story 24. Zoom. Zoom.

The sun was out and the sky was blue as I sped down the highway.   

My pick up truck was loaded down with construction equipment for a new church building we were working on.  A couple of passengers sat with me in the pick up truck.    As I zoomed along the only highway to the south of the country, I found the longest straight away in the whole country- a stretch of about 3 miles of pristine Burundian highway adjacent to Lake Tangyanika on one side and cassava plantations on the other.  Zoom.  I opened up the accelerator.  

 I admit, probably a little too fast.   

The speedometer said 140 km/h or roughly 85 miles an hour on the two lane road.  The road was totally clear.  No other vehicles.  No pedestrians.  No chickens. No goats. No cows.  No donkey carts.  No people sun-bathing in the road (this is not a joke).   Zoom.  

The equipment in the  bed was fastened securely but hung out the tailgate a little.   As we drove, I could hear it rattling in the wind.  We had even gone to the lengths of attaching a little piece of red plastic just so everyone would know.  We had equipment.  We were on a mission.  Stay out of the way.  Zoom.  

Suddenly, I noticed a bicyclist.  He was about 2 miles ahead on the right  on a little footpath adjacent to the highway.   Zoom.  

On the back of his bicycle he had bamboo poles attached.  They stuck out at least 4 feet on either side.  It was quite a balancing act.  Zoom. 

I honked.  I flashed my lights. I moved my vehicle into the center of the road since the other lane was clear.  Zoom. Zoom. 

The unthinkable happened, our dear bicyclist pushed his bicycle laden with bamboo poles further onto the edge of the road.  

"What is he doing?"  shouted one of the other passengers.  More lights.  More horn.  Less distance.  Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. 

The bicyclist realized that his poles hung into the road about a fraction of  a second too late.  

I swerved.  He veered.  The front of my pick up truck had a bull bar that nicked  the corners of a  few of the poles.  Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom.  

Do you know what happens  to bamboo poles tied to the back of bicycle at 140 Km/h?  Have you ever seen a kid play with a top?  You know the little piece of metal that spins on the floor like the cartoon character Taz the Tasmanian Devil?  

The bike twirled through the air as did the bicyclist pushing it.  They both landed in the water drain on the side of the road.  A moment later he jumped back up with his fist in the air yelling. Obviously, quite ticked by the bullet that had struck his bamboo.    

He was completely unhurt though.    And the bamboo so flexible that it sprang back into place.  As I looked again in the rear-view mirror, he was pushing his bicycle with the same bamboo sticking out four feet on either side down the road.  

This guy just doesn't learn.  Zoom.  

Someone once told me that the only really bad mistakes that you can make are ones that you don't learn anything from.   Sadly, I think this was the case with our Burundian bamboo bicyclist.   He didn't learn anything from the experience.  Knocked off the road into the ditch, he returned to his spot.   No one would deter him.  Nothing would stand in his way.  This was his road and he would prove it.  Unfortunately, I think that kind of attitude, one of being unteachable, stubborn, and proud leads to great problems. We must never ignore the warning signs God sends our way and respond in humility and a teachable spirit.  

Zoom. Zoom.  

What can I learn from this situation?  

What is God trying to accomplish in my life? 

Is there a pattern of behavior that is undermining His work in my life? 

What course corrections do I need to make? 

Am I teachable?  Really? 

All my passengers asked me to slow down.  I gladly agreed.     

Day 24 Story 23- A little contribution

I had Pastor G. on my heart the whole day.  

Not really sure why except that I knew I was supposed to pray for him and his family.  This particular brother was  experiencing some difficulties in his church as well as in his family.  As I prayed the thought kept coming to me: "you need to help him financially."  Normally, I'm reluctant to help African pastors directly only because I don't want to be considered the new found source for funding.  I have found that direct contributions have ruined many a good relationship.  Rather, I usually find an intermediary.   And work through the system in place on the ground.   

This was different though.   There was an urgency to what I was feeling in my heart.  I knew I had to do something and do it now.  

As I pondered how to do it, the impression came strongly, "$300."  I reeled.  This was a lot of money for me, let alone for an African pastor living in one of the poorest countries on planet earth.  I decided to talk myself out of it.  "No, it can't be $300.  That's way too much money.  He would see me as a cash cow from here on out."    I laughed at the ridiculous nature of my thought.  "$300.  Yeah right."   

The thought came even stronger. "$300.  Give it to him tonight at Bible school and in US cash."   

"What? Tonight?"   

How would I be able to give him $300 with so many other students around.  And why US cash?  I never gave people US cash.  This would be even more problematic  than handing them local currency.   I continued my preparations for the course I was teaching that night to the Bible school students.  

As the time approached to teach, I went into my office and found 3 one hundred dollar bills.  I silently prayed, "Lord you will have to show me how to get alone with this brother."   Handing out money, any money, but especially that kind of money, to just one person in a classroom of pastors could destroy relationships, foster jealousy, create the wrong impressions, etc..   

The schedule called for a 3 hour block course.  I made it through the first half and then gave the students a break. I went into another class room to clear my head from French theological terms.  In walked Pastor G. and his wife, also a student:  "Missionaire?"  

"Yes."  

He wanted to talk.  Something was clearly bothering him and he needed encouragement. 

"Umm.. before you say anything I need to give you something," I fumbled for words. 

"I know this is highly unusual, but.... well.... I've been praying for you and feel like I'm supposed to give you this."  

I handed him the envelope. 

"What is it?" he asked in astonishment. 

"A little contribution."  I whispered trying not to attract attention. 

"What kind of a contribution?"  he pressed. 

"Tell him," I felt in my heart. 

"It's $300." 

He exploded into tears.  And I mean exploded.  His wife began weeping too.  They took my hand and started praising God in loud voices.  It was sheer glory pandemonium.    After some time, he opened up his little notebook that he used for taking notes.  He pointed to a certain entry on a particular page.  It read, "$300 in US cash." 

"What is this?"  I asked. 

"We have been praying and fasting telling God that if He really wants us to stay in ministry and keep serving Him we have to have $300 in US cash to pay an outstanding bill.  We asked him to have it by a certain date otherwise we would resign." 

"Today?" I asked. 

"Today."  

We cried together. It was one of the most tangible answers to prayer and obedience that I have ever witnessed.  We are still close friends to this day.  He stayed in the ministry and has a thriving church from which he has planted several others.  

Obedience to His voice,  even when it seems unorthodox or crazy, is always rewarded.  While it is true that we aren't responsible for results, sometimes He shows us the results of our obedience on this side of heaven.  On that final day He will show us ALL of the results of our obedience.  There will be so many tears of joy and thanksgiving that we will wonder why we ever hesitated.  

Day 23 Story 22: Jesus the moneychanger

Living in Burundi required constant finances. Money in. Money out.  We continually needed Burundian Francs which are known as Frambu for short.  The exchange rate fluctuated all the time.  And when exchanging large amounts of money a differential of even 5 Frambu per dollar made a big different.  There was one sure person to contact to get the best rate in town.  Jesus.  He was the best moneychanger in town.  

Well, actually his name is Isa which is Jesus in Arabic.  A Burundian entrepreneur, Jesus, had started his own forex business years before we showed up on the scene.  When we did show up on the scene though, he gave us preferential customer treatment.  Five frambu more per dollar  on any offer in town.   We had his cell phone and would call him up.  "How much can you give us today Jesus?"  He would always answer by saying: "How much are you bringing?"   And so the negotiations would start.  

