Time for A New Shirt

As I walked into the area where the men had gathered for the meeting on church planting a very gregarious young man jumped up from his chair and ran over to greet me.  I guess there was no doubt about who I was since I was the only white woman there, so it must be fairly obvious that I was Roger Thoman’s wife.   With great excitement, the Kenyan man grabbed my right hand and shook it warmly, “You must be Brooks, Roger Thoman’s wife.”  A little embarrassed and not knowing quite what to do or say, I acknowledged, “Yes, I was.”He went on to introduce himself as “Jimmy” from Bungoma.  He told me all about how he had learned about simple church from a friend of his who then put him in contact with our website.  He had read Roger’s book, had read all the blogs, materials, everything.  Then he told me of his work in Nairobi planting churches, in western Kenya planting churches and about his wife and the church she had planted among single women.  Then, the clincher, Jimmy said, “You know, Brooks, I recognized Roger the minute I saw him . . . from the internet.” I thought to myself that surely it was his white hair (or for that matter, because he was the only white man present could have been a dead give-away), but no, here’s what he said:  “I recognized him by his shirt.  The shirt he is wearing today is the same shirt he is wearing on the book cover and the same shirt he is wearing in the photo on the website!”  I started laughing and laughing.  I couldn’t believe it.  Just the day before, I had said to my beloved, “Your shirt has a hole in it.  Now, will you let me throw it away?”

Jimmy with a big grin asked me, “Is this the only shirt Roger owns?”  I just couldn’t quit laughing.  Even in Africa where some of the people we are working with own very few clothes, they typically own more than one shirt!  Then Jimmy confessed that he had asked my Kenyan friend Elizabeth on the side if Roger owned another shirt.  She had told him, “Oh yes, he owns three!  Last year he came for two weeks and he wore two others.”

Roger is not a man to be concerned with what he is wearing or sitting on or living in. If money is to be spent on anything frivolous, it occasionally might be spent on something technological, but otherwise, this guy has ZERO needs or wants.  So, all of my suggestions of wanting to buy him this or that or that he might actually need something are met with a comment like, “No, I already have one or I don’t need it.”  So, you can see that as long as the blue and white Hawaiian shirt had a thread of life in it, I had little hope of replacing it…except for my new African best friend!

Jimmy and his wife Roseline along with Elizabeth and Dawson all wanted to get together for dinner on our last night in town.  As soon as we sat down, Jimmy stood up and started to make a big presentation, thanking Roger for everything he had taught, the principles he had learned from him, etc., but the speech quickly deteriorated into the story about how he had recognized him the moment he had seen him…not by his face, but by his shirt.  We all started to laugh.  Then he graciously held out a wrapped gift to Roger.  (I was crying I was laughing so hard, just imagining what was coming!)  Neatly folded inside was a beautiful black tunic shirt with the continent of Africa sewn on the front.  As Roger unfolded it and held it up, Jimmy told him that the custom in Kenya was to put on the gift right away, so Roger quickly slipped it over his head, pulled it down and it fit perfectly.  He loved it!  He really loved it even more when he figured out that the continent was actually a pouch that he could carry things in.  Jimmy also pointed out that he had chosen this particular shirt with the blue and white appliqués on the front because they were the same color as his Hawaiian shirt, just so the transition to a new shirt wouldn’t be too hard!

While Roger was proudly adjusting his shirt and sitting back down, Dawson who had been rather quiet up til now said, “You know the first time I ever met Roger was in Nairobi three years ago, and he was wearing that same blue and white Hawaiian shirt.” Then, it all started all over again.  We were all laughing hysterically.

So, yes, I have a new best friend who I will be forever grateful to in Kenya, because we no longer have the blue and white Hawaiian shirt, and even Roger has admitted that it is saying something when an African tells you that you need some new clothes!

See and download the full gallery on posterous

Becoming Accustomed to Life in Developing Countries

I just wrote these words to a friend in an email:

We have now hung out in developing countries long enough to become surprisingly accustomed to a different standard of life.  It’s funny how you can walk into a hotel that faces bustling city streets, walk up uneven stairs, walk down semi-clean hallways, step into a room with a hard mattress for a bed with a mosquito net covering, sit on a toilet seat made of plastic or no seat at all, turn on a shower that dribbles hot water, brush your teeth with bottled water, order food that tastes exactly like last night’s meal (because it is exactly the same) and then say to each other: “Wow, what a great hotel this place is… We are living in luxury this week!”

It’s been an exceptional trip!  We have many more reports to share, and can’t wait to catch up with YOU on all that has been going on here at HOME!

Shower Head in the Aforementioned 3-Star Hotel:

Dorcas Hands at Last!

Finally after five weeks of traveling in East Africa we had arrived in familiar territory, Kitale town, in the mountainous region of western Kenya.  I could hardly wait to get here since leaving last March. That’s when my Kenyan friend Elizabeth and I had been stranded in a broken down vehicle and had been given an extra hour’s visit.  This unscheduled time was all the two of us needed to share our hearts and what we dreamed could happen in the lives of a few African women.

