The first time I came to Niger, I remember riding with Brent from the airport to his house for dinner. I don’t remember exactly what we talked about on the ride, but I do remember him telling some of the most incredible stories about his work here. It seemed every landmark we saw and every person we met had its own story. He had an anecdote about everything and everybody. They weren’t boring stories told to fill silences, but amazing histories of God manifesting himself to His people. At first I thought he had so many great stories because he has been here so long. However, after only three months of living here, I’ve learned that there must be a wealth of stories that were either forgotten or just overshadowed by something greater. It would be a herculean task to remember them all because each day brings a new tale of God’s miraculous provision and His divine intervention on behalf of His people.
Two weeks ago I left to spend some time in Maradi with Dan and Earlene Ligon. While I was there I was able to glean from the wealth of their knowledge and experience. Each morning, over a cup of coffee, they would share about their life and ministry in Maradi. Just like Brent, they seem to have an infinite store of fantastic stories. And after we had drank what Lawali calls our “earthly anointing” we would head out to join some stories in the making.
The primary purpose for my 700 km voyage east was to visit churches there that are already engaging in small business projects. There are four churches in the region that have been given grants to invest in projects of their choosing. The goal is for these projects to be a blessing to the community and to supplement the meager tithes of the congregation. Dan and I visited each of these churches to get an update and to offer advice and encouragement. The projects ranged from taxis to gardens, from street-side shops to raising sheep and bulls. During these visits the business side of my mind came to life, excited by the projects that are already realizing profits and challenged by those that are struggling to break even. After encouraging the pastors and offering any advice I could, Dan and I would pray over each church and their business. We prayed that these humble businesses would grow into a major source of provision for the church and the community.
In one of my first updates I wrote about miracles, and how sometimes the miraculous is accomplished through the will of man. During my stay Dan and I drove out to Bunda Dallo, a Fulani village that is a living testament to those sorts of miracles. The village is just over 200 km north of Maradi. There the land is too dry and sandy for farming, which makes it ideal for the nomadic Fulani herders. Villages are loosely congregated around wells, which are never short of visitors (mostly cattle) throughout the day. We traveled to christen a new well that had been dug for the church. There is only one other well in the area that has water year-round. Come the heat of May this new watering hole will be in high demand. In their exodus through the desert, the Lord provided water for the Israelites from a rock. But now, thanks to Wesley’s Wells, the Lord will be providing water in the desert from a new well that is almost 45 meters deep.
The well is owned by the church, but managed by one of its loyal members, Ahmed. That night we stayed in the village with Ahmed. Sitting around the chai pot, Dan translated Ahmed’s story to me. Ahmed is the loving husband of three wives and the doting father of many children. He became a Christian many years ago when he saw a vision of Jesus walking through his village, asking him to come and follow. Shortly after his conversion, he presented his son, Magagi, to Dan to pray for healing. At the time, Magagi had over 50% curvature of the spine. It was so severely curved that one of his feet could not touch the ground when he stood upright. But Dan felt that the Lord had another way of healing Magagi. Some time later, a doctor came and visited the village and offered to fly Magagi to the States for a series of surgeries that would straighten his back. So, Ahmed signed over guardianship of his son so he could fly to the States for 3 months of all expenses paid medical treatment. Ahmed told us how, even three years later, the story of that miraculous provision gives him opportunities to share the gospel in his community.
In my two weeks in Maradi I didn’t just hear stories, but saw the fruit that they bear to this day. I visited Pastor Terah’s clinic, a dream that took over eight years to realize but now provides top-notch care to the community. Terah and I paid a visit to a mother that had, quite literally, just given birth to a beautiful baby girl. Remarkably, it was a woman my mom prayed with for healing at that clinic nearly two years ago. Dan and I oversaw the groundbreaking of eight new classrooms at the Christian school Earlene manages, which has grown to be the second best school in the region. It is the only school in the state with a computer lab and has one of the highest graduation rates. I helped Earlene decorate a wedding cake for one of her teacher’s wedding and sat amongst the pastors Dan has trained during the ceremony. It was during those moments where I felt, in some small way, I had become a part of the stories I had heard and that in the same way they were becoming a part of my story. Maybe they will never be written in a book, and maybe they will be forgotten in a generation, but the fruit they bear will endure.
But the best story of all was a story that has been told for centuries. Dan and I attended a Christmas lunch with all the teachers of their school. They had asked Dan to share a message, but what he did was better than any sermon. “I want us to go around the room and each share a part of the Christmas story.” And so we did. I tried to follow the story as it was told, piece-by-piece, in Hausa. I’m sure some of the details were forgotten, and some were definitely told out of order, but eventually the whole story was pieced together. The beauty of the telling of Jesus’ birth was that each person that told the story took ownership of it. It is a story that invites all who hear to become a part of it, to claim its protagonist as their friend, brother, Father, and savior. It is a part of those teachers’ story and it’s a part of mine. And each day we get to be a part of its next chapter.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wedding Crashers
Last Saturday I had the privilege of attending a Gremanche wedding in one of Hassan’s villages. As one might expect, it was a totally different experience from a traditional American wedding. I can not say it was a traditional Gremanche wedding because traditionally marriage occurs without ceremony: a man chooses a bride, he pays the dowry, and then takes her home at the agreed upon time. But the church in this village has grown, and one of the members wanted to have a Christian wedding. This was to be the village’s first Christian wedding, which promised to be a different experience for villagers and visitors alike. It did not disappoint.
I rode to the service with Rodrigo, who would be giving the charge of marriage, Pastor Boube, who would be performing the ceremony, Juanita and two other pastors who would be translating. We arrived and greeted the groom, who could not be distinguished from the guests if you didn’t know otherwise. Upon our arrival the guests began to fill the thatched church and take seats on the logs and stumps used as pews. The drummers began to play an opening song and the whole church began to sing along.
After three songs, the bride was still nowhere to be found. I wasn’t concerned because it is normal in American weddings for the bride to make her grand appearance a little tardy. However, I could tell Hassan is beginning to wonder where she is. The translator goes out searching for her long enough for Rodrigo and I to wonder if there was going to be a wedding after all. In a few minutes he returns, saying, “Don’t worry, she’s coming. She’s just finishing grinding her millet!”