When we had to purchase large pieces of land he would be especially thrilled. I remember one specific occasion.  We were buying a piece of land in the heart of downtown Gitega to plant a new church. I know, I know, for most people it's not exactly a thriving metropolis, but for Burundi it is big stuff.  The second largest city in the country no less.  And the price of land costs a pretty penny, or maybe I should say Frambu,  comparatively speaking  of course.  Donors from the US wired the money to the mission account.  

I withdrew US dollars and made the call.  

"How much can you give us today Jesus?" 

Same old reply.  "How much are you brining?" 

I coughed nervously before answering.  

"How much???"  Jesus responded rather shocked.  

"In that case I'm going to give you the best rate you've ever had."  

Off I went to downtown Buja to find Jesus at his favorite spot, the Forex Bureau.  I brought two duffle bags and a backpack with me to carry out all the money.   As I walked in, the guy behind the counter greeted me:  "Hey Steve how are you?" before yelling: "Jesus Steve is here."   

"Send him back."  

The iron gate opened that protected the inner sanctum of the Forex Bureau where all the money was stored.  I headed straight towards Jesus' office.  After the usual pleasantries, I produced the cash- $100 dollar bills. Some of Uncle Sam's finest.  Jesus went to the safe and opened it up.  Out came the Frambu. Stacks of it.  I filled my backpack.  Then I filled a duffle bag.  And half of another one.  It was a lot of money. I felt like the little boy with his five loaves and two fish giving so little to Jesus and leaving with so much more.  

As I walked out, Jesus asked if I needed help carrying the bags out.  "Nope, I should be fine. I parked outside on the street."   In hindsight i realize how stupid this answer must have been.  I walk in to Forex Bureau in one of the most crime ridden cities in the world with 3 empty bags only to remerge a half hour later with all of them stuffed to the hilt.  Nevertheless, I made it home safely, drove to Gitega a few days later, made the transaction, purchased the land, hosted a construction team, built a tabernacle, finished the walls, and started a church that runs several hundred to this day with 8 church plants, all because of a man named Jesus.  Literally and spiritually.  

I think of our conversations fondly.  "How much can you give me today Jesus?"  And I wonder if that's not how many of us approach the real Jesus.  "What's in it for me today Jesus?"  Or to be more crass, "If I serve you today what will you give me?"   And while I think there is more to it than the simple answer that Jesus the Burundian gave me, I like to think that it's a really good starting point, "How much are you brining?"   In other, words how much are you willing to surrender?  For most of us we maintain the majority stock option in our investment- our lives.  And so we experience precious little of Christ's presence and power.  I've found that as I surrender-- my will, my plan, my life, wholly, or at least as much as I know how in any given moment, Jesus responds by pouring far more into my life than I ever could have imagined.  

"How much can you give us today Jesus?" 

"How much are you brining?"   

Everything! 

Day 22 Story 21-- Kerplunk!

We were working hard on a new church building in Nyanza Lac, Burundi.  The sun seared overhead as the sweat poured down our faces.  As usual, we had driven like the wind to get to the work site as fast possible due to the roadblocks imposed outside of Buja after 5PM.   Our team consisted of three ladies and 7 men if I remember right.  One of the woman disappeared after about an hour on the worksite.  She had been complaining of stomach issues on the drive down.  I figured she was either resting in the bus or trying to take care of some business. 

We were in the process of measuring and pouring  the foundations (called footings) for the pre-fab tabernacle.  As I ran around in the scorching weather trying to organize, translate, and steer clear of heat stroke, I heard someone calling my name behind me.  

"Stephen." 

"Yes," I responded as I turned around.  

"This is kind of embarrassing...."  the voice of the lady with the stomach issue trailed off. 

"What's wrong?" I asked trying to be kind. 

"Well, I was taking care of business and wanted to wipe off my hands well," she almost whispered. 

"Yes?"  I asked not sure where she was going.  

"I took my watch off to clean my wrists too, and well, you see I dropped it."  

"You dropped your watch?"  I asked totally confused why this needed my attention. 

"I dropped into the hole."  

"The hole?"  I inquired. The light bulb came on for me.  "Ah, the hole? You mean the long drop?" 

"Yes," she replied rather sheepishly.  

"Look, I'm really sorry that happened,"  I tried to sound as empathetic as possible.  

"It was a really nice watch.  Could you please have someone go get it?" she continued. 

"Go get it?..... You don't mean....?"  I stuttered. 

"It can't be that hard can it?"  her face was dead serious.  

I whistled out loud before motioning to the pastor we were working with in the area to come over.  He quickly approached and asked what was wrong?  Pastor Laurent is one of the kindest and meekest people I have ever met in my life.  I think he would do anything for anyone if it were in his power.  So I slowly explained the situation in Swahili and Kirundi trying to keep from bursting out in laughter.  The female member of team stood by nodding in appreciation.  

Pastor Laurent began to bob his head up and down as he shuffled his feet.  I could see he couldn't believe what I was telling him. 

"You mean she wants someone to go down in there?"  he asked.  

"Yes, but just explain to her why you can't," I replied. 

The woman continued nodding her head in full agreement at the conversation in Swahili. "What's he saying?"  she asked. 

"Just a sec," I responded. 

"How would I do that?" he asked.  

"Tell her what's in there and how much is in there. Unless of course you want to go in there." I remained calm. 

He looked at me like I had lost my mind.  The lady looked at me confidently, as I began to translate for Pastor Laurent.  The conversation went something like this.  

"We dug that pit latrine quite some time ago...It is easily 9 feet deep."  Now it was my turn to  nod  as I turned the words into English. 

"It has been visited almost everyday by members of the community for several years now."  I kept nodding emphatically as I interpreted. 

"Many have diseases of the stomach. Plus, the heat in this part of Burundi can be scorching.  And we just recently had to pour some soil in the hole to reduce the smell and keep the flies away. There are probably worms everywhere.  And by now it is so deep that someone could probably drown in there.  Not to mention that if we found it you would have to sterilize it for quite some time...."  He was on a roll.    

By the time I finished translating for Pastor Laurent the woman face had become ashen white for some strange reason.  "Never mind," she finally stuttered.  

When it comes down to it we are often guilty of trying to make other people responsible for our messes when we won't touch them ourselves.  Too often we become fixated with a mistake, especially if we tend towards perfectionism.  And then we find someone to blame, either ourselves, someone close to us, the government, or even God.  This can be totally destructive.    

 I like to say: "learn a lesson and move on. " I know it sounds heartless, but there really are some messes that are better left well enough alone in the past.    Mistakes only become serious  when we fail to learn from them and continue to repeat them.  I will sit before the Lord and ask Him to talk to me about mine.  It's amazing what happens when he transforms my perspective  to see things with His eyes.  I learn. I'm encouraged. I experience grace. And I find true repentance to overcome remorse.   And I'm able to move on by His love.  

Day 21 Story 20 - The Lesson of the Two Drops

The epic race to discover the source of Africa's largest river, the Nile, is legendary.  One hundred and fifty years ago the British explorers raced  throughout the length and breadth of the continent to find the tributaries responsible for such a mammoth body of water.   Men like Livingstone, Speke, and  Burton suggested differing sources for the world's longest river.  Part of the confusion resides in the fact that the river actually has two arms: the white and blue.  Both converge in Khartoum, Sudan.  

 Even today controversy clouds the exact spot.  The Rwandans say that it is Nyungwe National park.  The Kenyans say it is in Lake Victoria, which is technically true, except that Lake Victoria has two tributaries flowing into it.  