Here, there are many widows and so many women who are left abandoned either by HIV-AIDS or divorce or young girls who had to drop out of school because of lack of school fees and now find themselves destitute and single moms themselves. They are left thinking their life is over; there is nothing left to live for, so they give up.  They are looked down on and rejected by others, so not only are they poor physically, they are poor in spirit as well.  “But, do they have to stay that way?” Elizabeth and I asked each other.  “Why can’t we do something to help lift them up? Why couldn’t we give them a hand out of the gutter into the mainstream of life as the beautiful, intelligent, lovely women they are.”  They no longer need to walk in shame; they are entitled to walk in grace and beauty and all they are meant to.  What could we do to help?  We didn’t want to give them “fish to eat for today”, we wanted to “teach them to fish for a lifetime”.  We wanted to start a school, a school that would teach them tailoring, sewing….well, to start with.  Eventually we dreamed of a school that would include computer training, secretarial training, poultry farming, beauty school training and English.  If you’re going to dream, dream big, right?

So after seven months of Elizabeth working on the logistics here in Kenya and me working on the financial end in America and maybe a hundred emails flying back and forth, here I was.  I had told the plight of the Kenyan women to hundreds of people in as many places as I could think of through internet, phone, mail, person-to-person trying to raise the funds to launch the school.  So many people, especially women, had responded and given hundreds of dollars joining us in this cause.  Liz had gotten figures, bought sewing machines, scissors, materials, interviewed students, found our temporary space.  She had also brought together women to work with her, to teach, to be on the Board, to help and support.  It really felt like a small army of American women joining with their Kenyan sisters in an effort to fight not only the poverty, but everything that goes along with it to keep women oppressed and living in shame.  It had been amazing to see the women (and men) who were now standing with us and now I could hardly contain myself waiting to see Liz and The Women’s Vocational Training Center:  Dorcas Hands.

As we flew over Kitale I could see the beautiful, lush mountainous countryside below me, with the bright orange of the dirt roads below.  It must have just been harvesting season as the maize was still standing but in long rows of dry husks now.  The last two years had been such a season of drought, I prayed this season had been better.  Our tiny plane finally circled and bump, bump, bumped it’s way onto the one lane landing strip and we were here.  Finally!

Elizabeth and her husband Dawson and John, a friend of theirs and now ours, too, were all there waiting, big smiles, open arms.  We gathered up our things and crammed everything and everybody into the familiar, worn out, grey van and drove into town.  Kitale is a town of 500,000 people, but its downtown area is quite small by American standards.  It’s an agricultural town, so lots of feed stores and one main store called Transmatt (Walmart) and then the typical markets of Africa all alongside and in all of the neighborhoods of people in their outside shops selling their various wares of shoes or clothes or vegetables.

Finally the time had come.  We walked through the busy town, avoiding cars, bikes, or anything else that might be coming, as pedestrians never have the right of way and then walked into a storefront cement building.  There was a long narrow dark hallway I had been in once before when we had to visit the lab to take someone for a malaria test.  There at the end Elizabeth turned.  She had secured a donation of temporary space for us in one room in an office for now so the school can be started.

There they were. Two little rows of sewing machines: four of them, and against the wall an overlock machine, and standing proudly on a table was the knitting machine that would be used to make the required school uniform sweaters.  Sitting shyly behind each sewing machine were four women:  Christine, Janet, Bilha and Lucy.  There were two other women there.  The teachers.  One to teach sewing; the other to teach embroidery and rug-making.  Each of the teachers grabbed my hand and in typical Kenyan fashion said, “Karibuni!” (Very Welcome!)  I reached over to the students who couldn’t believe the mazungu (white person) would touch them and speak with them, and shook their hands in the tiny space.   But what I really wanted to do was grab each one of them to me and hold them in my arms.  I wanted to tell them, “You are safe now, it’s going to be alright. You’re scared and lonely and desperate right now, but your life is never going to be the same from this moment on.”  It was all I could do not to burst into tears as I saw what God had done in a few short months and what He was going to do in the lives of these four women, and hopefully many more in the days to come.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

Musings of A Spoiled American Traveler

After spending a few days respite, I was looking forward to the rest of our journey in East Africa.  Even though our time in Nosy Be was like something out of the imaginings of fantasy Pacific Island living (only in the Indian Ocean), I was ready to wave the white flag and give it all back to the mosquitoes.   I looked eagerly forward to our next stop with the promise of a hot shower and cooler weather once again.

And so yesterday began…with a fresh count of new mosquito bites, even with Deet lacquering my body and our mosquito net securely in place.  Even today hopeful of a hot shower, I was to be disappointed once again, but only slightly, knowing that this was the day that I would win in the end and get one anyway!  So, I huffed and puffed and stuffed all my things (and a few newly purchased items) back in the teeny tiny suitcase I had brought (minus the things that were just too gross to put in one more time).  Roger didn’t even say a word, not even one roll of the eyes.  Matter of fact, he even offered space in his suitcase for the things that were kind of bulging out of the zipper of mine!

Then we hiked down the beach to grab something quick to eat, but oops, too early for lunch, so after some deliberation in French, we settled for a snack, a zebu burger instead, and hiked back to our place, now, all hot and sweaty for the flight to Antannanarivo (Tana), Madagascar.  Unfortunately, we found out we had to leave a day early because in October Air Madagascar had decided to make a change, like cancel our flight altogether.  The change didn’t throw us too badly though, as a few days earlier on our flight there, the plane was some two DAYS late.  Not to worry, they had made up some time, so they were only 14 hours late in the end.  We were actually getting the hang of this Air Madagascar thing!

