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.   

Day 8 Story 7: An Encounter with Faith

A dear friend of mine had come to Burundi for a visit.  I arranged for him to preach in a new church plant that we had started some few months previous.   My Kirundi wasn't good enough to translate for him so I arranged for my language tutor Olivier to help him.   

I knew Olivier to be a very gifted instructor and translator who loved Jesus;  what I didn't know was just how great of a man faith stood beside us that day  As the service moved forward, he would translate the message with uncanny capability.  The faster and more animated my friend became the easier it seemed for my translator to keep up with him.   The people absolutely loved listening to him.  It was one of those days where the translator preached better than the preacher.  My friend, the speaker, had a great word on the goodness of God.   

God's presence was really thick in the little church as my friend moved towards the prayer time.  He gave a simple invitation for people who needed Jesus  to come forward for prayer.  Many responded.  We began to lay hands on people and pray.  

When I opened my eyes, there was a lady leaning on a cane with one of her arms and a crutch with the other.   She had a hideously swollen leg. It was clear that she was miserable. 

 Being the great missionary of faith that I am,  I took one look at her and thought to myself: "not much hope for her."  Everyone in the church had turned their attention to her so  I prayed for her quickly and moved on to the next person.  

My friend also came over to pray for her.  Nothing happened.  And everyone in the church knew it.  

As my friend finished praying for her Olivier  started  to talk to her.  I knew just enough Kirundi to follow the conversation.  

"Do you want to be healed?" 

"Oh yes," she said.

"Then let's take a step in faith."  

She winced as he took her arm to help her take a step. Clearly, her leg was inflamed and every step was agony. My heart went out to her in compassion. I could tell that she was starting to regret coming to the front.  Olivier asked her to take another step.  Again she moaned.  Now the whole congregation was fixated on Olivier and the unfolding  scenario.   Olivier asked for another. I wanted to  tell him  that this probably wasn't the best idea, but I didn't want to create more of a distraction.  

What happened next made me mad.  Olivier decided that she wasn't exercising her faith enough so he suddenly grabbed her crutch and pulled her forward to take another step. Again she winced in pain as her face contorted.  She was hurting.

  Then he did the unthinkable.  He took away her cane and said, "You don't need it either. Now take another step."  She almost fell over on her face as he reached over to steady her stride.  Before I could do anything he grabbed her by the hand and had her hobbling out the back door.   

I stood at the front of the church unsure of what to do.  I finally whispered very sheepishly, "well, let's keep going."   We prayed for a few more people, sang a few songs, and continued to exhort the people present.   After about 15 more minutes I closed the service.  Curiosity was killing me.  Where was Olivier and what was he doing with this poor woman?  

Just as abruptly as he left, he reentered.  He continued to lead the woman by the hand who now had a huge smile on her face.  Her leg was completely back to normal.  And she walked as normally as anyone else in the building.  

Being the very perceptive person that I am, I asked: "What happened?"  

He looked at me rather strangely as if to say I thought you were a missionary before adding, "God healed her." 

My faith soared.  My Kirundi teacher taught me more than Kirundi that day.  He taught me the importance of holding on to God's power and promises even when the situation looks impossible.  A lesson that has helped me many times since.  

Day 7 Story 6

My brother came down with Hepatitis when we lived in Kenya. He was seriously ill.

  As a part of the preventative measures we all had to go to the doctor's office to get a a gamma-globulin shot.  If you have ever spent any time around me, you will know that I hate needles just about more than anything else on planet earth.  A large part of this disdain stems from my hospitalization in Nairobi Hospital as a child.  

My appendix  became enflamed and I had to have it removed as a child.  Unfortunately, my veins were so small at the time that I couldn't handle the IV.  The  IV needle popped out so many times a day that I began to fear the nurse and anything associated with the  medical field.  In later years it  became so bad that I would often start to faint just by seeing a needle.  

Back to the hepatitis incident.  We went to see the physician who had his practice housed in an old colonial style home in the heart of Nairobi.  I was mortified about getting a shot.   Dad knew my dread from needles so he bravely volunteered to go first assuring me that I had nothing to worry about.  I had been panicking the whole way to the doctor's office and dad's offer calmed me down as I watched him boldly enter Dr. Forbes' consultation room.  Just before he fully disappeared into the office, he called out at me: "see Stevie nothing to worry about."  

