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.  

Day 9 Story 8-- Hidden Treasure

It was one of those things that I felt I had to do before I left Burundi.  There was a little wildlife reserve just outside of Bujumbura, the capital city.  When I say little I mean little. You could easily walk across this piece of land in 20 to 25 minutes.  It had once boasted quite an array of wildlife: all different kinds of antelopes, primates, birds, hippos, crocs, as well as other plains animals such as zebra.  I was there to find treasure of the animal variety.  

Rumor has it that the world's largest crocodile once lived there.    From the only video footage ever captured of him by a Belgian herpetologist, Patrice Faye, this monster croc is said to be between 25 and 30 feet long.  Throughout the city of Bujumbura people say that he has eaten hundreds of people and even taken direct machine gun fire as he patrols the banks of Lake Tanganyika.  

 Is it just urban legend?  Hard to say.  I once met Patrice Faye high in the mountains of Burundi in a pygmy village. I think he was as surprised to see me as I was him.  We were distributing clothes and sharing the message of the cross.  I'm not quite sure what he was doing, but he was convinced that Gustav was a very real crocodile still very much alive, at least as of 2008.   After watching the video of this massive croc, I wanted to see him.  I expressed desire to see the giant reptile to some friends.  

They suggested I visit Gatumba Nature Reserve the last place he was said to have been seen.  So just months before I  left Burundi I jumped into my vehicle and drove to the front gate.  It was no more than a twenty minute drive from where I used to live.   There I found that the entrance fee was very reasonable because hardly anyone visited the park anymore.  Most of the animals had been wiped out during the war.   People needed food and anything that moved was served on the menu.  Nevertheless, it was still standard policy that a guide accompany me in the car, not so much for the wildlife as for the wildlife with guns that could be hiding in the bushes.  

Having grown up in Kenya, where the animal varieties are endless, and the adventure of exploring the great National Park systems by yourself still figure among my top five most enjoyable activities, I was reluctant to have a guide.  Especially a drunk one who reeked of the local brew, but rules are rules, and maybe this was the right man to help me find Gustav.  

We started the drive down the sandy trail.  Ironically enough, my guide's name was Stephen.  I found out that he was a Congolese refugee who had been living in Burundi for several years to escape the pillaging rebels in his home area.  He lived in Gatumba the little town on the Congolese Burundian border where I almost got shot one day with a good friend of mine from the US.  However, that is a different story for a different day.   I asked him about Congo.  About his family.  About why he had turned to the local brew.  He was hurting deeply from wounds of the past,  poverty of the present, and hopelessness for the future.  He saw no way out.  As he shared his sob story that just about everyone in Burundi had I suddenly remembered my mission for the day: Find Gustav.  Remembering my real quest I shared about my desire to see the legendary monster.  

He laughed.  The croc hadn't been seen in years and he speculated he either had died from age or was on a circuit around the longest lake in the world and might reappear sometime in the future.  Disheartened, I asked what other animals there might be to see.  His prognosis wasn't too bright.  There were egrets and hippos.  I laughed to myself.  In Kenya, we had egrets in our backyard and hippos in almost every river and lake in the country.  Not to mention that just a few months earlier a hippo had interrupted our volleyball game right there on beach of Bujumbura.  

I turned the vehicle around to exit the park.  Nearing the gate, I felt as though I had wasted a day chasing after imaginary crocodiles in the heart of Central Africa.  Then it happened, very slowly, but surely. My heart became aware of heaven's purpose in that moment. My steps had been orchestrated of the Lord, not to find a crocodile but a prodigal.  I asked my new found friend if he knew anything of Christ and His great love.  He had heard the message years before, but it had never really made much sense. I continued to share.  Just moments later heaven came near and Stephen began to cry.  We prayed together.  Before parting company I told him about the little church we had just planted in Gatumba pastored by my dear friend from Congo Gerard Cizungu.  He promised to check it out. 

A couple of weeks later I called Cizungu. 

We were talking about several different matters.  

"A strange thing happened missionary." 

"What was that Cizungu?" I asked politely. 

"A man that I have been praying for during the past several months came to church this past Sunday and said that he met a muzungu (white man) who told him about Jesus." 

"What do you mean you had been praying for him?" I asked rather surprised.  

"His wife comes to church here and we have been praying for him to find Christ." 

My heart leapt inside of me.  I had been searching for a hidden treasure- Gustav.  Heaven had been searching for a different treasure- Stephen the animal guide who had a handful of faithful believers crying out for him.