So, off we went in our little taxi, winding around the island, through hilly fields of ylang ylang trees making the island smell like sweet perfume, for about an hour, eventually ending up at a small guardhouse with a beat up iron gate signifying payment due before entering the airport parking lot…mmm or spaces is more what I guess you would call it.  We checked in with Air Madagascar and had no problem, as there could be no problem:  no security system, no seating assignment, just pretty much walk in, show your passport, ticket and you’re in.  Everyone speaks French or Malagasy so they aren’t very interested in what you have to say anyway, I suppose!

I was ready this time, though.  No, I was not going to be disappointed that Roger and I would not be sitting together.  No, I was not going to whine and complain that it was going to be hot as hell in the tiny aircraft and the smells would be unbearable and no, I was not going to start sucking and gagging just because I couldn’t breathe from lack of air.  Nobody else could breathe either.  But, you know what, when the doors opened and everybody made a dash for the plane and Roger and I got on (and we did get to sit together – poor man), I did start whining almost immediately and I did start complaining. I almost put my mouth over the air vent just to try to suck something out of it, just as I saw arms shoot up and down the plane turning the knobs trying to make some air come out. The seats were so close together that Roger had his legs spread eagle just to be able to sit down and then the man in front of him put his seat back!  Ok, ok, it only lasted an hour, but it was bad!  The good news is that we got to Tana safe and sound and I kept my eye on the goal:  nice transition hotel, internet, hot shower, shuttle van coming to pick us up. The also good news is that there was a great article about Tibetans living in China in the air magazine, right where we would like to go next year!  Prophetic or what???  Of course!  Could be scary what kind of planes they have there, right?  So, really, what was there to complain about?

So as for my fantasy…  It blew up not long after the big skirmish at the luggage wheel where one always wonders if people are always that nasty or if they save it up for that special moment when they really want their stuff and they want it NOW…  Seriously, like anyone else wants it!  No, there was no one from the hotel there to meet us. You know how some people have someone there with the big fancy sign that has their name plastered all over it and they come rushing over and grab all of their luggage and whisk them away in a beautiful big fancy van and take them to a big fancy beautiful hotel.  Nope, didn’t happen.

BUT, my fantastically awesome husband is not to be daunted in these places or these situations.  Never to be outdone in a developing country, he ALWAYS is technologically ready to deal with any situation!!  Of course, he had his cell phone and, of course, he had the phone number of our hotel, and even better, he knew where both of them were.  Within moments there he was, a man shouting “Tomaaan, Tomaaaan” and yes, he grabbed our bags and yes, he even whisked us into a van, ok a small, fancy, ok, not so fancy, but clean van and took us to our hotel…and there was internet, and there was air conditioning, and there was a tv, and there was a bowl with two bananas and a mango in it and a frig with a soda in it, and there were towels—two of them, AND there was HOT water!!  It was better than ever!

And, after working for a while and dinner, we were so excited to go to bed in a big bed, like queensize, instead of single or double for the first time in a month, and then it all started to fall apart again.  The mattress was like a cheap bunk bed mattress and there was no mosquito net and there were mosquitoes and the pillow was hard.  Thank God, finally it was 5:30 a.m. and a decent hour to get up.  If nothing else I could enjoy taking another long, hot shower and work on the internet for as long as I liked.

Soon it was time to load up once again and head back to the airport to continue our journey to Nairobi, this time via Kenya Airways.  Piece of cake.  This was going to be the best.  You actually get a seat assignment and get to ride on a big plane!  So after having to pay for breakfast for two, which we thought was included, at this nice hotel that we weren’t able to actually get to sleep in, we loaded into an even smaller van and sat and waited.  Then in French and a lot of hand motions, we were moved to a larger van where others waited anxiously for us who were also headed to the airport.  No problem, we can assume the blame for other’s mistakes; it’s not an issue, so off we went.

The moment we arrived at the airport we were accosted by every kind of peddler you can imagine, but we’ve been through Tana enough to know how to handle this now, so we press on and finally get checked through, exchange our money, fill out all of our paperwork, go through security, such as it is and we made it.  Yeah!  Oh, yes, one last problem, I always have to go to the bathroom one last time before boarding, of course.   So, even if it is in the Tana Airport, I tell myself, it’s not that bad, just buck up, everybody has to go down there eventually!  So, even though I waited til the very last minute, finally I went down, down, down, passed the smoking enclosed glass cubicle, sitting in the middle of the room where the smoke just seeps out into the waiting area so we all get to enjoy it and down the steep dark, filthy flight of stairs.  There are two open doorways at the bottom with no signs, nothing. Which way to go?   Thank goodness, I’ve been here before, so I head straight ahead and shoot past the girl at the table with her little basket, hitting up unsuspecting travelers who think you actually have to pay here if you want to pee.  But I know better now and I also am not intimidated by the men headed my same way, knowing they are going even further down the hallway to the men’s section and I’ll turn into the first doorway, securing my privacy—at least from them.  So, after standing in line with French, Malagasy, Kenyan, Indian women and who knows who else, all of us shyly looking each other over, I quickly got my turn, and then got the heck out of there.  I quickly raced up the stairs and then, of course, walked as nonchalantly as I could over to Roger.