I bet no American girl’s fantasy of her wedding day involves pounding millet into grains. No, instead she’ll have bridesmaids to help her do her hair and makeup hours before the service. All will rise to greet her when she enters the sanctuary. Her pedicured feet will walk a path paved with rose petals to a pedestal where attendants will lift the train of her overflowing gown. Not so for this young Gremanche bride. The father had chores for her to finish because the next day she would belong to her husband and would prepare the grains for him.
When the bride finally arrived, the service could commence. After a couple more songs, Rodrigo preached and gave the marital charge. As Pastor Boube rose to begin the ceremony, the bride’s father made his first appearance. He didn’t take a seat, but started arguing with the groom. Rodrigo and I, who could not understand a word of the discussion, are looking at each other thinking this wedding is going to be cut short. Then, just as suddenly as he came, the father ran off, and nobody gave chase. I asked Hassan what the argument was about and he explained in between chuckles. “The bride’s mother has just recently given birth and is right now recovering. That’s why her parents aren’t here. The father just came to ask the groom for $50 so he could buy medicine for his wife. He said ‘You are part of the family now, it’s part of your responsibility.’” The service has not even begun and the father-in-law-to-be is asking the groom for money! The groom said he would discuss it after the service, once he was officially a part of the family.
The scene was such a stark contrast to the loving father who affectionately kisses his daughter on the cheek as he gives her hand to the groom. That father would nervously announce that it is he who gives this woman to be wed. He would then take his seat and observe with a mixture of pride and reluctance. He would have paid thousands of dollars for the ceremony and the celebration immediately following, and probably would not have asked the groom to help pay.
When the ceremony ended, the bride and groom walked their separate ways. The groom went to his house to prepare it for his bride who would arrive later that evening. The bride went to gather things to take to her new home. Later that afternoon we saw the groom at the village mill, talking to the neighbors. It was then that it struck me: their wedding day would pass almost like any other day. There would be no way of marking the significance of the day, aside from the simple ceremony of the morning. Immediately after life began to go on as normal, but for the newlyweds the standard of normal would never be the same.
Rodrigo, Juanita and I joked about it the whole way home. We joked because the wedding day was so insignificant compared to the significance of marriage. But, despite the seeming indifference with which the wedding was treated, I know that they place more importance on marriage than the day made it seem. During the actual ceremony, you could see a full comprehension of the commitment on the faces of the bride and groom. Though the groom was 21 and the bride maybe 15, they knew as anyone who gets married the importance of that day. They didn’t need tuxedos and gowns, flowers and feasts to understand that life had forever changed. The commitment was its own commemoration. It was a commitment that was made for the first and last time, and no amount of celebration could add to or take away from its significance. In that regard, it was just as beautiful as any wedding I had ever attended.
“Do you not understand? That is all over. Among times there is a time that turns a corner and everything this side of it is new. Times do not go backward.”
“And can one little world like mine be the corner?”
“I do not understand. Corner with us is not the name of a size.”
C.S. Lewis, Perelandra
I rode to the service with Rodrigo, who would be giving the charge of marriage, Pastor Boube, who would be performing the ceremony, Juanita and two other pastors who would be translating. We arrived and greeted the groom, who could not be distinguished from the guests if you didn’t know otherwise. Upon our arrival the guests began to fill the thatched church and take seats on the logs and stumps used as pews. The drummers began to play an opening song and the whole church began to sing along.
After three songs, the bride was still nowhere to be found. I wasn’t concerned because it is normal in American weddings for the bride to make her grand appearance a little tardy. However, I could tell Hassan is beginning to wonder where she is. The translator goes out searching for her long enough for Rodrigo and I to wonder if there was going to be a wedding after all. In a few minutes he returns, saying, “Don’t worry, she’s coming. She’s just finishing grinding her millet!”
I bet no American girl’s fantasy of her wedding day involves pounding millet into grains. No, instead she’ll have bridesmaids to help her do her hair and makeup hours before the service. All will rise to greet her when she enters the sanctuary. Her pedicured feet will walk a path paved with rose petals to a pedestal where attendants will lift the train of her overflowing gown. Not so for this young Gremanche bride. The father had chores for her to finish because the next day she would belong to her husband and would prepare the grains for him.
When the bride finally arrived, the service could commence. After a couple more songs, Rodrigo preached and gave the marital charge. As Pastor Boube rose to begin the ceremony, the bride’s father made his first appearance. He didn’t take a seat, but started arguing with the groom. Rodrigo and I, who could not understand a word of the discussion, are looking at each other thinking this wedding is going to be cut short. Then, just as suddenly as he came, the father ran off, and nobody gave chase. I asked Hassan what the argument was about and he explained in between chuckles. “The bride’s mother has just recently given birth and is right now recovering. That’s why her parents aren’t here. The father just came to ask the groom for $50 so he could buy medicine for his wife. He said ‘You are part of the family now, it’s part of your responsibility.’” The service has not even begun and the father-in-law-to-be is asking the groom for money! The groom said he would discuss it after the service, once he was officially a part of the family.
The scene was such a stark contrast to the loving father who affectionately kisses his daughter on the cheek as he gives her hand to the groom. That father would nervously announce that it is he who gives this woman to be wed. He would then take his seat and observe with a mixture of pride and reluctance. He would have paid thousands of dollars for the ceremony and the celebration immediately following, and probably would not have asked the groom to help pay.
When the ceremony ended, the bride and groom walked their separate ways. The groom went to his house to prepare it for his bride who would arrive later that evening. The bride went to gather things to take to her new home. Later that afternoon we saw the groom at the village mill, talking to the neighbors. It was then that it struck me: their wedding day would pass almost like any other day. There would be no way of marking the significance of the day, aside from the simple ceremony of the morning. Immediately after life began to go on as normal, but for the newlyweds the standard of normal would never be the same.