In 1934 a German by the name of Burckhard Waldecker decided to track one of these  tributaries.  His quest took him high into the hills of Burundi on the Kagera River.   He built a little pyramid there and declared to the world the true source of the Nile.  Of course, this did nothing but add more fuel to the debate.   When I moved to Burundi  in 2007 several of my friends told me that I needed to go visit the spot.    Of course, I was intrigued from a historical perspective.  And the opportunity finally presented itself in 2008.   To say I had high hopes would be an understatement.  I couldn't wait! The source of the Nile! And in Burundi of all places!  

We made the 2 hour trek to the absolute middle of nowhere.  On the side of a hill is a rather bizarre pyramid constructed by the German.  We jumped out of the car, walked around, took some pictures, but still didn't see any water.  

"So where is it?"  I finally asked.  

"Down this way," came the reply from the self-appointed guide hovering around the parking area hoping to get some money from us. 

We walked a couple hundred feet down into a ravine.   Standing in the midst of some giant fern fronds our guide suddenly announces, "There it is!" 

His voice was full of excitement and enthusiasm. 

"Where?" I asked incredulously. 

"Right there!" 

"Right where?"  

Straining forward I looked into a little crevice on the edge of the ravine.  A single black pipe stuck out of the bank with a few drops of water dripping off the plastic.  

"That's it?" I cried out in disappointment. 

"I drove 2 hours to the middle of nowhere to see a pipe with a couple drops of water on it??"

Seeing his chances of a tip evaporating quickly, the guide explained: "This is the dry season.  When it rains a lot more water comes out of the pipe." 

I was totally disillusioned. "Who would put a pipe in there anyways? And why?" 

The best answer I could get is that the pipe gathered water run-off from the nearby vegetation so that there would be a few drops for tourists to see even in the dry season.  

We jumped back in our car and drove back to Buja rather disappointed.  The more I thought about it though, the more I have realized how cool it really is to think that the mighty nile stems from a few drops of water in Central Burundi.  A few drops soon becomes a a little trickle, the little trickle a small creek, the creek a tributary, the tributary a decent size river, the decent size river combines with other rivers and voila, the mighty Nile.  

Similarly, I think that it is easy to do the same thing in our lives.  We ask God for great and mighty things.  He responds by entrusting us with a few small drops.  We say, "are you kidding?" He says, "Be faithful with what I've given you."  We say, "But it's so small, and I was born to be great."  He says, "Be faithful in the small and you will be entrusted with much."     

As I look at my life, I would have to say that the lesson of the two drops has been one of keys for seeing God use my life.  As I'm faithful to steward what He's given me, even though at times it has seemed like so very little, He has always been faithful to increase it.   

Day 20 Story 19- Simeoni

Burundi's first ever women's conference for the AG would be held in  a place called Kayagoro- the absolute middle of nowhere.   A mere five hour drive from Bujumbura through some of the most windy roads that I have ever seen.  The conference would be organized by three females: two Burundian pastor's wives and a missionary colleague.  

 My phone rang, "Stephen we need you to participate in a women's conference." 

"Ummm... a women's conference?"  I asked hoping that the inflection of my voice would trigger the realization that I was not a female. 

"Yes. You are perfect!"  the response was very enthusiastic. 

"A women's conference?" I asked again still quite incredulous. 

"Yes, we need you to drive and translate."  

"Ah. I see.  And where is this conference to be held?" 

"Kayagoro." 

"Kaya....where?" I inquired.

 Why Kayagoro you may ask?  It's the question I'm still asking to this day.   Why me? Another question I'm still asking.  I said no several times, but eventually caved in after multiple calls from various members of the women's triad persuaded me.  

So, we piled into my pick up truck and zoomed off to Kayagoro.  On the way, one of the Burundian ladies who we will call Mama Sinzinkayo because that is actually her real name begins telling us the story of her youngest son- Simeoni.  He was no more than 5 years old at the time and had gone missing two weeks earlier.  No one knew what had become of him.  The church members last saw him playing outside the church building during a service.  

She did everything she knew how to do:  contacted neighbors, members of the community where their church was located, the police, held prayer vigils every morning and fasted an entire week.  Two long agonizing weeks had elapsed with not even a rumor as to the little boy's whereabouts.

My heart broke as I listened to a mother's heart agonizing over her son.  

To make matters worse, Burundi was experiencing a resurgence of child kidnappings at the time.  Not to be vulgar, but reports had surfaced of witchdoctors in Tanzania buying Burundian children for sacrifices.   Whether true or not, many people suggested that her son had become the latest victim.  

We all agreed to pray one more time  in the car as we zipped through the Burundian hills.   

The women's conference in Kayagoro actually turned out well for the ladies, but not so well for the token lady on the trip, me.   I fell ill with some strange fever and had to spend the next two days in our hotel, a spacious 4 room bar that blared country music at all hours of the day with the drunks shouting Kirundi profanities in  the hallway.  Yes, it was quite an experience.  One of the nights, the local municipality official tried to arrest us, but that is another story for another day.  

Some three days later, the worst of the fever and nausea  had passed and we were able to drive back to Buja. The conference had been a success, several women had come to Christ.  Many others had been challenged and encouraged in their walk with the Lord.   As we headed down the road, I started singing.   I was feeling better and grateful to be leaving the bustling metropolis of Kayagoro and my country music prison.  

Two of the ladies sat in the back seat chattering away.  Mama Sinzinkayo sat in the passenger seat silent, lost in deep thought.    There was a heaviness about her.  My heart ached for her.  Then,   her phone rang.  We had been out of cell phone coverage for  quite some time.   Suddenly, she starts shouting at the top of her lungs.  "Simeoni! Simeoni! Simeoni!"  The tears quickly followed.  "They found Simeoni!"  She burst into praise, worship, and  a chorus of hallejuahs.

Weeping with cries of joy soon filled the inside of the car.  It was one of those moments that words would fail to describe.  For close to an hour, the Burundian women undulated as only African can with deep cries of joy interspersed with sobbing.  It was one of those beautiful moments in life when faith triumphs over fear in a way so striking that it sticks with you for the rest of your life.  

As we neared Buja, I felt the gentle nudge of Holy Spirit: "This is a moment you must never forget.  This is a picture of what happens in heaven when even one spiritually lost person  receives Christ and is found." Jesus stated this truth so beautifully when he said: "The Son of Man  came to seek and save the lost."  

Why does Jesus' mission statement include a particular  thrust towards the lost? Simply stated because lostness is the worst condition in which a human being can find themselves.  There will be no lost people in heaven. There may be hungry people in heaven.  Or even fat people in heaven.  But there will be no lost people.    The greatest need in the human heart is to be saved. The good news is that Jesus is ever so true to  His mission finding  the way to our hearts, knocking  down the walls of doubt, fear, and sin so that we can really find life.  

Day 19 story 18- What a View

When I lived in Burundi we were continually on the look out for good pieces of land to buy. The idea was to have them available so that we could start new churches on the site with a Bible school student.  A team would then come in from the US to build a tabernacle.  We would preach and  voila,  as they say in French, we would have a new church of about 50-80 people.  

One of our challenges was to find strategic pieces of land situated close to neighborhoods/villages so that people could easily walk.  In the early days we worked with a Burundian pastor  who liked the idea of purchasing new pieces of land a little too much.  One day he calls on the phone.  

The conversation went something like this: 

"We have a piece of land that is a must see!" 

"Some more details please?"  

"A friend of mine knows where it is located and we all can go together to see it." 

"Umm...Where is it?"  

"Oh...just a few kilometers outside of Bujumbura." 