…and waited, and waited, and waited.  Finally, our plane was called…we hoped.  We heard the word Kenya Airlines and we heard Nairobi in French over the loudspeaker and lined up with the rest, even though the sign said Air Madagascar – I know scared us, too.  Then, walked for a very, very long time out to the runway to that big beautiful plane, the one I’m riding on right now that I was so excited about getting onto.  And then things all began to fall apart again.  When will I ever learn about expectations…no matter how realistic they may be??  Roger ALWAYS asks for an aisle seat, which, of course, means I have to sit in the middle, but no matter, at least I’m sitting with my babe.  But, for some reason we were given two aisle seats—across from each other—but still not sitting together, as in connected to each other, which we really, really like to be!  But, lots of people were getting on this plane, so we crammed our bags in the overhead and stuffed our backpacks underneath our seats and sat down, hoping to rearrange our traveling companions once they got seated. Sure enough a lovely young woman sat down beside me.  So, I thought.  Little wench.  I tried in my very, very nicest southern drawl English to explain my dilemma and would she like to have Roger’s great aisle seat.  “NO,” she says.  So, Roger, about to have a coronary because we are going to have an aisle between us for the next three hours, is going to either deck her or get the guy beside him to move.  I tell him, just let it go, already.  So we are set.  Happy, no, but set.

Then, we take off. I’m pretty excited. The air not only works; it’s cool air.  The captain is speaking English and is talking about things that interest me. I pressed in the button on my seat so I can really settle in and read all about all the duty free items that I can’t afford, BUT…my seat won’t recline.  NO, this can’t be, I started to complain to Roger, and he says, “None of them do!”  So naïve he is.  I, of course, point out every single person on the plane whose seat is in a reclined position to assure him, no, it’s only our’s that can’t!  But, then my ally, the captain makes a new announcement.  I can’t believe it. This plane has a MOVIE!!!  A movie.  It’s been a month without Netflix and I get to watch a movie. This is going to be great!!!  Soon, we’re cruising at the right altitude and everything is a go, and the movie comes on, and what??  Yep, my seat pocket has no headset.  Minor setback.  I called the steward and quickly got one, plugged it in, and what???? Are you kidding me?  Not only did the volume not work, but the channel didn’t work, so the movie continues to play even now, and no, I cannot watch it….Roger either.  

All is not lost though, because this is Kenya Airways and in Kenya there is still food served in the air!  Lunch is coming. Yeah!  Here it comes, my turn, my turn and choices – even better! Lamb, chicken or vegetarian. Chicken for Roger and for me. Oh my gosh.  BAD choice.  Could be the worst.  I mean seriously the worst.  I can’t describe.  Suffice it to say that I drank the coffee.  Roger, of course, said, “Well, at least they still are serving food on the flight, not like in the U.S.”  What is wrong with this man??  (He did later admit that it was pretty bad, which gave me a certain amount of satisfaction.)

So, you see why I am forced to entertain you, writing about how terribly spoiled I am. Not that long ago I couldn’t imagine traveling all over the world with the man of my dreams doing and seeing the things I get to see and do … and now I want a movie to watch in a seat that reclines while I do it!  Spoiled rotten, I know!

Celebration Time!

The time seemed perfect.  It was relatively calm at our house, so I thought, “Just go for it.”  I found Roger and said, “In a year and half I’m going to be 60 years old, so I want something really, really big for my birthday!” Now, you have to understand, I don’t usually ask for something big, but this time, I figured reaching the age of 60 warranted asking for something really big–as in expensive!  Now Roger is a very approachable guy and would give me just about anything I wanted, but I still thought I should give him some time to get used to the idea of spending some real money.  But, after blurting this out, all he did was stare at me with his mouth open, and didn’t say a word, just stared.  Confused and a little ticked off, I asked, “So, what’s wrong?”   That’s when he gasped for air, took a deep breath and then started to breathe again.  He said, “You’re going to be sixty?  I’m going to be married to someone sixty years old? (He’s five years younger, and this suddenly seemed to become real to him!)

So, what I asked for changed umpteen times since then and neither of us knew that God had the most incredibly big birthday planned for me ever—something I definitely wanted, but could never have imagined or asked for! As it turned out, we had committed to be at the YWAM School of Church Planters in Madagascar in 2009 and by the time all the scheduling was finally in place, that’s where we were on my 60th birthday.  Madagascar, Africa!  After arriving, we got the schedule for our two weeks there and as it happened, on Sunday, October 4, my actual birthday, we were scheduled to go upriver, deep into the bush, to a new church plant to help baptize a group of new believers there!

Sunday morning arrived and 7 a.m. we all loaded up in a pickup:  Victor (the base director), Theo (our translator), another church planter, two doctors, Roger and myself, and we were pulling “Mercy” (appropriately named), a fiberglass raft boat with an outboard motor. We traveled for about an hour from one end of the city to the other, passing many people busily setting up their shops or roadside stands to get ready for the day.  Soon we were out in the green countryside where shepherds walking alongside their two or three zebu (cows) are common and fields of rice are growing.  The once paved road quickly became only a narrow, dirt bumpy pathway and every once in awhile we would happen on a grouping of thatched, bamboo-sided houses, which I later realized were actually whole villages.  The others chattered away in French or Malagasy, easily shifting from one language to the other and every once in awhile Theo or Victor would speak to us in English and let us know what the others were talking about.