Rodrigo, Juanita and I joked about it the whole way home. We joked because the wedding day was so insignificant compared to the significance of marriage. But, despite the seeming indifference with which the wedding was treated, I know that they place more importance on marriage than the day made it seem. During the actual ceremony, you could see a full comprehension of the commitment on the faces of the bride and groom. Though the groom was 21 and the bride maybe 15, they knew as anyone who gets married the importance of that day. They didn’t need tuxedos and gowns, flowers and feasts to understand that life had forever changed. The commitment was its own commemoration. It was a commitment that was made for the first and last time, and no amount of celebration could add to or take away from its significance. In that regard, it was just as beautiful as any wedding I had ever attended.
“Do you not understand? That is all over. Among times there is a time that turns a corner and everything this side of it is new. Times do not go backward.”
“And can one little world like mine be the corner?”
“I do not understand. Corner with us is not the name of a size.”
C.S. Lewis, Perelandra
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Drink the Sauce
For years I worked for a Japanese exchange program called High School Diplomats. Each summer, as part of my responsibility, I would help prepare a group of 26 high school students for a three-week trip to Japan. In encouraging those students to experience as much of the Japanese culture as possible, we always told them about one student who took our advice to the extreme. This guy didn’t want a bit of Japanese culture to escape his eye, his ear, and especially not his stomach. At every restaurant he went beyond eating whatever was served. At the end of each meal he would also drink the bowls of dipping sauces. To the point of absurdity, he tasted Japanese culture down to the last drop.
The past few weeks I have been drinking the sauce of African culture here in Niger. I have spent almost as many nights sleeping in village huts as I have in my own bed. I’ve eaten almost as many meals with my hands from a calebasse as I have from a plate with fork and knife. I’ve had experiences that wouldn’t be possible anywhere else in the world, and I’ve had experiences that would look ridiculous anywhere else in the world. I have tasted the sauce and found it is sweetest when you feel like you are drowning in it.
First, let me say that this Thanksgiving I was incredibly thankful to be healthy. Driving in Niger is as much of a cultural experience as anything else, and I have embraced one of the most African means of motorized transport… the motorcycle. While efficient, convenient, and ultimately fun, it also the more dangerous way to get around town. On Thanksgiving I was in not just one, but two, bike accidents. I was sideswiped by a taxi that didn’t see me and collided with a car at a sandy intersection with no stop signs or clear right of way. Despite getting tossed once, I was fine, my bike was fine, and only minor scratches were done to the other cars. Thank the Lord for letting me survive that aspect of Nigerien culture that seemed to want to kill me that day.
The day after Thanksgiving I left with my friend Hassan for a weekend in the villages he pastors. Each weekend he holds six church services in four villages. I went along to encourage and help him in any way I could. Mounting our motorcycles, we rode for four hours into the African wilderness. Going where only pedestrians and bikers could go, we rode through lion hunting grounds, by elephant watering holes, and under monkey filled trees. I would have stopped to take in the view were it not so terrifying trying to keep up with the daredevil on the motorcycle in front of me. When we finally reached our destination we ate yams and rice and relaxed as the midday heat passed.
That night we held two services in two villages. We rode out to the first village down miles of winding and sandy roads. I preached in the first service, under the shade of a baobop tree: my second French sermon in as many weeks. By the time we finished the sun had long since set, which meant riding back along that windy, sandy road in the pitch dark. I had the pleasure of being the lead bike, with our translator and guide riding with me. Keep in mind: I’m only 24 hours away from my accidents. And let me add that driving in sand is like a perpetual hydroplane, except on a bike that can tip over. Swerving away from low hanging tree branches and jerking for turns at the last second instruction of our guide, we found our way back to our hut without getting out of second gear.
Waiting anxiously for our return was a group of 120 herders and farmers, hungry for the Word and Hassan’s teaching. Night services have a much larger turnout because the daylight working hours aren’t being wasted. So, under the glow of a dangling flashlight, Hassan preached to his church. I sat on the ground amongst the congregation. We clapped and sang songs of worship together and we prayed together. We all leaned in attentively as the one villager who could read shared the Word from the village’s communal Bible. Hassan preached on the passage and then answered the questions of those searching for truth. At the conclusion of the service, these farmers gave happily out of their poverty to the work of the church, proudly dropping pennies into the collection basket.
After the service, we returned to our hut where we shared a meal from a single calebasse. I would tell you what it was if I knew. It was too dark to see what I was putting in my mouth, but it was good. I then set up my hammock to try to sleep. If you aren’t accustomed to the sounds of the village, you don’t really ever sleep; there are just parts of the night you don’t remember so well. Between the neighbor’s donkeys making all sorts of noise, the goats having sex right by my hammock, and the women pounding their grains at 4am, I “awoke” the next morning only slightly rested.
Saturday morning, after two services in two different villages, we rode on to the weekend market to buy lunch: mutton and milk straight from the cow. When we got to the market one of the men I sat with the night before was selling things out of his small corner shop. He was so excited to see us that he put his younger brother in charge of the shop while he showed us around. He then took me by the hand to lead me around. This is a Nigerien custom that, I must admit, I still cannot get comfortable with. It is perfectly normal for men to hold hands, interlocking fingers and all, as they walk down the street. It startles me every time a guy tries to hold my hand. But this time, embracing the culture, I walked through the market holding his hand the whole way.
That night, long after the sun had set, we hiked out to an empty field where the church was again waiting for us. They had already built a large bonfire and the drum skins had been warmed. Hassan opened with a welcome and a brief prayer. As soon as the Amen escaped his lips the drummers began to beat a song of celebration. The whole congregation joined in, singing and dancing praises to God. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I felt as if I were spying on an ancient ritual, a rhythm and movement that had been practiced for generations. The Gremanche tribe has been singing and dancing for centuries. But this newly converted Gremanche village has found a new song to sing and a new step to dance. Their drums echoed through the heavens and their dancing shook the earth as they offered praise to their savior the best way they knew how. They praised a God who has redeemed them, not sought to reform them. They worshipped as a culture that has been reborn, not replaced. And the whole time God smiled back with the most brilliant array of heavenly bodies that can fit in one sky. I joined in, dancing as foolishly as David, until I was covered with sweat, dust, and ash.