There was just one small oversight on his part.  He forgot to close the door behind him.  It was a ajar some few inches.  As my dad started rolling up his sleeve, Dr. Forbes laughed and shook his head.  He then said, "Not in the arm, in the rump."  My little heart sank.  Dad's did too; I just didn't know it until several weeks later.  

The next thing I heard was one of the loudest hollers I have ever heard in my entire life.  If you have been around my dad you know that he doesn't holler about much in this life.  He's usually very reserved and quiet.  This was more than enough information for me.  I bolted like a a little lightning bolt.  Not just out of the waiting room, but out of the old colonial house.  And I didn't stop there. I ran right past the guard at the gate.  At full speed I sprinted down the driveway towards the main road.  Though I had never been in this part of Nairobi before, I didn't care.  I had to get away from the doctor and his needle.  

My mom called out in alarm. "Stevie!" 

Dad emerged from the consultation room. "Where is he?" 

Mom pointed.  

Dad came out hobbling.  He is quite the runner, but with the effects of the heavy gamma-globlin vaccine still in his gluteus maximus the advantage was in my favor. I sprinted.  He hollered.  "Stevie stop. It didn't hurt that bad I promise."  I accelerated.  

The Hepatitis never did spread did to anyone else in the family.  Dad's leg stopped hurting.  And I have been an avid runner ever since.   

What's the lesson? Stay away from needles at all possible costs!  Just teasing.  

How about? Fear is a terrible thing.  Yeah, that's more to the point.  The psychological dread that I put myself through was horrendous.  When dad finally caught me, he patiently calmed me down. He kept asking me to trust him.  It was tough, especially after what I had just witnessed.    Within an hour or so, though, I was able to say yes and get my shot.  It wasn't nearly as bad as I had convinced myself it would be.  And it did keep me from getting sick.  

While the parallel isn't exact, I  see how many people live in fear of saying yes to God.  They somehow mistrust Him. His nature. His character. And His heart.    They are sure He's going to make their lives miserable.  That people are going to make fun of them.  That they won't measure up.  That He will leave them along the way.   

I haven't found this to be the case.  I won't lie and say that since I said yes to Him that somehow living for God has always been easy, but it has always been worth it.  I have never walked alone. And I have learned that His will for my life is good.  It is pleasing.  And it is perfect.  See Romans 12:2.  Be careful when fear says to run away from saying yes to God. 

Day 6 Story 5

Not so many years ago, my best friend growing up in Kenya had a most interesting experience.  

His family was stuck in one of Kenya's legendary r traffic jams that anyone living there  during the late 90s and turn of the century will vividly remember.   They had been inching along in their Pajero a few meters at a time after a heavy downpour flooded Nairobi's streets.  In many low-lying places the water was deep causing many smaller cars to stall out.  

After a couple of minutes the rain let up and all that was left was the jam, or as several of my friends in Kenya like to joke, a BlueBand.  BlueBand is the local margarine.  It is thick and heavy.  The idea being that when jam is warm it is a little more fluid whereas the local margarine is pretty much a hydrogenated viscous substance regardless of the temperature.  

At the time the traffic jams were so bad and moved so slowly that many in Nairobi simply called them "BlueBands" instead of jams.  The frequency of such conversation made many a man salivate, especially around meal time, leading to the development of road side food vendors selling anything from the common to the bizarre,  but that is another story for another day.  

As my friends sat in their vehicle waiting for the traffic jam to break up, the most unusual thing happened.  Without warning a bicycle slammed into the side of their vehicle going at least 30 kph.  The noise was so loud inside the car that their family thought they had rear-ended someone.   Jumping out of the vehicle they saw a rather dazed and wet  bicyclist sitting in the middle of street with his bike wheels still spinning a few feet away.  He had come flying down the hill above the road they had been stuck on.  

As they reached over to try and help him, the thought came to their mind, he's probably hurt and needs medical attention.  How are we going to get him to the hospital? Much to their surprise the bicyclist jumped up to shake their hands with an appreciative smile on his face.   "Asante sana!" (thank you very much) he excitedly exclaimed.  He explained himself as he shook their hands warmly. 