Suddenly we stopped at what looked like nothing more than a wide-space in the road, and the doctor driving the rig began to pull in and back up and there to the right through the brush was a river.  Not just a river, but a river with women leaning over washing their clothes, beating them on a huge big rock and then rinsing them diligently back in the river again before laying the clothes out to dry on the bushes nearby.  Other women and girls grabbed handfuls of sand at the water’s edge and standing, scrubbed the edges of their blackened pots with their feet, not even for a moment deterred from their tasks by us.  Meanwhile the guys got the raft in the river and we all piled in, along with a huge bundle of mosquito nets to be given away, painting supplies, including a six foot ladder and all of us.  And off we went – motoring up the river.  Every so often we would pass by hollowed-out tree canoes that some of the bushmen were using to haul either charcoal or wood down the river to sell in Tamatave, the town we had just come from.  Along the banks, we would sometimes pass a mom bathing her small children or see a colorfully dressed woman gracefully balancing a large rubber tub, filled with pots on her head as she made her way down to the river.

After about a half hour we turned into one of many tree-lined alcoves where I could see nothing, but then all of the sudden there appeared a young woman walking barefoot down a trail out of the trees.  She was actually coming from a village close by where YWAM had established a medical clinic. The two doctors were stopping here for the day to repaint the clinic, so as they waded into shore with all their gear and sat on the beach.  We all waved good-bye and laughingly said, “We’ll come back for you in a few years.”  It actually seemed like it could be a very real possibility to me at that point!

After picking up the young woman I had just seen, we pressed on for the real haul.  Victor upped the motor and we crossed a wide part in the river where we and just about everything in the boat got soaked, but in the heat, it was a welcome relief!  As the river began to narrow once again, we saw them. One, two, and then many children of all ages were running along the bank.  Women and men started walking down a pathway to the little beach by the river to welcome us.  Pretty soon there was a crowd encircling us as we waded into shore. With big grins, they shyly shook our hands and were obviously very happy to see us.

Even though the sun was scorching, it didn’t matter. Victor in his great humility asked the leader of the group how he would like to proceed and the day unfolded as each moment became more spectacular than the one before.  As we all gathered on the beach by the river the leader asked Victor to speak first and then to begin the baptism.  I couldn’t help but think as he spoke, “I could be listening to John the Baptist or Jesus speaking by the Sea of Galilee.  It’s just the same.”  Some were sitting on rocks, some sitting on the hillside nursing their babies, some standing upfront listening closely, some standing further back not wanting to appear too interested.  And yet, when the question came, who is here to be baptized today, 10 who had anxiously waited for this moment ran to the bank of the river.

Afterwards we were all invited to their gathering place, where each of the ten shared their testimony:  what their life had been like before meeting Jesus, what happened when they met Him and what their life is like now.  We heard story after story testifying to the goodness of God:  stories about marriages ravaged by adultery that had been restored; women who were being eaten alive by jealousy and bitterness who were now content and at peace; and the freedom others were experiencing from the fears of superstition and witchcraft.   Even they themselves couldn’t believe it, though they had become Believers months and months ago.

Roger and I had an opportunity to share and then the real party began.  By now it was around 2:30.  The elders of the church apologized that no one had time to cook as everyone wanted to be at the “program” today, so the cooking would now begin.  We knew this meant for us to really settle in and make ourselves at home, because cooking did not mean open a packet of top ramen and throw it in the microwave!  So, the wood fire was lit outside and the water was hauled from the river and poured into large pots to begin cooking the rice.

After about an hour and a half some women came in with some woven mats and laid them on the dirt floor.  I was fascinated as next they brought in bundles of freshly picked huge banana leaves and laid them on top of the mats.  I couldn’t believe how shiny, green and clean they were.  And, then with proud grins the men began to carry in the huge pots of rice which they poured down on top of the banana leaves, spreading it out in gigantic mounds.  I couldn’t imagine how or what this was about, but soon learned this is such a familial way of eating!  We all sat down on the floor, encircling the rice, women, children, men.  There were small bowls of a soup mixture with sliced and cubed palm hearts in it sitting at the edge of the rice and everyone had their own spoon…ok, some of us, muzungas (white people)…bush people make their own, out of leaves, of course!  I quickly learned that you dip your spoon into a bowl, any bowl, and pour some of the liquid onto some of the shared rice in the middle and then scoop up that portion and eat it.  Got to tell you, I love eating this way!  I felt very connected to the whole group, could see everyone, hear everyone, and of course, definitely we were sharing our meal together….I mean really sharing our meal!!  And, no need to tell you, clean up was pretty easy, too!

After lunch, the elders wanted to have Communion, sharing the Lord’s Supper.  So, the banana leaves were cleared off, the mats shaken and laid back down and in the middle was set a liter of “Coca”(Coca-Cola) and a small cellophane bag of crackers. One of the elders explained that they had started doing communion differently by serving something special instead of the usual rice water.  After a few words and scriptures, Betalata the YWAM planter of this church, poured the coke in a glass and put the crackers on a small plate.  Then, one by one he offered the crackers and the glass of coke to each adult in the gathering—about 50 of us.

Victor then stood up to speak (in Malagasy).  As I glanced over the group, I noticed a man sitting off to the side listening intently to every word spoken.  I asked Victor, “Have you asked if there is anyone here today who would like to know Jesus as their Savior?”  He told me, “No, but I will.”  So, after speaking for a short while, he did ask and this very same man instantly raised his hand.  Victor asked him to pray to God, to confess whatever things in his life separated him from God and what he wanted from God.  Without hesitation, Alfonso, prayed loudly in front of all of his friends announcing that he wanted and needed God in his life, that his way of life wasn’t working and that he wanted what these other ten people had testified to.

Victor then talked about the Ethiopian eunuch who was told about Jesus, received him as Savior and wanted to be baptized right away.  He asked Alfonso, “Do you want to be baptized today?” Alfonso quickly replied, “Yes!”