The next morning we had one last service before heading home. The journey home was just as long and windy as the trip there. When we finally made it back I was exhausted, but so satisfied. Hassan and I toasted the journey with ice-cold cokes. He had shared so much with me over the weekend. He shared his food, his water, his hut, and even his motorcycle fuel when I ran out. We talked about everything under the sun during our journey. But most importantly, he put the sauce-bowl of Nigerien culture in front of me and showed me how to drink it. And it was good.
The past few weeks I have been drinking the sauce of African culture here in Niger. I have spent almost as many nights sleeping in village huts as I have in my own bed. I’ve eaten almost as many meals with my hands from a calebasse as I have from a plate with fork and knife. I’ve had experiences that wouldn’t be possible anywhere else in the world, and I’ve had experiences that would look ridiculous anywhere else in the world. I have tasted the sauce and found it is sweetest when you feel like you are drowning in it.
First, let me say that this Thanksgiving I was incredibly thankful to be healthy. Driving in Niger is as much of a cultural experience as anything else, and I have embraced one of the most African means of motorized transport… the motorcycle. While efficient, convenient, and ultimately fun, it also the more dangerous way to get around town. On Thanksgiving I was in not just one, but two, bike accidents. I was sideswiped by a taxi that didn’t see me and collided with a car at a sandy intersection with no stop signs or clear right of way. Despite getting tossed once, I was fine, my bike was fine, and only minor scratches were done to the other cars. Thank the Lord for letting me survive that aspect of Nigerien culture that seemed to want to kill me that day.
The day after Thanksgiving I left with my friend Hassan for a weekend in the villages he pastors. Each weekend he holds six church services in four villages. I went along to encourage and help him in any way I could. Mounting our motorcycles, we rode for four hours into the African wilderness. Going where only pedestrians and bikers could go, we rode through lion hunting grounds, by elephant watering holes, and under monkey filled trees. I would have stopped to take in the view were it not so terrifying trying to keep up with the daredevil on the motorcycle in front of me. When we finally reached our destination we ate yams and rice and relaxed as the midday heat passed.
That night we held two services in two villages. We rode out to the first village down miles of winding and sandy roads. I preached in the first service, under the shade of a baobop tree: my second French sermon in as many weeks. By the time we finished the sun had long since set, which meant riding back along that windy, sandy road in the pitch dark. I had the pleasure of being the lead bike, with our translator and guide riding with me. Keep in mind: I’m only 24 hours away from my accidents. And let me add that driving in sand is like a perpetual hydroplane, except on a bike that can tip over. Swerving away from low hanging tree branches and jerking for turns at the last second instruction of our guide, we found our way back to our hut without getting out of second gear.
Waiting anxiously for our return was a group of 120 herders and farmers, hungry for the Word and Hassan’s teaching. Night services have a much larger turnout because the daylight working hours aren’t being wasted. So, under the glow of a dangling flashlight, Hassan preached to his church. I sat on the ground amongst the congregation. We clapped and sang songs of worship together and we prayed together. We all leaned in attentively as the one villager who could read shared the Word from the village’s communal Bible. Hassan preached on the passage and then answered the questions of those searching for truth. At the conclusion of the service, these farmers gave happily out of their poverty to the work of the church, proudly dropping pennies into the collection basket.
After the service, we returned to our hut where we shared a meal from a single calebasse. I would tell you what it was if I knew. It was too dark to see what I was putting in my mouth, but it was good. I then set up my hammock to try to sleep. If you aren’t accustomed to the sounds of the village, you don’t really ever sleep; there are just parts of the night you don’t remember so well. Between the neighbor’s donkeys making all sorts of noise, the goats having sex right by my hammock, and the women pounding their grains at 4am, I “awoke” the next morning only slightly rested.
Saturday morning, after two services in two different villages, we rode on to the weekend market to buy lunch: mutton and milk straight from the cow. When we got to the market one of the men I sat with the night before was selling things out of his small corner shop. He was so excited to see us that he put his younger brother in charge of the shop while he showed us around. He then took me by the hand to lead me around. This is a Nigerien custom that, I must admit, I still cannot get comfortable with. It is perfectly normal for men to hold hands, interlocking fingers and all, as they walk down the street. It startles me every time a guy tries to hold my hand. But this time, embracing the culture, I walked through the market holding his hand the whole way.
That night, long after the sun had set, we hiked out to an empty field where the church was again waiting for us. They had already built a large bonfire and the drum skins had been warmed. Hassan opened with a welcome and a brief prayer. As soon as the Amen escaped his lips the drummers began to beat a song of celebration. The whole congregation joined in, singing and dancing praises to God. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I felt as if I were spying on an ancient ritual, a rhythm and movement that had been practiced for generations. The Gremanche tribe has been singing and dancing for centuries. But this newly converted Gremanche village has found a new song to sing and a new step to dance. Their drums echoed through the heavens and their dancing shook the earth as they offered praise to their savior the best way they knew how. They praised a God who has redeemed them, not sought to reform them. They worshipped as a culture that has been reborn, not replaced. And the whole time God smiled back with the most brilliant array of heavenly bodies that can fit in one sky. I joined in, dancing as foolishly as David, until I was covered with sweat, dust, and ash.
The next morning we had one last service before heading home. The journey home was just as long and windy as the trip there. When we finally made it back I was exhausted, but so satisfied. Hassan and I toasted the journey with ice-cold cokes. He had shared so much with me over the weekend. He shared his food, his water, his hut, and even his motorcycle fuel when I ran out. We talked about everything under the sun during our journey. But most importantly, he put the sauce-bowl of Nigerien culture in front of me and showed me how to drink it. And it was good.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Camping, Soccer, and Christ Crucified
Go and tell what you hear and see: the nosebleeds are plugged, the migraines are calmed, the abscessed teeth are restored and the poor have good news preached to them.