"When would we go?" 

"Tomorrow AM." 

So we piled into a Speed The Light vehicle and headed to check out the spot.  The so-called friend was really a part-time employee of the pastor we worked with which should have been my first clue that something was amiss.   

On a side note, the part-time employee pretended to know English, but all it really amounted to was one predominant expression: "Not at all. Not at all."   "Are going far," I would ask.  "Not at all. Not at all," came the response.  "What part of Burundi do you come from?"  "Not at at all. Not at all."  What other jobs do you have?"  "Not at all. Not at all."  

(You get the idea. While I am exaggerating the frequency of his use of the expression it isn't by much. ) 

After leaving town, I began to get fidgety. 

"How much farther do you we have to go?"" 

"Just ahed," responded the pastor.  "Not at all. Not at all." The friend. 

A few kilometers later we repeated the question.  Same answer.  Another few kilometers down the road, same response.  After driving a solid twenty five minutes we approached a dirt road.  "Turn here," came the order.  

Off we went down the narrow dirt road into the Burundian countryside.  "How much further?"   Same answer as before. 

A Good hour in the middle of nowhere we finally arrived.  There wasn't a village for miles.  The closest homestead would have been a nice 15 minute walk. 

Our Burundian friends jumped out of the car: "What a view! Isn't it amazing!" 

"Not at all. Not at all," The friend pointing around at the trees.  

"Ummm.... there are no people anywhere around here," my missionary colleague responds. 

"Yes, but look at the view! We absolutely must buy it," came the pastor's reply. 

"Not at all. Not at all."  The friend trying to engage in conversation.  

"To have a church you kind of need  to have people," my colleague reiterated. 

"People will walk for hours  to see the view," came the response.  

"Not at all. Not at all."  

By view, he meant the scenic and idyllic Burundian countryside complete with a few cows and pine trees.   

The conversation was going nowhere fast.  The friend then marked out the dimensions of the land.  It was massive.  Probably the size of several football fields.  He wanted to sell us half the countryside in the middle of nowhere.  And the price? Well let's just say that my colleague  started having anxiety attacks by this point in the conversation.  "We'll give you a great price! And for the view it's a real steal."  

We finally jumped back into the car and headed back into town.  "So what did you think?  Amazing right?  With a great view?" 

We never did figure out what percentage of the deal our pastor friend would have scored if we had purchased the land with a view from the part-time employee.  It didn't take long to learn that there were certain people we didn't need involved in the decision making process of how to plant churches in Burundi. 

As I think back on this experience, I'm reminded that life anywhere really isn't much different than in Burundi.  Certain people have certain agendas for our finances, time, and lives.  One of my friends used to joke with me, "I'm not God, but I do  have a plan for your life."  The danger  with this mentality is that we end up putting people in boxes that they were never meant to be placed in.  They become frustrated, we look manipulative, and the Kingdom suffers because only God's agenda will be able to  prosper in someone's life.  As a leader, I continually ask myself, "How can I help this person become more like Christ?" "How can I help them find God's will for their lives?" and "What can I do to assist them in that process?"   

Day 18 Day 17- The Rat's Last Stand

The first house where I lived in Burundi had some serious challenges.  It was an apartment built into a much larger house above it  and a garage for the bigger house on the side.  The entrance was built into the side of the bigger house.  I had to climb up a staircase of about 10 steps before going down another stair case into the bowels of the bigger house.  Truthfully, it was a little eerie at times.  Especially since the little apartment was usually damp and had mold in places.  Three dogs lived on the property: Sam, Pippin, and Mary affectionately named by their owners who were big Lord of the Rings fans.  Sometimes Burundi felt like a Lord of the Rings movie with the rebels attacking the city almost every weekend, but I digress. 

The three dogs often howled and barked like crazy whenever the garage door was open. The owners of the house said it was because there were massive rats living in there.  Having lived in Africa since my childhood I was familiar with rats and didn't pay much attention to the "massive" part of the statement thinking it was merely a superlative.  

One day, I left the door of my apartment open only slightly while taking care of some small maintenance with my vehicle parked in the driveway.  When I reentered my apartment I had that eerie feeling that I was not alone.  This was strange because no one had come up or down the rather odd staircase that lead into the recesses of my living quarters.  As I walked around inside the apartment I heard a rustling in my bedroom.  The lights were out, so I couldn't be sure but it looked like a cat had just jumped off the nearby desk onto the edge of windowsill behind the curtain.  Being the courageous and intrepid missionary that I am I hollered at the top of my lungs:  "Mary, Sam, Pippin!"  Normally, the dogs were not allowed inside the apartment but desperate times call for desperate measures.  All three came running full speed up the stairs then down the stairs, through the door and into my bedroom.  

Tails were wagging, drool was frothing, and hair was going everywhere. They thought I had a treat for them so they looked at me in anticipation.  And boy did I ever have a treat! I grabbed a mop handle and threw the curtain back expecting a doggie rodent free for all.  Much to my disappointment all three stood there staring at me unmoved by my antics.  "Attack!" I hollered.  "What happened to Lord of the Rings?"   As I whirled around to see why they hadn't so much as budged I realized that there was nothing there.  Great! A mysterious animal the size of a cat had just vanished in my small bedroom with only one way in and one way out guarded by three Hobbit wanna be dogs.  I couldn't believe it.  I searched high, I searched low.  My three dog friends stared at me in disbelief as if to say: "where's the treat?" 

I jumped on my bed, I moved the desk, I shook the chair, I rummaged the bookshelf, I turned over the sheets, I knocked the lamps.  Nothing.  By now, I could feel the three dogs thoughts: "He has burundian fever."  

Not to be dissuaded so easily by my imaginary canine critics I grabbed a shirt to tie around my head.  I was on the war path, dogs or no dogs.  And of course the intense mold spore count in the little apartment probably helps explain my rather ridiculous behavior. 

Just as all hope seemed lost, I opened the standing armoire where my clothes were kept.  As to how the sneaky little vermin managed to open the armoire door and lodge himself in amongst some of my clothes I will never know.  What I do know though is that the fight I had been hoping for broke out immediately! All three dogs barked at the top of their lungs, while lunging, growling, and bristling. The rat, who I must say did fit the superlative massive quite well, clawed, hissed and jumped to safety.  When I say jumped, I mean the thing almost seemed to fly through the air bounding on top of the curtains, some 4 feet straight up into the air effortlessly.  I thought to myself, "Oh Great! A flying rat the size of a small dog! Perfect!"  

What transpired the next 5 minutes is hard to describe, the already disorderly room was torn upside down as the rat gave three dogs a run for their money.  All the way glaring at me as if to say, "when I'm through with these three bozos you'll be next."  I gulped realizing that this was a super-rat a most worthy foe.  Retreat was not an option.  I must be the general of the forces. So I barked orders from the safety of my bed as I hid behind the mosquito net.  "Hes' on the chair Pippin" "Over there on the book shelf Mary." "Watch the door Mary!"    The stand-off lasted for close to 15 minutes with neither side gaining ground, until the rat made the strategical error of trying to run for it.  He rushed through all three dogs legs out towards the apartment door only to find the door shut.  

I will spare you what happened next, but enough to say that it would have made a great Lord of the Rings 4- the fellowship of the Rat. 

If there's anything I've learned in serving Jesus in a world hostile to his teaching, it's this-- Life is a fight;  don't fight  it alone. I'm increasingly realizing how much the devil hates people who really love Jesus.  He will come against them in every possible way: physically, spiritually, emotionally, etc..   The good news is that Jesus has already defeated him.  The bad news is that we are living in the tension of a stand-off in this age.  Find people to stand with you in your struggles, to pray for you, to encourage you, and to share your victories as God's presence and truth ultimately prevails.  