So, all of us—50 adults and probably as many children—all got up, walked through the village once again, down the path back to the river from where we had come hours ago to baptize yet one more that day.  We all rejoiced as Alfonso celebrated his spiritual birthday!  Roger and I rejoiced because we knew God had given me the biggest 60th birthday celebration ever!

There were handshakes and kisses–both cheeks and then a third back again, Malagasy style–all around and then we waded back out and climbed into the raft.  The motor was loud and the wind intense as we shot across the waves, bouncing every inch of the way, getting drenched and chilled, as evening quickly approached.  But, my heart was full as I reflected on all that had happened in just one day.  Men and women had made a decision that would change their lives forever.  They had chosen to be baptized as an expression of that decision and then testified to all of their friends about their new life.  It was a day of celebration.  Men and women way up river, deep in the bush of Madagascar, had not only heard, but had received the Good News.

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Madagascar: Hot, Sleepless, Exciting, Fulfilling

I am sitting in a hot internet café in a small town in Madagascar.  Someone nearby is smoking a cigarette.  As you can imagine, there are no laws here regarding such things.  But hey, if I were not smelling the smoke, I would be tasting the other aromas of Africa which are often hard to describe: very musk-like at its best and very sewage-like at its worst (in the more impoverished parts of town).

I am trying to figure out what to write regarding our last two weeks at the YWAM training base in the coastal town of Tamatave.  Our experiences were so rich, on the one hand, and so unique, on the other.  Also, I find myself wondering what would interest folk back home in the midst of their busy lives!

We affectionately refer to this particular YWAM base as “the monastery” because of the dorm-like room situation, the cold showers, and the basic food (mostly rice and beans) prepared daily for the local students.  We love it, but also enjoy “sneaking” out on the weekend for an evening dinner at a local restaurant: skewered zebu and French fried potatoes.

I wish there were some way to pull you into the heart of our experience here which was spending 10 full days pouring into the lives of 20 incredible, passionate, young, Malagasy church planters and health care workers (bush clinics).  The fact is, I do not know how to make this real to you in a way that would allow you taste, touch, and feel it.

Most of these young people are born and raised in the cities of Madagascar.  To go live in the bush to reach and care for others requires a complete change of lifestyle (and sacrifice) for them.  What do I compare this to so that you might understand?  Although their city-living is not as posh as ours, it still might compare to one of us moving to rural Mexico: no “facilities,” outdoor cooking, strange food, and mat-sleeping on dirt floors.  Yet they have given themselves wholeheartedly to this task, loving God passionately and serving him with total surrender by going to care for and reach people in great need.

So, what is it like to partner with this team of young people, pour into them, and get caught up in their contagious faith and commitment?  For me, it’s life on the edge—being led by the Spirit, learning and teaching, finding and solving problems in strategies, exploring new ideas and tools with them, seeing them have “ah-ha” moments, and feeling part of something that is potentially very big that is changing the lives of people in the remotest parts of the world.  To what might I compare this?  I really don’t know, but perhaps you can simply catch a taste of my own excitement.

Finally, what is it like to coach, equip, father, and mentor the phenomenal team leaders of this group?  To see transformation and growth in their personal lives?  To see a renewal of vision and commitment in their ministry?  To see apostolic leadership develop that has the potential for changing the course (literally) of nations?  What does the visa commercial say?  “Priceless!”

In any case, the fulfillment and excitement keep us going through the smoke-filled cafes, the roads from hell, the mosquitoes with potential malaria in their little stingers, the food served on a dirt floor on top of banana leaves (another story), and the hot, sometimes-sleepless nights.

God has been at work, we feel privileged to be a part, and so appreciative, always, of your involvement with us.

PHOTOS FROM THE BUSH:

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Reflections As We Leave DR Congo and Burundi

Images of our time in DR Congo and Burundi keep popping into my mind as we spend a day of travel on our way to Madagascar.  These images are powerfully imprinted because they are so emotional, or comical, that I hope they will stay with me forever.  Like just now, every time we leave Kenya, the flight attendant comes walking down the aisle as we get ready for take-off, and sprays two large cans of bug spray, announcing, “The country we are flying into requires that we disinfect this plane before coming into it.  Those who would like to may cover their noses and mouths.” Are you even kidding me?  Do you think that would possibly prevent me from getting sick from the amount of chemicals just sprayed within twelve inches of my face?

Or, like last night’s hotel room, where there was no mosquito netting, so they just left a large can of bug spray on a table instead!  Not to be outdone by sleeping on Mickey Mouse sheets for the past week!  Of course, no towels, but again, Roger had to eat it and say, “Ok, glad you brought along two towels, Brooks!”

I won’t share some of my more embarrassing moments, but here are some of the other images that are coming to my mind:

Lots of men here ask me for my phone number or my email address, which the first visit or two, was rather flattering, but now I know better.  Unfortunately, their plight is such that each one wants something: a laptop, money for education, or an invitation to get a visa to America, but their faces are still imprinted on my heart and mind because these are the ones who had the courage to ask me.  I know there were lots who wanted to, but didn’t.

Then, there was the eerie walk crossing the border from Burundi into DR Congo.  Once we had gotten out of the car and been checked through by the officials on the Burundi side, we had to walk through what Roger named “no man’s land”, which was a dirt road of some distance, with rice fields on either side, before reaching the dilapidated structure of the DR Congo’s border crossing official check-in point.  Have to tell you, it was quiet, and it had an alarmingly ghost-like feeling as we silently walked along, knowing that hundreds of people had died in these very fields during the war.  I couldn’t help but wonder what could happen at any moment in such a volatile land.