Paraphrased from Matthew 11:4-5
So maybe that isn’t as compelling as the blind gaining their sight, the deaf hearing, lepers being cleansed, or the dead being raised. But, it is what I heard and saw this weekend. And to a God who knows the time and place that mountain goats give birth, everything is a miracle of his creation. No deed is too great or too small and no person is too remote for his attention.
This past weekend Brent and I traveled with Pastor Lawali to a Fulani/Gremanche village called Mayanga Gourma. I would try and describe where it is, but only those who have been there can find it. There is no road to this village, and no sign lets you know when you have arrived. It is home to a people that were not just forgotten, but forsaken. You must first be known to be forgotten. On our way Lawali would occasionally say we missed our turn, or drove past the road. Brent and I had no idea there was a turn that could be made. Driving along dried-up creek beds and narrow cow paths we slowly crept farther away from what we were sure were the last signs of civilization, and very primitive ones at that. As day turned to night we were convinced that Lawali had gotten us lost in search of a mythical village. Then, suddenly, we drove up on a small mass of huts and grain houses. We had arrived. People appeared from every direction to see the strange vehicle that had made it to their village bearing two white men.
There is a mysterious power to the Gospel, which defies logic or convention. After projecting “God-Man,” a short film that summarizes the gospel message, Lawali invited those watching to accept Christ. He didn’t preach, he didn’t debate, he just invited. In moments 30 men stepped out of the shadows into the glow of the projector, demonstrating their new commitment to follow Jesus. Not last of all came the chief’s son, taking long drags from his cigarette in between sentences of the sinner’s prayer. We offered to pray for any sick that wanted healing. Only two women accepted: one suffered from chronic migraines and nosebleeds, and the other had an abscessed tooth. We prayed, told everyone we would be there the next day, then packed up and left.
We returned the next day to play a soccer match with the villagers. Since I provided the ball, I was allowed to join the game of shepherds and farmers. The Fulani style of play agrees with their herder mentality. Moving in groups, they relied on the strength of numbers, not strategy, to push the ball towards their goal. After an hour of playing in the midday heat we took a brief rest. It was then, under the shade of a nearby tree, that I preached my first French sermon. I wish my message were as perfect as the setting. It was short, simple, and told with the vocabulary of an 8 year old. At the end I invited everyone to come to hear more that evening. The soccer match finished in a shoot-out, with the chief’s son making the last stop, cigarette in hand, for the Hats to prevail over the Hatless.
As we prepared to leave, Lawali promised to return every Thursday to disciple the new congregation of converts. Brent and I promised to return once a month. But greater than our promises were their commitments. Unsolicited, one man brought forth the first offering: a huge basket of peanuts from his harvest. The chief’s son said he would have a thatch building constructed before Lawali’s first visit on Thanksgiving. So about the time you are watching Macy’s Parade, remember the church in Mayunga Gourma that will be having its first service.
That night as I slept in my hammock on the village outskirts, I thanked God for letting me be a part of His work. It has to be His work. There is little other explanation for what we saw. What reason did 75 people have to commit their lives to Christ? It wasn’t their Muslim upbringing, or the promise of persecution from Muslim society. It certainly wasn’t the judging eyes of the village that witnessed their new commitment. It could not have been the persuasion of our testimony. There is only so much that can be conveyed using a second language that passes through a translator who is translating from his second language to his third. All signs, cultural and logical, make their decision seem foolish. No, it was not our work, but God’s work that we happened to be a part of.
For Fulans demand signs, and Gremanche seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Fulans and folly to Gremanche, but to those who are called of both tribes, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.
Paraphrased from 1 Corinthians 1:22-25
Paraphrased from Matthew 11:4-5
So maybe that isn’t as compelling as the blind gaining their sight, the deaf hearing, lepers being cleansed, or the dead being raised. But, it is what I heard and saw this weekend. And to a God who knows the time and place that mountain goats give birth, everything is a miracle of his creation. No deed is too great or too small and no person is too remote for his attention.
This past weekend Brent and I traveled with Pastor Lawali to a Fulani/Gremanche village called Mayanga Gourma. I would try and describe where it is, but only those who have been there can find it. There is no road to this village, and no sign lets you know when you have arrived. It is home to a people that were not just forgotten, but forsaken. You must first be known to be forgotten. On our way Lawali would occasionally say we missed our turn, or drove past the road. Brent and I had no idea there was a turn that could be made. Driving along dried-up creek beds and narrow cow paths we slowly crept farther away from what we were sure were the last signs of civilization, and very primitive ones at that. As day turned to night we were convinced that Lawali had gotten us lost in search of a mythical village. Then, suddenly, we drove up on a small mass of huts and grain houses. We had arrived. People appeared from every direction to see the strange vehicle that had made it to their village bearing two white men.
There is a mysterious power to the Gospel, which defies logic or convention. After projecting “God-Man,” a short film that summarizes the gospel message, Lawali invited those watching to accept Christ. He didn’t preach, he didn’t debate, he just invited. In moments 30 men stepped out of the shadows into the glow of the projector, demonstrating their new commitment to follow Jesus. Not last of all came the chief’s son, taking long drags from his cigarette in between sentences of the sinner’s prayer. We offered to pray for any sick that wanted healing. Only two women accepted: one suffered from chronic migraines and nosebleeds, and the other had an abscessed tooth. We prayed, told everyone we would be there the next day, then packed up and left.
We returned the next day to play a soccer match with the villagers. Since I provided the ball, I was allowed to join the game of shepherds and farmers. The Fulani style of play agrees with their herder mentality. Moving in groups, they relied on the strength of numbers, not strategy, to push the ball towards their goal. After an hour of playing in the midday heat we took a brief rest. It was then, under the shade of a nearby tree, that I preached my first French sermon. I wish my message were as perfect as the setting. It was short, simple, and told with the vocabulary of an 8 year old. At the end I invited everyone to come to hear more that evening. The soccer match finished in a shoot-out, with the chief’s son making the last stop, cigarette in hand, for the Hats to prevail over the Hatless.