Day 17 Story 16- Plastic Bags

My wife loves this story.  So I decided I would retell it today even though I have already written about it in a previous article. 

About 4 years ago I invited my best Kenyan friend to come visit me in Tanzania for a week.  He preached Sunday morning at the church I was pastoring at the time and then we made arrangements to visit the island of Zanzibar.  We boarded a little airplane Monday morning for the short 15 minute flight.  

Our plan was to drop our things off at the guest house, catch a local dhow to outlying smaller islands, and go snorkeling.  Things went pretty much flawlessly for the first part of the day.  Flight, on time. Hotel rooms, ready.  Boat, smooth sailing.  Snorkel gear, present and accounted for.  When we neared one of the best spots to see the fabulous Tanzanian aquatic life, he became a little apprehensive. 

"So I just jump in the water?"  he asked. 

"Yup!" I replied enthusiastically. 

"And I use the tube and mask?" he continued. 

"Oh yeah!" I replied hardly able to contain my excitement. 

"And then what?"  he inquired. 

"You swim! And look at all the incredible fish."  I announced. 

"And then what?"  

"Relax! You're going to be fine." I replied soothingly. 

As the anchor went sailing overboard to steady our position I jumped into the water.  SPLASH! It was amazing. And the water temperature perfect. 

"Come on!" I shouted. "It's perfect." 

He took the plunge.  I swam over to him for  a brief moment to make sure he was okay and then started off exploring the various parts of the underwater reefs and rocks.  After a few minutes I had the feeling that I was all alone.  Pulling my head up out of water I couldn't see my friend anywhere.  I started to panic.  Where was he?  

I hollered towards the boat captain.  "Where is Samuel?"  

Almost simultaneously, I could hear someone hollering as if they were in great pain.  I swam back towards the boat as fast as I could.   Sam sat on the deck of the boat yelling and carrying on something fierce.  

"What's wrong?" I yelled as I tried to get out of the water.  

"They bit me! They bit me!" bellowed the rather large Kenyan. 

"What bit you?"  I countered, totally unsure of what was taking place. 

"The plastic bags! They bit me! You didn't tell me that the plastic bags can bite!"  

"Plastic bags?" "What are you talking about?"  Now I was really worried convinced that my friend was hallucinating.  

As I approached him I could see that his entire torso had swollen with painful welts.  "Oh my goodness ! What did you do?" 

He looked at me in disbelief.  "Didn't you hear me?  The plastic bags! They bit me. The ocean is polluted" 

Then it dawned on me: by plastic bags he meant jelly fish. And by bit me he meant they had stung him.    And a huge one had torched his abdomen.  We had to make an emergency trip back to StoneTown on a rickety dhow with an antiquated outdoor motor.  Fortunately, Sam is strong and had almost fully recovered by the time we reached the shore a good 30 minutes later. And the swelling went down the next day. 

Life is full of seemingly innocuous plastic bags that turn out to be toxic jelly fish.  Things that look innocent and sweet.  Things that we have to have or have to do because everyone else has them and does them.  I often pray that the Lord gives me discernment to be able to properly see and discern.  Many of these things turn out to be deadly, toxic, and damaging to our hearts, souls, and emotions.  The world around is a very polluted place.  May we walk in wisdom.  

Day 16 Story 15 Monkey Business

Jane Goodall is legendary for her work among the chimpanzees.  She saved hundreds of this intelligent primate from human destruction in Central Africa.  Her chimpanzee orphanage was located in Bujumbura until the civil war of 94 that sparked ethnic tensions between the Hutu and Tutsi. As to whether these two people groups actually exist or not is still a subject of very close debate. In Rwanda they claim that such distinctions were made exclusively by the Europeans. In Burundi, I met many individuals who were proud of their ethnicity. Whether real or imagined, the war between these two groups left hundreds of thousands dead in the two countries and nearly decimated all wildlife.  Jane eventually relocated her chimp sanctuary to Sweetwaters in Kenya. 

When I lived in Burundi a little hotel on the edge of Lake Tanganyika boasted the only chimpanzees left in the entire country that had once been the home to hundreds if not thousands in the wild.  A small iron cage no bigger than a standard bathroom in the US housed the two surviving representatives of their species. I used to go visit them and feed them mangoes.  Chimpanzees have always intrigued me.  They would stare at me through the bars with a deep sadness on their faces.  Then they would hold out their hands through the bars begging for a mango treat.  I would hand them a little mango, even though the sign clearly said not to feed them. If the mango tasted good they would devour it quickly.  If it didn't they would spit it out and stretch out their hands begging for another one.   Often they would fight with each other if the mango tasted sweet.  It was pathetic.  

They could be quite funny too.  One one occasion a friend came to visit from the US.  He wanted to take in all the sights of Burundi.  Er....  We have a lake, some mountains, and a few chimps.   He decided the chimps would have to do.   So off we went.  

I could see the look on their faces as we approached. 

"Help we are caged chimps, please give us mangoes."  

My friend was just as touched as me.  Picking up some mangoes from a nearby tree he offered them to the two captives.  They took one bite and spit it out.  

Clearly, the quality was sub-par.   One of the chimps then began to scratch himself as only primates can get away with in public before passing some very boisterous gas.  Probably from swallowing too many bites of bad mango. Or some other strange snack that a visitor had snuck in.  The smell?  Atrocious.  We grabbed our noses immediately.   As if to emphasize the obvious, the other chimp grabbed his nose and did a backwards somersault as if he were passing out from the stench.   Hysterical! We both laughed and then looked for some better mangoes.   

I often dreamed that I could make a late night jail break with the two chimps.  The headlines could  read: Missionary Makes off with Monkeys.  Or maybe Missionary  Monkey Business?  What would I do with 2 chimps though?  And if I released them into the wild they would be caught and eaten.  What is the point I'm trying to make? Simply this: Chimpanzees weren't born to be trapped in cages.  They are supposed to be free.  Free to find their own mangoes.  Free to roam. Free to fart far from the noses of their comrades.  

I think the reason I stared at that cage so long and so hard so often is because I could see the similarities that everyone talks about between chimps and humans.  And the parallel would strike  me- humans aren't supposed to be caged up either. 

 I don't mean by little iron cages in war-torn nations in Central Africa.  I mean the cages of sin, fear, and doubt that separate them from the glorious freedom found in a real living relationship with Holy Spirit.  Free from the oppression of darkness.  And the sadness of soul captivity.   When I think of the chimps I think of one of the greatest joys of my life.  I remember the day the bars that held me fast were cut as I found the freedom that only Jesus brings.  Why am I a missionary?  I think a huge part of it is that I have seen too many captives panning and pining, wining, and wasting away from the torments of darkness.  And yet, I have also witnessed many of these same captives run to Jesus to have  their  bars cut away as they experience the glorious freedom that Holy Spirit brings.   Their names and faces stand in my mind as a testimony of the power of Jesus.  He sets captives free.  He will set you free too if you ask Him.  

Day 15 Story 14- The small things

One of my favorite stories of all time. 

A visiting preacher had come to Kenya to share the Gospel message. 

As he preached across the country he decided to learn a little Swahili to impress the people.  

He thought it would be a good idea to tell the people how much he loved their country. 

"How do I say 'I love your country''? he asked his translator. 

"Ninapenda nchi yenu," came the response. 