The women, oh the women.  Can you imagine the dirt, the dust, and such a colorless community shouting it’s poverty? There amidst it all the women walk back and forth day after day, carrying huge tubs of wet clothes or sacks of Irish (potatoes) or charcoal or wood on their heads going about their days.  Nothing but brown everywhere, on the ground, on the buildings…nothing growing to be pretty, to show some life, just to decorate the surroundings.  So, once again, the women are the decorations, themselves! They smile, they laugh, they hold hands as they walk along, deep in conversation, dressed so beautifully in their hand-made, brightly colored clothes.  Their love and deep affinity with each other is, perhaps, what holds them together!

Angel and Stephen’s faces of sheer joy in sharing their victorious story are seared on my heart forever.  They told about their life of deprivation as children without parents and being shifted from one family member to another, not really belonging to anyone.  And then one day finding themselves fleeing for their very lives from rebel guerilla fighters on the same road to safety, they decided to marry that very day holing up in a mud, thatched roof house, in the rainy season with rain leaking down on them all night long, with mud dripping through onto them.  That was how they spent their honeymoon night!  It was so obvious to them that God had joined them together for such a time as this.  Stephen has lifted his wife up to join him shoulder-to-shoulder as his equal, something very unusual in the African culture.  I believe they are chosen to do something wonderful and powerful in at least two nations!

When we first saw Stephen, he kept saying he couldn’t believe we would come all the way from America to be with him…that many Americans will come to a big city in Africa and speak to many people for a big revival or a big conference, but that we would come to Uvira in DR Congo to be with his two teams, he still couldn’t believe it.  When it came time to leave, I shared with him and the teams what it had meant for us to be able to come, and how powerfully I felt God was using each one of them to impact their nation.  As we parted, we cried…and they did, too.

I cherish and carry all these memories close to my heart.  And I am full.

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War-Time Wedding in the Congo

Steven, our Congolese team leader, met his wife, Angel, while they were both fleeing from their hometowns during the war of 1998.  The idea was to find a village where the rebels had already passed through: pillaging, killing, raping, and decimating. Hopefully some time would pass before the rebels would return to that particular area.

On foot for several days, Steven and Angel became traveling companions and then friends as they hid out with many others in the jungle village. There was little to eat except nature’s mango trees, yet they remained there for three months where they married and began a life together in the midst of war and terror.

Finally, they headed back to Steven’s hometown of Uvira. For two more years, the fighting continued and every night they would hear gunshots and screams from those who were being killed and/or raped. They said, “Every day we lived knowing that our time might be up and that during the night we would be the ones being killed.”

Peace was finally restored in their region in 2002. Now, seven years later, it is remarkable to spend time with Steven and Angel, to see the way that God has blessed their faithfulness to Him, and to see their passion for sharing God’s message, care, and provision with others.

Women’s Lives Changed

Angel works daily with other women to help them out of poverty mindsets and to equip them to change their own lives. She described to us the way she effectively empowers women:

I begin by debating with women that I meet.  I ask them, “Why do you think that I have some financial resources and you do not?”  Women often see themselves as inferior to their husbands and not able to get ahead.  So I have to challenge them in ways that will make them think.  I have to help them see the opportunities that they have around them to make something and sell it or to learn a skill that will help them support their family. “If I can do this, then you can do it also,” I tell them. I sometimes speak strongly to them, “Yes, you are going to have to work hard, but it is worth it. If not for yourself, do it for your daughters so that you will have enough money to put them through school and they can then have a better life than yours.”

I try to provide them with training in simple sewing skills or other crafts they can make so that they can see that they are able to do small things to get ahead.  I also show them that God’s principles, when applied to their life, lead to success and strength.

Churches Multiplying Among the Poor

Steven’s work is equally amazing.  After starting a church in 2006 he felt that his influence in this needy country was limited.  He contacted us looking specifically for ways to multiply his effectiveness so that more Congolese could be reached spiritually and practically. He is now becoming a church-planting trainer, starting over a dozen churches during the past year and, with our help, is now training over 20 new church-planters. These leaders are working in bigger cities like Uvira, in smaller villages that are still reeling from the impacts of war, in prisons, and among unreached tribes (such as the Pygmy people). Wherever churches are started, ministry to needy people is part of the kingdom message that is shared: the hungry are fed, children are given school fees, widows and handicapped are helped, and generosity becomes a way of life.

YOU Are the Key To All of This

Steven and Angel, along with a host of growing leaders in the Congo, represent some of the most remarkable kingdom-minded, God-loving people we know. Yet over and over they tell us how much strength it brings them to have people come and support them from so far away.  Tears streaming down Steven’s face, as we departed, emphasized this.  We feel so privileged to partner with them AND so aware that our partnership with them happens because YOU stand with us.  We are ever so aware and appreciative of this!

Summoned by Congo’s Central Intelligence Office

We had been in the Congo for about four hours when the phone call came to one of the conference coordinators. “We want to see the visitors in our office right away.”

The message was relayed to us, “Our head intelligence officer wants to see you.  We must take you to the ‘Security’ office immediately.”

We had already been through the border crossing that morning, met with the city mayor in order to fulfill proper “protocol,” and we had been assured that there were no more hoops to jump through.  So, what was this about?  This is a country that is still reeling from recent times of war so suspicions can still surface and/or corrupt officials can be looking for a little extra personal income.