That night we again presented the gospel to the village. Brent preached a short sermon that was followed by the “Passion of the Christ.” At the end of the film, Lawali gave another invitation. This time 30 more came forward. The two women we had prayed for the night before came forward to share their testimony. They had awoken completely healed of their ailments. After sharing their story, 15 more women stepped forward to accept Christ.
As we prepared to leave, Lawali promised to return every Thursday to disciple the new congregation of converts. Brent and I promised to return once a month. But greater than our promises were their commitments. Unsolicited, one man brought forth the first offering: a huge basket of peanuts from his harvest. The chief’s son said he would have a thatch building constructed before Lawali’s first visit on Thanksgiving. So about the time you are watching Macy’s Parade, remember the church in Mayunga Gourma that will be having its first service.
That night as I slept in my hammock on the village outskirts, I thanked God for letting me be a part of His work. It has to be His work. There is little other explanation for what we saw. What reason did 75 people have to commit their lives to Christ? It wasn’t their Muslim upbringing, or the promise of persecution from Muslim society. It certainly wasn’t the judging eyes of the village that witnessed their new commitment. It could not have been the persuasion of our testimony. There is only so much that can be conveyed using a second language that passes through a translator who is translating from his second language to his third. All signs, cultural and logical, make their decision seem foolish. No, it was not our work, but God’s work that we happened to be a part of.
For Fulans demand signs, and Gremanche seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Fulans and folly to Gremanche, but to those who are called of both tribes, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.
Paraphrased from 1 Corinthians 1:22-25
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Living Water
The other day I was in a village helping Shelley with a Kid’s club. There were hundreds of kids that seemed to appear out of the sand to attend the hour-long program. Out of the hundreds of children’s I saw, one stands out in my mind over the rest. There was a girl who could not have been more than ten years old. She was tall and slender, simply dressed with her hair braided in the way of the Fulani people, and had a beauty even her melancholy face could not cover. She wore a sandal on her right foot, but there was a handkerchief wrapped around the stub where her left foot should have been. She did not come to the club. She merely passed by on her way to draw water from the village’s well. I stared in disbelief as she used her stub on the well’s foot pump to fill her five-gallon bucket. As she lifted the bucket to her head and walked back to her home, I thought my heart would break with each hobbled step she took.
The rest of the week I could not shake the image of that girl. I would wonder how she lost her foot. In Africa, there are numerous possible causes for the countless deformities seen on every street corner, most of which are preventable. Was it a birth defect? Was it an infection that had to be amputated? Was it leprosy, a disease that still preys on the developing world? I then wondered how often she had to draw water. She had probably been doing it since she was six or seven, maybe four or five times a day, depending on how many siblings she had to share the chore. She will have to continue her regrettable march each day until she has a child she can send. But would she ever have a child to free her from her task? What man would pay to marry a girl with such a deformity? As often as these questions haunt me, I try to respond with prayer. I still pray for her when I wake up and I pray for her before I go to bed.
****
Last week a volunteer group came from the states to help with ministry. One of the stops on their whirlwind trip was at the orphanage we help sponsor. The team brought with them two tubs filled with water guns. The orphanage had filled several 50-gallon barrels in anticipation of the water battle that ensued. It wasn’t long before the orphans that had been cleaned and groomed for the American visitors were soaked and caked with the sandy soil of the courtyard. The joyful screams of orphans and adult businessmen and women brought the entire neighborhood to the orphanage gates. Neighborhood children peered through the doors with wide eyes, ready to forsake their parents for the chance to partake in the bliss they witnessed. I ran around like a madman, trying to escape the massacre of orphans who quickly became experts at squirting their guns in my eyes, ears and even up my nose. I haven’t had so much fun since I was their age, doing the same thing.
But, at the end of the battle, the thought of the one-footed girl drawing water came back to my mind. I bet she would never waste a drop of her water. I don’t think you would ever find her in the middle of a water gun fight. If she ever witnessed such a spectacle she would probably think it a tremendous waste. A barrel of water is too great a blessing to throw it around so carelessly.
In the fourth chapter of the gospel of John, Jesus meets a woman by a well. He starts telling her about the gift of God, which is like “living water.” He tells her, “Everyone who drinks of this water (the well) will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty forever. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” The woman’s response makes me think of my one-footed girl. “Sir, give me this water, so that I will not be thirsty or have to come here to draw water.”
I wonder how God sees our efforts at our own salvation. Maybe to him we look my girl, struggling, despite incredible circumstances, to gather water in a desert. We forsake the fountain of life for the broken cisterns we have constructed ourselves. We fight and struggle to store the source of life in bottles and jars, only to find them depleted at the end of the day. I think He is watching us and saying, “If you would just ask me I would give you living water. You would never be thirsty or have to struggle any longer.” He isn’t called the well of every blessing, where you have to come and struggle to draw out life. He is the fount of every blessing that shoots out life freely to all who seek it. He wants us to put down our buckets and pick up super soakers because in Him salvation is like orphans in the desert having a water gun fight.
The rest of the week I could not shake the image of that girl. I would wonder how she lost her foot. In Africa, there are numerous possible causes for the countless deformities seen on every street corner, most of which are preventable. Was it a birth defect? Was it an infection that had to be amputated? Was it leprosy, a disease that still preys on the developing world? I then wondered how often she had to draw water. She had probably been doing it since she was six or seven, maybe four or five times a day, depending on how many siblings she had to share the chore. She will have to continue her regrettable march each day until she has a child she can send. But would she ever have a child to free her from her task? What man would pay to marry a girl with such a deformity? As often as these questions haunt me, I try to respond with prayer. I still pray for her when I wake up and I pray for her before I go to bed.
****
Last week a volunteer group came from the states to help with ministry. One of the stops on their whirlwind trip was at the orphanage we help sponsor. The team brought with them two tubs filled with water guns. The orphanage had filled several 50-gallon barrels in anticipation of the water battle that ensued. It wasn’t long before the orphans that had been cleaned and groomed for the American visitors were soaked and caked with the sandy soil of the courtyard. The joyful screams of orphans and adult businessmen and women brought the entire neighborhood to the orphanage gates. Neighborhood children peered through the doors with wide eyes, ready to forsake their parents for the chance to partake in the bliss they witnessed. I ran around like a madman, trying to escape the massacre of orphans who quickly became experts at squirting their guns in my eyes, ears and even up my nose. I haven’t had so much fun since I was their age, doing the same thing.