Standing on the platform he raised his voice to build rapport with the masses. 

"Ninapenda uchi yenu," he uttered. 

Laughter swept across the audience.  In frustration he decided to utter his statement again. 

"Ninapenda uchi yenu."  More hilarious laughter. 

"Ninaepnda uchi yenu."  The translator stepped up to the mic to stop him.

"Thank you brother that is very kind of you." 

He continued with his message. 

After the service he asked the translator why the people had laughed. 

"You mixed up one letter. You used 'u' instead of 'n'." 

"And how did that change my statement?"  he inquired. 

"Uchi means nakedness." 

And so the preacher had publicly proclaimed that he loved the nakedness of his congregation.  Probably not the highlight of his ministry.  

Yes, one little letter makes all the difference in the world. I'm reminded that it really is the small things that make all the difference in the world.  Small attitude adjustments. Small steps of faith. Small acts of service.  Small displays of kindness.  Memorizing a small Bible verse.  Praying small prayers.  For when you add up all the small things you will find the secret of greatness in a person's walk with the Lord.  I like this thought because it removes intimidation. 

Day 14 Story 13- The Giant Fish

This is a story I once heard in Burundi that I have used to often when preaching, especially in youth groups. 

There once was a little boy who lived on the edge of the great lake.  His dad was a very capable fisherman.  And also the chief of the village.    He had high hopes that his little boy would grow up to be a capable fisherman in his own right.  There was a legend in the village that a great fish lived in the lake.  

The elders of the village often said: "The first young boy that this fish sees will be killed." 

 One day when the little boy was out on the boat with his father he became distracted.  Leaning over the brow of the boat he gazed into waters below.  Suddenly, he cried out in alarm for peering back at him was another set of eyes.  His father rushed over to the edge. 

 "What is it my son?"  Pointing at the large fish staring at them, the father yelled in disbelief.  "Oh no! It can't be!"  Grabbing his son he sailed back to the village as fast as possible.  

"My son has seen the fish!"  he exclaimed as the all villagers gathered.  "We must save his life." 

The boy was transported quickly deep into the interior of the country.  There high in the hills far from the dangers of the lake and the scary fish, he grew up.  The years passed.  10. 20. 30. 40.  By now he was a strong man.  

One day notice came from the village.  His father had passed away.  He must return to assume his place as the chief.  Returning to the village he experienced both great sorrow as well as great joy.  After burying his father, he decided he would get out on the water in a little boat for the first time in decades.  As he sailed the beautiful waters of the great lake he suddenly noticed that he was being followed.  

Peering into the water he noticed the same eyes he had gazed up forty years earlier.  

"Ahhh!" he shrieked, "I must escape."  

So he sailed south only to be followed.  He sailed north hotly pursued.  He sailed to the depths. And sailed to the shoals always being shadowed by the giant fish.  

In sheer desperation he searched for a harpoon. He would settle this matter once and for all.  As he prepared to lunge the harpoon into the water, he heard a strange voice.  "What are you doing son of the village?"  

The fish had spoken to him.  

"It's either you or me you wicked fish! You have ruined my life.  I had to leave my friends and family because of you. Now one of us must go."  

The fish looked at him in disbelief, "What are you talking about?" 

"You want to kill me! I know all about you.  You are evil." 

The fish started laughing, "I don't want to kill you.  I want to give you a gift." 

"A gift?" cried the man. 

"Yes. I was sent to give the largest diamond the world has ever seen to the person found most worthy in your village. That person is you!" 

"What?" 

"I have waited forty years."  With that he spewed a giant diamond out of his mouth.  "Now I can return to the kingdom of the fish in peace." 

The man began to wail in despair. For he had wasted 40 years of his life running from the most incredible gift he had ever seen all because he had believe lies about the nature and identity of the fish.  

With that I close the story and begin to talk about how so many people are running from God convinced that He is some kind of monster, not realizing that He is the giver of good gifts desiring to bless our lives not curse them.   To give us eternal life and make our lives count for eternity.  Instead, most people run the other way convinced He is something other than what He truly is all because they believed the lies of other people, pop culture, and the devil.   

God is a good God who loves you.  How do you see Him?  Did you know that He is a loving Father who desires to bestow good gifts? 

Day 13 Story 12- Keep on moving.

Yesterday's story reminded me of another experience we had with a building team. 

We had to leave Bujumbura at the crack of dawn to get to work site about an hour and a half away.  We instructed the team members to eat a smaller breakfast because of the windy, bumpy roads that we would be traveling at breakneck speeds because of the military's curfew. 

We had snacks lined up throughout the day and often the pastor would serve us a small meal over lunch.    One particular member of the team was very well proportioned and felt that a light breakfast would never hold him.  Rather than following instructions he ate several plates full commenting how full he felt when we finally hit the road.  He decided to ride up front with me in my pick up truck because his tummy was already rumbling. 

Zooooom! I hit the accelerator and we took off heading as fast as we could to Rumonge.  Three other passengers sat in the back seat of my pickup truck.  About 20 minutes down the road this dear brother began to complain how upset his stomach felt.  I had compassion on the guy, but not a whole lot if you know what I mean.  I slowed slightly, but with all the swerving to miss potholes, goats, and other vehicles it didn't really reduce his motion sickness.   A few minutes later he started moaning.  

"Oh please! Stop! I'm not feeling well."  Reluctantly, I slowed the vehicle almost to a crawl hoping that would settle his stomach.   

More moaning. "No please. Stop the car!" 

I hit the brakes bringing our construction team to a complete halt.  He reached for the passenger door to fling it open. No more than 2 seconds later breakfast returned for a visit.  He hurled all over the door, the ground, himself, you name it.   I'm kind of squeamish myself so I tried not to look.   The stench, however,  was horrendous.  And I mean horrendous.  Being the kind-hearted missionary that I am, I noticed his heaving had stopped so  I asked him to close his door so we could continue.  He just about succeeded before the vomiting returned for a second bout.  Gross!  I mean really gross! His face was ashen white.  

After a good while he finally calmed and motioned that we could continue.  Zooooom! Off we went again. 

No more than 5 minutes later he starts moaning and whimpering again.  "Please stop the car!" 

Repeat of the complimentary breakfast visit.   By now the stench was so bad that people in the back seat were moaning and complaining that their stomachs were hurting.   

Off we went again much more docile and smooth this time.  I drove slowly trying to avert a catastrophe in the back seat.  

Our dear brother starts moaning again: "Oh please stop the car." 

"Again?" I asked incredulous.  I had witnessed how much had already come out.  And I couldn't believe that anything was left. 

"You didn't see how much he ate for breakfast," someone in the back seat commented.  

As I came to a stop, he popped his head out again baptizing more Burundian countryside with breakfast.   

All the passengers in the back seat started complaining that they too were going to loose breakfast after witnessing the third round.   Yuck! 

We were now quite delayed.  We had the tools in the bed of the pick up.   The rest of the team had proceeded us on the bus and would be wondering where we were as they would be unable to start work.  So I made an executive decision.  Everyone would roll down their windows as far as possible to air out the vehicle and grab plastic bags.  We would have to do this like the airlines.  Air Burundi flight # K.U.E.R.T was about to take off again.  

Fortunately, we were only about twenty minutes from the worksite and everyone was able to hold their breakfast at bay.   Although, when we arrived just about everyone had an ashen white face including myself.  The vehicle reeked for several days.  The other team members stared at us in disbelief.  "What in the world happened to you?"  they asked.  And it took a good 15 minutes before I could even walk straight.  