 "The brakes on my bicycle don't work." Everyone stood around curious to hear the rest of his story. "Everyday I have to come home from work down that hill," he said pointing to the hill behind him.  "My brakes went out several days ago, so everyday I have to choose a different car to help me stop."   

No one moved in disbelief.  Finally, my friend asked, "you mean you slam into a different car everyday?"  

"Oh yes," he replied.  "Your vehicle was one of the softer ones that I have hit. Asante sana." 

My friend's dad put his hand into his pocket and handed the bicyclist some money. 

"Go get your brakes fixed."  

"Asante sana," he said with a big grin on his face. 

As to whether he used the money to fix his bike or to buy himself a good meal remains a mystery.  The newspaper had an article a few weeks later about a certain bicyclist in a certain part of nairobi who had been slamming into the back of various vehicles at a certain intersection. Apparently, he would get up, smile, and ask for the driver to help him fix his bike.  

Day 5 Story 4

Maybe just one more animal story?  When I was younger we used to live in an area of Nairobi called Buru Buru.  At the time this area was considered on the outskirts of town. Now it has been engulfed by hundreds of other housing estates.   We used to catch the school bus for our daily one hour commute to Rosslyn Academy located on the other side of town.   Bus rides were usually pretty boring providing a great time to catch up on homework, especially when heavy traffic snarled the slender roads meandering through the haphazardly constructed apartment complexes.    

One day as we neared the bus stop close to our house, we encountered heavy traffic next to the soccer field.  The soccer field, or football pitch, as we called was about 2 miles from home.  We rarely experienced heavy traffic in this part of Nairobi.  To further pique our curiosity there were hundreds of pedestrians milling around the football pitch.  This would be normal if a match was actually taking place, but there were no players on the field.   As we inched our way along the edge of the field we shouted out the window: "Kuna nini?"  (What is it?)  The answer rather surprised us.  "Kuna Simba." For those of you who have watched the Lion King you will recognize the name Simba.  It's Swahili for lion.  

"Simba? Kweli?"  (A lion? Really?) 

A different pedestrian responded with glowing affirmation.  "Ndiyo!" (Oh yes.)

Hardly able to believe our ears we jumped off the school bus, ran home, dropped off our bags, and shouted to mom, "we're going to the soccer field!"  To which she responded something to the effect: "To play soccer?"  

"No mom! To see the lion."   

By the time we showed up at the soccer field, the crowd was enormous.   More people showed up for the lion that day than has ever turned out for the local teams in the neighborhood.   Some people pointed.  Others talked of killing it.  A few imagined its adventure during the night to find the heart of Buru Buru's primary soccer field.  My brother and I just wanted to see the lion!  

 Much to our disappointment the lion was asleep in a hedge on the far side of the field with only the tip of its tail sticking out.  We waited for hours until the Kenya Wildlife Service arrived with darts and a tranquilizer gun to drug our renegade lion and return him to the wild. 

The next day the story hit the front page of the paper.  Apparently, the lion was somewhat senile and had become disoriented on his way into town.  His stomach took the better of him and he found himself outside the apartment of a lady cooking stew.  Without waiting for her to offer him anything, he had simply knocked the door down but placing his full weight against the rusty hinges.  Moments later the chef scattered as the lion lapped up her entire pot.  This made him rather sleepy so he retreated to the safety of the nearby soccer field.  A few hours later some soccer players came to kick the ball around.  One man got the fright of his life when he went after the misdirected shot into the hedge. 

Simba! Simba!    he called as everyone ran away at full speed.   

Since my wife is including a discipleship lesson in all of her blog entries this month, let me try my hand at one.  Here it is: the Bible talks of two lions.  The lion of Judah, Jesus Christ. And the counterfeit lion, the devil.  Both come to the doors of our lives.  One knocks gently promising life,  and life to the fullest, for those willing to fling wide the door.    The other kicks down the door to steal, kill, and destroy--our dreams, our health, our families, etc...   inspiring fear and disorder.   How do we keep the latter out?  One sure way: a continual surrender of our lives to the former.  