But, at the end of the battle, the thought of the one-footed girl drawing water came back to my mind. I bet she would never waste a drop of her water. I don’t think you would ever find her in the middle of a water gun fight. If she ever witnessed such a spectacle she would probably think it a tremendous waste. A barrel of water is too great a blessing to throw it around so carelessly.
In the fourth chapter of the gospel of John, Jesus meets a woman by a well. He starts telling her about the gift of God, which is like “living water.” He tells her, “Everyone who drinks of this water (the well) will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty forever. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” The woman’s response makes me think of my one-footed girl. “Sir, give me this water, so that I will not be thirsty or have to come here to draw water.”
I wonder how God sees our efforts at our own salvation. Maybe to him we look my girl, struggling, despite incredible circumstances, to gather water in a desert. We forsake the fountain of life for the broken cisterns we have constructed ourselves. We fight and struggle to store the source of life in bottles and jars, only to find them depleted at the end of the day. I think He is watching us and saying, “If you would just ask me I would give you living water. You would never be thirsty or have to struggle any longer.” He isn’t called the well of every blessing, where you have to come and struggle to draw out life. He is the fount of every blessing that shoots out life freely to all who seek it. He wants us to put down our buckets and pick up super soakers because in Him salvation is like orphans in the desert having a water gun fight.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Election Reflections from Abroad
I think as Americans we take for granted just how much influence our nation has in the world. Sure, we brag about how great our country is, boast of its economic strength and its military might. But do we truly understand just how much influence we wield? Here’s a question: Can you name one African head of state? Probably not. I’m doing good to know Niger’s, and I live here. But two weeks ago, every shop I went into I was asked whom I wanted to win the election, Obama or McCain. I talked about economic policy with the guards and about foreign policy with the locksmith (who made a copy of my key by hand in less than a minute, by the way). Each person had an opinion on the direction America should go. Let me just reiterate that. In the remote regions of the world’s poorest country, everyone knew about America’s election, and everyone anxiously awaited the results.
Here is another question we will all answer someday: Where were you when you found out the first African-American President of the United States was elected? I guess technically, I was in America, or at least on American soil. I watched the results early Wednesday morning at the home of the American Ambassador. I gathered around the television with Nigerien diplomats, NGO workers and Peace Corp volunteers to watch as more and more states turned blue. When it became apparent who the winner would be, every African present was so excited they began to eagerly congratulate any America they could find. From the American Ambassador down to the shabbily dressed 20-something missionary, they shook our hands and expressed their gratitude for choosing a black president. My French teacher, a Cameroonais man, called and excitedly congratulated me, telling me I should celebrate with a round of cold Cokes. Everywhere I went that day people were excited to see an American to whom they could give their thanks and best wishes.
So with the excitement of the election gone and past, what happens next? I can tell you this much, the eyes of the world will not start to wander. They will not tire with America and look toward the next big world event. No, I think the world audience is leaning forward in their seat, as if it were at a film that just started to get interesting. The whole world is holding their breath, and on that bated breath is a prayer. Republicans may be praying that Obama’s political agenda would either be blocked or, at least, not be too radical. Democrats may be praying that he have favor as he submits his plans to congress and issues executive orders. I can guarantee the rest of the world is praying, too. They are praying that this new leader will wield America’s sword of influence with care. You and I should join in the prayers.
So right now Father, I pray for Barack Obama. I pray, God, that you will bless America’s new leader. I ask that you give him wisdom and humility as he prepares to lead a large and mighty nation. May your love be his standard and your truth his aim. Under his guidance let America learn to love her neighbors as herself, rather than elevate her to a global pedestal. Surround him with counselors that honestly pursue truth, not their own profit. I pray that you would guard his ears from the tickling tongues of selfish politicians and corrupt bureaucrats. May he only lend his ear to sound advice and wise counsel. Fill his cabinet with modern day Joshuas, Samuels, Josephs, and Daniels. But, may you, Father, be his greatest counselor. Guard his steps against those who wish to make him stumble. May he and his family continue to be upright and above reproach. May those who wish to trap him fall into their own snares. I pray that America would flourish under his watch, and that America would in turn be a blessing to rest of the world. I ask all these things in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Here is another question we will all answer someday: Where were you when you found out the first African-American President of the United States was elected? I guess technically, I was in America, or at least on American soil. I watched the results early Wednesday morning at the home of the American Ambassador. I gathered around the television with Nigerien diplomats, NGO workers and Peace Corp volunteers to watch as more and more states turned blue. When it became apparent who the winner would be, every African present was so excited they began to eagerly congratulate any America they could find. From the American Ambassador down to the shabbily dressed 20-something missionary, they shook our hands and expressed their gratitude for choosing a black president. My French teacher, a Cameroonais man, called and excitedly congratulated me, telling me I should celebrate with a round of cold Cokes. Everywhere I went that day people were excited to see an American to whom they could give their thanks and best wishes.
So with the excitement of the election gone and past, what happens next? I can tell you this much, the eyes of the world will not start to wander. They will not tire with America and look toward the next big world event. No, I think the world audience is leaning forward in their seat, as if it were at a film that just started to get interesting. The whole world is holding their breath, and on that bated breath is a prayer. Republicans may be praying that Obama’s political agenda would either be blocked or, at least, not be too radical. Democrats may be praying that he have favor as he submits his plans to congress and issues executive orders. I can guarantee the rest of the world is praying, too. They are praying that this new leader will wield America’s sword of influence with care. You and I should join in the prayers.