 

Day 12 Story 11- Protection on the Site

We were building a new metal structure for a small body of believers some 2 hours south of Bujumbura.  At the time the entire nation had a 6 PM road curfew. 

 Basically, this meant that if you were on the roads after 6PM you wouldn't be able to get into major urban population.  The military would drag barbed wire and steel drums across the road to make sure that this law was enforced.  The rationale behind it? The rebels who were still very much at large in the hills in and around Bujumbura would often travel at night.  Just about every weekend we would have a fire fight in the hills in and around the city.  Sometimes it would last 5 minutes, other times it would go all night long with bursts of machine gun fire and mortar shells exploding.   The government's best solution was to barricade all the cities after 6 PM.  

We had a team of builders in country.  We had shipped the pre-fabricated steel frames to the construction site the week before.  We loaded up the back of my pick up truck with power tools and a gen set early that  morning and rolled out as soon as they opened the roads, usually around 6.30 AM.  I would then drive like a crazy man to get to the work site in order to maximize the amount of time we would have available.   It usually took between 4 and 6 hours to completely assemble the 35 by 50 foot structure.  Everyone had their specific job function perfected. And we worked in harmony.  

 Some erected the support beams, others handled the braces.  We bolted, welded, attached foam, hoisted roof sheeting, pounded nails and rivets, mounted perlins, moved ladders, tightened cables, fueled the gen set, kept spectators away, barked orders, and watched the clock like a hawk.  I usually handled the translation and organization for members of the church that volunteered to help to keep things moving. The end result was a beautiful new steel frame church building with no sides that could be used for church services immediately.  

Then we would load up the tools as quickly as possible and fly like the wind down the pot-hole laden roads to get back into town before the barrier closed off return access.  Only once while I was in Burundi did we not make it.  They shut the roads down a half hour early due to some rumors of rebels and we had to use some pretty slick negotiating skills to avoid sleeping in the country side with the rebels.  

This particular day we were having some trouble getting the perlins hoisted onto the supports.  This was slowing us down.  To make matters worse it was hot.  I mean really hot.  Everyone was baking in the tropical Burundian sun.  I had a hat on to keep the perspiration from washing out my eyes as I assisted the team to get the 50 lb steel perlins mounted about 8 feet in the air.  I would hold one end up while another  team member stood on a ladder fastening the other end of the perlin with a rivet gun.    Once the team member assured me that the  perlin was securely mounted  I would hand off my end to a different team member on a ladder on the other side.  I, then bolted the braces into place to hold the frame square.  

Probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense unless you actually have helped assemble a pre-fabricated steel structure in the tropics of Africa.  

For some reason, I sensed that this job wasn't going to be easy.  Normally, we did one a day for 5 to 6 days and then the team would fly back to America.  The end result would be 5-6 new church buildings.  This usually doubled, tripled, or even quadrupled the number of believers in a local congregation.  Crowds of people would gather around us to watch the assembly process take place. Invariably, we would get the chance to share the Gospel message and many would receive Christ on the spot.  And, of course, this would cause the  church to grow.  We had already assembled 4 buildings that week and had encountered some sticky situations: a local government official tried to shut down our construction, military on the road almost arrested me, etc...

 I prayed under my breath as I knelt in the dirt to tighten the bolts holding the brace in place.  

Suddenly, I hear a cry above me.  I tried to look up as a 50 pound  perlin  falls through the air hitting the bill of my hat an inch from my forehead.  The impact was so strong that it threw me backwards into the bushes on the edge of the construction site.  The perlin slammed into the ground with a loud thud. Everyone gathered around me sure that I must be unconscious.   My neck and head were a little sore, and my hat slashed, but otherwise I suffered no major injury. Several months later I dropped one of these bad boys on my finger from about 6 inches and passed out in the parking lot. (You can read that story on my blog from 2009).  

An inch isn't very big.  In this case, though, it was the difference between life and death for me.  Had I not straightened up as soon as I heard the cry there probably would have been a mourning service instead of a celebration service. The perlin would have cracked my skull open. Unfortunately, Burundi has no good medical facilities.  God spared my life, I know prayer made the difference that day.  To all who have prayed for me over the years.  THANK YOU! 

Day 11 Story 10- Timing

"Jump! Jump! Jump!" The voice of the captain of the little boat shouted with excitement.  

It was my first visit to  Mafia island.  Mafia is located just a few miles off the coast of Tanzania. 

 It boasts a population of some 40,000 people as well as some of the most exquisite aqua-marine life in East Africa.  

Our contact on the island, who I will refer to as Brother O  for safety reasons recommended that we should go see the whale sharks. None of us had ever seen a whale shark before.  When Brother O suggested that we could swim with them we were all elated.    Whale sharks are reputed to be among the most docile of the large fish measuring up to 25 feet long.    They have huge mouths to gather small minnows, but a very narrow and constricted throat just a couple of inches wide that would keep them from eating a human.  

So we hired a little catamaran with an outboard motor, a captain, a 1st officer, a few snorkels, masks, and off we went to find the rare whale sharks of Mafia.  As we cruised through the Indian Ocean just a couple of hundred feet off the coast of Mafia we began to contemplate what we were doing.  Our captain had instructed us to put on our snorkel gear and wait for his orders.   When he shouted jump we would have to throw ourselves off the deck of the little boat into the depths of the Indian Ocean while the boat still coasted along in hopes of catching a sight of the fabled whale shark.   The conversation went something like this. 

Captain: "Standi-by." (His English wasn't the best). 

Us: "This could be it!" 

Captain: "Standi-by" 

Us: "Now?"

Captain: "Standi-by" 

Us: "We don't see anything." 

Captain: "Standi-by" 

Us to ourselves: "I don't think he knows any other words in English" 

Captain: "Standi-by" 

We were wrong.  He did know one other word. And he knew it well.  "Jump! Jump! Jump!"  A tale fin had just surfaced a few feet from our boat.  

Being the brave and intrepid adventurer that I am I looked at my colleagues to see who in their right mind would jump into the water.  Three teenagers on the team took the plunge leaving myself, Peter, Rick, Brother O, and another brother who we will call Brother K looking at each other in bewilderment (names changed to protect the innocent).  The captain wasn't happy that only 3 had obeyed his orders.  So he turned the boat around hollering: "Standi-by" "Standi-by" Standi-by".  

Then came the clarion call again: "Jump!"  Off went Paul and Roger.  

Now it was just myself and the two Tanzanian brothers.  

They had on floaties as neither of them knew how to swim.  

"Are you ready?" I asked. 

Brother O shook his head vigorously. 

The whale shark had turned around and the captain was at a fever pitch. 

"Jump! Jump! Jump!" 

We took the plunge much to the relief of the ship captain who probably would have thrown us overboard in had we delayed yet again. 

As I opened my eyes I felt Brother O's hand tight around my arm. I turned to look at him. 

His face was distraught with fear as he pointed off to the side.  As I turned my eyes in that direction I could see the wide open mouth of the whale shark heading right towards us.  At the last moment he changed his depth and went right between our legs.  It was surreal feeling the rush of water move around my legs from the force of the whale shark's momentum.  

Brother O panicked.  "I want out!" I certainly didn't blame him. For a split moment I thought we were going to be swallowed whole by the whale shark.  I could see the headlines: "Missionary and Tanzanian Pastor swallowed alive on Mafia."  Of course, most people would think it was a typo and that some Italian mobsters took us out, but I digress from my story. 