Our Congolese team leader, Steven, was dealing with conference details so he sent us to the office with another translator.  “Don’t worry,” Steven said.  “This is just a formality.” OK, only a slight rise in the beating of the heart and a quick prayer.

Yet, our hearts did race just a bit more as we were ushered through the front door of a concrete building, guided by two men into a small back-room office where a very serious-looking man sat behind a small desk with a set of handcuffs sitting very conspicuously within inches of his left hand.

I have to tell you, this did not feel like just a formality.

He introduced himself through the translator and explained, in so many words, how important his office was.  He compared his job with, in his own words, “the FBI.”  Brooks and I were both thinking, at this point, that the FBI does not routinely haul people into their office for a chat unless there is something seriously wrong! Our heart rates increased yet another notch.  Our prayer life jumped another level.

Then, a long dialogue took place between this man and our translator. We were left out of the loop since we could understand neither the French nor the Swahili that they would alternate speaking with. The man behind the desk was pointing to files on his desk, to paperwork he held in his hand, and was clearly lecturing our translator who was making notes. What was our translator writing? The list of crimes we had committed in the four hours we had been there? How many transgressions had we done?

This little conversation went on long enough that we did start to wonder where it was headed and if we were going to leave that room with our hands free or behind our back (ok, so the imagination begins to run a bit when you cannot understand the conversation and the setting is so ominous).

Our heart rates were now at the pace achieved by a good 30-minute run.  Hey, who needs to exercise, just visit the Congo!

Finally, finally, the essence of this important meeting comes to light. In order for this very important man to file the very important documents, he needed $20 from each visitor so that this can be properly done. Our Congolese friends later assured us that this is not an official government fee, just one of the ways that officials find to pad their incomes.

So, yes, we were set free. Not until our translator promised he would return with copies of our passports (the “Security” office did not have a copy machine), the very important forms properly filled out (no need to take this official’s time to do it right there), additional photos of the visitors (none of us could figure out why the passport photos were not sufficient), and, of course, the requisite forty dollars.

Such is the system in the Congo and, indeed, in many African countries.

For our part, the intimidation worked quite well. We would have gladly paid forty dollars and much more just to get out of that small office, away from the “FBI agent,” and to stay clear of those handcuffs!

Thankfully, our hearts are no worse for the wear. At least I am fairly certain of this. Today, several days later as I write this, the pulse in my neck is now only partly visible.  Oh, and our prayer life?  Much improved still and much gratitude for all of our praying friends back home!

Poverty

Poverty

What does it mean to be without?  I wanted to buy a few things before I left home.  Funny, now I can’t even remember what they were or what I wanted them for.  They seem pretty insignificant now.  We went from the U.S. straight into Bujumbura, Burundi to Uvira, DR Congo. Each move was a huge transition in our world’s economy.  Anyone could see the difference right away from one place to the other without even stepping out of the car:  the roads, the houses, street signs or lack of, markets, schools, vehicles, dress, etc.  Could it get worse?

Unfortunately, yes. Sunday we took the long drive, but short distance from Uvira to the village of Makobola to go to the church that meets at the home of the blind twin sisters.  We had the luxury of being in a four-wheel drive Land Rover to drive the dirt and rock, one lane road out there.  All the way there were many people walking the four hours to reach the village to buy things at the market to haul them all the way back to Uvira to sell them.  Yes, many carrying them on their heads or balancing them in huge bundles back and front on their bicycles.  I couldn’t help but wonder if one pair of tires would even make it for the long trip back and forth with all of the rocks on the road.  Even many of the women had small children walking alongside of them as they strolled along in the mid-day heat.

When we finally reached the village, there alongside the road were many mud houses with thatched or tin roofs, some with doors, many without.  We were led into a tiny, dark room and there on a blanket sat women—women who had obviously been waiting for us for a long time.  The two sisters sat quietly side by side with other women closely gathered around them.  This room and one other is their home and where they meet for church every Sunday.  Remy, a church planter, came to this village, shared the gospel with the sisters and they received Christ.  They have shared with others and now there are nine of them who meet at their home.  None can read or write, but Remy or Stephen come often to teach and share with them.  They were so humble and so sweet as they led our time together with some songs they had learned, with smiles on their faces as they sang about Jesus.  Remy shared some Scriptures with all of us and then we discussed them.  When we were sitting there, I believe God gave me the Scripture “The joy of the Lord is my strength.”  These women had NOTHING, but they had more peace, more joy, more hope than any women I’ve ever seen.  Roger prayed over them and it was pretty awesome, but gotta tell you, I’m thinking those girls should have been praying for us!

As we left these women, we went to meet with the chief of this village.  He was working hard in an outside kiln with a few other men making bricks for houses.  He led us into his small home.  With sweat pouring off his face, embarrassed, he apologized for his small house and said he had been working hard to make more bricks to rebuild all the houses that had been destroyed in the war—the war when the rebels had killed over 700 of his people.  The pain was etched on his face as he spoke and I thought he would start to cry—or I would.  The war happened eleven years ago and the pain and misery and destruction is as obvious today as if it happened this morning.  Over six million—that’s million—people have died in DR Congo since 1996. It’s inconceivable.  It’s unimaginable.

I thought I wanted, even needed something before I left home to come here.  Today, I can’t begin to imagine what it would have been.

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