Day 4 Story 3

The stories of hippos reminds me of another one of my favorite African wildlife stories.   Several years ago while working on my M.A. I returned to Kenya to visit my parents over Christmas.   We decided to have some fun and go to Lake Nakuru famous for it's migratory million strong flamingo population.  The pink ring reflecting on the waters is something to behold!  So much so that there is a look out point on one of the nearby hills.   We decided this would be the place for us.  We drove up the little dirt trek towards the only place in the entire National Park where people are allowed to get out of their vehicles.  

As we reached the top we quickly jumped out of our vehicle to head over to the edge of the cliff to take in the surrounding beauty.   After several minutes we decided to head back to the car. As we turned around we were surprised to see a troop of baboons in the nearby trees.  Several of them had jumped on our car and were trying to peer through the sunroof to see the snacks we had left sitting on the seats.  Dad decided to chase them away.  So he starts yelling: "Shoo! Shoo!" And makes the corresponding gesture with his arms, somewhat of a flailing and sweeping motion intended to drive home the point, "Get off our car you stupid primates."  

Several of the smaller baboons immediately retreated to the safety of the trees.  One big fellow, probably weighing a good 80 to 100 pounds, remained steadfast.  So dad intensified his advance and increased his volume.  The baboon suddenly snarled and made his own advance on dad acting as if he was going to jump off the vehicle at him.  If you have never heard a baboon bark and snarl, trust me when I say that it will put the fear of God into you quickly.   We all jumped back rather startled at this unexpected behavior.  

Now what would we do?  We were rather stranded.  Several minutes passed before we heard an vehicle meandering up the trek towards the top.  I ran down the path to intercept them. Explaining the situation, we asked the somewhat surprised French tourist if he would be willing to rev his engine as loud as possible, accelerate rapidly, and blow his horn as he reached the top.  He thought this to be a rather strange request, but quickly agreed.  He even included some rather strange French insults yelling at the baboons as his vehicle parked next to ours.  

The big fellow scrambled for dear life.  We thanked our rescuer and entered our vehicle.  The French tourist jumped out of his to take in the breathtaking scenery around him.  As we pulled away I looked back over my shoulder and saw the big fellow sitting on top of the new comer's car.  I don't know if monkeys have a sense of humor, but if they do I think he was saying: "I have regained my terriroty...now what are you going to do Monsieur  Touriste de France?"  Assuming of course that baboons in Africa speak French.

Day 3 Story 2

Before I jump to a different topic, yesterday's story reminded me of another experience.   When Adam and I got older we sold the boat, but our family still loved going to Lake Naivasha for a quiet weekend get away.  Lake Naivasha Country Club was always the place we stayed.  Since mom and dad had been going there for years, the staff and management treated us like family.   

The setting is really one of the most serene in East Africa.  Large lawns irrigated by lake water, gorgeous flower gardens, mesmerizing yellow barked acacia trees, gentle breezes wafting through the air, and an unprecedented sense of tranquility.    No wonder hundreds of species of birds call the Country Club home.   The lush gardens offer a  quiet retreat spot with limited activities:  a swimming pool and bird walks.   At night antelope such as water buck, impala, and grant's gazelle graze the lawns.  What we didn't realize is that many of the lake's hippo population like to do the same thing!  There are signs scattered across the grounds warning guests not to go walking around the property at night.  

On one particular weekend get away, the manager told us the story of a brave guest who decided to go swimming at the crack of the dawn.   It was still dark outside as he approached the pool.  Just moments before diving into the water he realized that someone else or should I say something else was in the pool.  Squinting he realizes that it is something big. Very big.  Poof! Two spouts shoot up chlorinated water as an irate hippo protests the impending intruder into his new found water hole.   

The hotel had to call the Kenya Wildlife Service to come assist in the "extraction of a hippopotamus from the swimming area." Surely, one of the few times this has ever happened.  Apparently, it was an all day ordeal involving sand bags and two by fours followed by a hasty retreat to safety as the occupant of the pool snorted his disgust before traipsing back towards the lake.   

For some reason, the hotel decided to build a fence around the pool after that incident. And my family has never jumped into a swimming pool in Africa since until  we've first  checked out the water.