The lesson I learned from the Captain that day is that timing is everything when it comes to whale sharks.  The ocean is a big place and seeing a whale shark up close and personal requires lots of waiting.  Followed by an immediate response to the Captain's instructions.  I think that's how it often is in the Kingdom.  "Now Lord?"  "Now Lord?"  And I can hear the Captain of our souls saying: "Standi-by, Standi-by, Standi-by."  And then suddenly He will shout "Now!"  When coupled with obedience God's power and purposes are always released.  

Day 10 Story 9: No retreat

 About two months after I moved to Tanzania we organized a trip to the little village of Mkoko.  Don't bother looking for it on a map; you won't find it.  This little village is in the middle of nowhere,  home to some 2000 people.  The majority of people living in Mkoko are Muslims.  After a five hour drive from Dar, we pitched camp on the edge of the village with a team of about 12 people.  We spent several hours digging a pit latrine and shower area before settling around the camp fire for a nice bush meal.  

 We had two main thrusts: education and athletics.  The education team tutored two courses:  5th and 8th graders. Their mission was to   prepare these young people for their national exams in English.   The athletic team developed  a soccer camp.  In the evenings we showed the Jesus film  to members of our team in our little camp site with a portable generator and video projector.  Of course, hundreds of villagers gathered to watch as well.  

My intention had been to connect with the athletic team as I'm much more of an athlete than an English teacher.  Unfortunately, the level of English was so low in the school that the students were unable to understand even the most basic English sentences.  I quickly found myself as the main translator in the school.  English into Swahili, Swahili back into English, disciplinary actions, games,  and extensive explanations.  Some 70 Tanzanian kids crammed into a little school room that would only be suitable for 15 students back in the USA.  None of the students had any books.  And most of them couldn't even afford the uniforms required by school.  

Normally, my translator role wouldn't have been too much of a challenge, but in this instance I was ill.  Actually, severely ill.  I could hardly stand up.  I fell sick the morning of our second day  and was almost totally out of commission for the entirety of my time in Mkoko. I would lean up against the wall in the schoolroom to gain enough strength to continue.  It was miserable. 

On the final day, I decided I had to get over to the football pitch to at least see how things were going at the soccer camp.  

Reaching the soccer camp on the outskirts of Mkoko I  sat down to watch and reflect.  I marveled that this  village was just one of many in this vast nation with no electricity, no water, no medical care, and obviously very poor education.  I contemplated the future of these students.  The poverty. The disease.  The hospitality and warmth of these people.  Their perseverance in the midst of difficulty.  

Suddenly, my thoughts were jarred: "Pssssss." 

I turned my head in the direction of the obvious attempt to get my attention. 

A young man stood in the bushes just a few feet away.   

"Do you want some kiti moto?"  

"What?" I asked trying to make sense of the cryptic question. 

"Kiti moto!"  

My mind raced. What in the world was Kiti Moto? In Swahili Kiti Moto literally means 'the hot seat.' 

It was obviously a euphemism for something.  Probably a drug. Maybe marijuana? Or cocaine? 

"Good price." 

"Umm...I'm not much..... of a Kiti Moto.... person..... myself." I smiled trying to minimize my complete ignorance of what was transpiring. 

"It's really fresh!" The salesman pressed.  

"I'm sure it is." I laughed.  

"I just killed it!  He's  hanging in the tree over there."  He pointed with his finger. 

Now my mind went crazy. Hanging in a tree?  Had he just killed someone? 

"Come on! I'll give you a great price. You don't know how hard it is to get Kiti Moto around here."  

"I'm sure," I chuckled nervously.  

I found out later that night that Kiti Moto is the safe way to refer to pork in an Islamic context.  Pork is  forbidden warranting secret slaughters in the bushes.   This man was potentially risking his life in order to make a  sale.  Just a few moments later some of the soccer players headed my way.  The salesman disappeared like a flash.  

It made me think. I had a lot in common with this man.  For I too had a secret.  His Kiti Moto.  Mine Jesus.  His a pig hanging in a tree.  Mine a Savior.  Both scorned.   Both misunderstood. One for sale. The other free. One a temporal meal. The other a spiritual one.    One dead. The other alive.  For this reason, when he retreated in the bushes we must continue to share.  No retreat. 

   

Day 9 Story 8- Dependance on God

A few months ago a team came to visit  one of my favorite places in Madagascar.   Manakara is a little seaside city on the  Eastern edge of the Indian Ocean.  It boasts no major attraction except for a few modest hotels near the beach.  Yet, there is something quaint about the little town nestled along the Pangalane Canal.  This 450 mile long canal was created by the French in the late 19th century to facilitate maritime transportation to some of the most inaccessible places on planet earth.  

We are working with a little church on the other side of the canal in an area known as Manakara B.  The church was planted by one of my dearest friends in the world, Paul and his family. The congregation has been meeting in a little thatched hut for the past year or so.   The team visiting from Nebraska wanted to partner with this local church by assisting them to purchase their own land for the construction of a new building.  That Sunday AM, the heat was sweltering, and the humidity was overwhelming.  

Some 40 people had crammed into the little room exhausting what little oxygen remained in the oppressive conditions.  Everyone was sweating! The kids, the youth, the grannies, the grandpas, the visitor from America and yes, even the local chickens.  (Okay maybe the chickens are  a bit of an exaggeration.)  

The pastor's wife, a beautiful Malagasy woman translated for one of the visiting pastors.  I was seated on the front row trying to listen to the message as the sweat beads poured down my face.  Our visiting pastor friend had just warmed up and was about to really start preaching when a funny thing happened.  Our translator took a stutter step, asked for a bottle of water, and almost did a face plant into the ground.  Of course, the building was so crowded that it would have been more like crowd surfing had she actually collapsed.  Fortunately, she caught herself just in time.  

The pastor looked at me to continue.  The only problem was that my Malagasy was too limited to translate.  And no one in the building  spoke French to translate for me.  So we all kind of looked at each other.  We smiled.  We sighed.  We stared.  And then we all decided to do what we should have done initially- pray for our translator.  So we started to pray for her.  She was barely coherent.  Clearly, something was seriously wrong.  

Some prayed for healing.  Others cried out for the forces of darkness to be broken that were attacking her.    

As I prayed quietly in the Spirit, the thought kept coming to me.  She hasn't eaten anything.   

So I decided to ask her.   "Have you eaten anything today?"  

"No."  

"Why not?" 

"Because Sunday is our fasting day." 

"Do you think if you ate something you would feel better?" 

WIthin moments she was back on her feet and able to finish out the day.  

This mindset isn't new to me as the majority of Malagasy pastors fast on Sundays.  What shocked me is that I knew her to be several months pregnant.  Yet, she still felt the need to fast, in the heat, humidity, and suffocating lack of oxygen in that little building.   Obviously, her body couldn't handle such rigors.   The more we talked to her about it, the more her rationale for this decision became evident. They needed to fast to help God out.  

Now let me be clear, I believe in fasting.  And I have witnessed first-hand the incredible influence fasting has played in my personal walk with the Lord.  Increasingly, I'm realizing that God doesn't need our help. He's done a pretty good job healing, saving, delivering, guiding, and empowering people who respond to His word in faith for thousands of years.

So where does fasting come into play?   Someone once said this, fasting doesn't change God; fasting changes us.   It teaches us to rely and depend on Him not ourselves.  To submit to His purposes and plans not offer Him our suggestions and agendas.  

The team from Madagascar bought the land.  The church is thriving.  Our translator has her strength back.  The chickens are no longer sweating.  And God is still God- changing lives across this planet by using people humble enough to get their pride and ambitions out of the way.