So right now Father, I pray for Barack Obama. I pray, God, that you will bless America’s new leader. I ask that you give him wisdom and humility as he prepares to lead a large and mighty nation. May your love be his standard and your truth his aim. Under his guidance let America learn to love her neighbors as herself, rather than elevate her to a global pedestal. Surround him with counselors that honestly pursue truth, not their own profit. I pray that you would guard his ears from the tickling tongues of selfish politicians and corrupt bureaucrats. May he only lend his ear to sound advice and wise counsel. Fill his cabinet with modern day Joshuas, Samuels, Josephs, and Daniels. But, may you, Father, be his greatest counselor. Guard his steps against those who wish to make him stumble. May he and his family continue to be upright and above reproach. May those who wish to trap him fall into their own snares. I pray that America would flourish under his watch, and that America would in turn be a blessing to rest of the world. I ask all these things in Jesus’ name. Amen.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
The Motorcycle Diary
So first I would like to note the passing of one full month in Niger. It was on the 25th of September that I first landed here. It’s one of those interesting paradoxes that it feels like I just arrived and that I’ve been here for longer, all at the same time. It seems like yesterday that I was eating barbecue and drinking sweet tea in the states, but it also feels like I’ve been eating nems and drinking Tuareg tea since I can remember.
During the month I’ve been here I have been without a vehicle. It’s not such a terrible thing now that my French is strong enough to take a cab, which goes anywhere in the city for about 50 cents. But, it has been humbling to rely on others to get around town. Each day I walk to Dave’s house for French class, stick around for lunch, then he and Dankarami drive me around to look at motorbikes. Usually around 5 Dave drops me by my apartment where, either my roommate picks me up to go to the Teague’s for dinner, or I take a cab. Yesterday, after a month of searching, I finally found the perfect bike for the perfect price. As excited as I am to have that new freedom, I thought it would be fun to share some of the things I’ve learned about Africa during my shopping adventures and my life as a pedestrian.
Africa is a continent well aware of its position on the global development scale. Consequently, the people try to hide deficiencies in function with the attractive veneer of form. A corrupt government of aristocratic elites is hidden behind the guise of democracy. A failing transportation infrastructure is garnished with frivolous expenditures such as streetlights that are never turned on and traffic signals that are never obeyed. Appearances are everything.
For example, each morning on my walk to the Johannson house I stop by a store to buy a drink. Right beside the store is a carpenter who makes household furniture. I have watched over the past month as that carpenter has turned pathetic splinters of wood, some old rotting foam and new fabrics, into an absolutely beautiful looking couch, loveseat and armchair set. If I had just seen the finished product I would think these furniture pieces were just like something you’d see in any furniture store in the states. But I saw the process, and I know that underneath that fancy fabric there is nothing but old foam and rickety wood.
Another example: I have had the blessing of Dankarami’s help motorcycle shopping. He’s a market maven who seems to know everybody and where to buy anything. But, he also had trouble understanding my search terms. He kept trying to show me Chinese made motorcycles when I thought I had made it clear I wanted a Japanese brand. He couldn’t understand why I would want to spend more on a used Japanese Yamaha than I would on a new Chinese Kasea. When you get down to it, they look like the same thing. And, should I have bike trouble, there is an abundance of cheap parts for the Chinese bike while the Japanese parts are slightly more scarce and slightly more expensive. But, the abundance of Chinese parts is because their bikes break down almost twice as often and have a much greater depreciation after use. But for Dankaramine it was about form, not function. Why get used when you can buy new? Why buy expensive when you get something that looks the same for cheaper? And the concept of investing in something I could resell is completely lost on him.
In the end he finally understood and introduced me to a guy who sells Yamahas. After a few days they brought a beautiful Yamaha DT-125 that I knew was mine right away. On Monday we are going to arrange all the paperwork and complete the sale. So when Dave drove me home that day I said, “Just think, pretty soon you won’t have to drive me everywhere (form).” He replied “It just means pretty soon we won’t see you as often (function).” I guess Africa has rubbed off on me already.
During the month I’ve been here I have been without a vehicle. It’s not such a terrible thing now that my French is strong enough to take a cab, which goes anywhere in the city for about 50 cents. But, it has been humbling to rely on others to get around town. Each day I walk to Dave’s house for French class, stick around for lunch, then he and Dankarami drive me around to look at motorbikes. Usually around 5 Dave drops me by my apartment where, either my roommate picks me up to go to the Teague’s for dinner, or I take a cab. Yesterday, after a month of searching, I finally found the perfect bike for the perfect price. As excited as I am to have that new freedom, I thought it would be fun to share some of the things I’ve learned about Africa during my shopping adventures and my life as a pedestrian.
Africa is a continent well aware of its position on the global development scale. Consequently, the people try to hide deficiencies in function with the attractive veneer of form. A corrupt government of aristocratic elites is hidden behind the guise of democracy. A failing transportation infrastructure is garnished with frivolous expenditures such as streetlights that are never turned on and traffic signals that are never obeyed. Appearances are everything.
For example, each morning on my walk to the Johannson house I stop by a store to buy a drink. Right beside the store is a carpenter who makes household furniture. I have watched over the past month as that carpenter has turned pathetic splinters of wood, some old rotting foam and new fabrics, into an absolutely beautiful looking couch, loveseat and armchair set. If I had just seen the finished product I would think these furniture pieces were just like something you’d see in any furniture store in the states. But I saw the process, and I know that underneath that fancy fabric there is nothing but old foam and rickety wood.
Another example: I have had the blessing of Dankarami’s help motorcycle shopping. He’s a market maven who seems to know everybody and where to buy anything. But, he also had trouble understanding my search terms. He kept trying to show me Chinese made motorcycles when I thought I had made it clear I wanted a Japanese brand. He couldn’t understand why I would want to spend more on a used Japanese Yamaha than I would on a new Chinese Kasea. When you get down to it, they look like the same thing. And, should I have bike trouble, there is an abundance of cheap parts for the Chinese bike while the Japanese parts are slightly more scarce and slightly more expensive. But, the abundance of Chinese parts is because their bikes break down almost twice as often and have a much greater depreciation after use. But for Dankaramine it was about form, not function. Why get used when you can buy new? Why buy expensive when you get something that looks the same for cheaper? And the concept of investing in something I could resell is completely lost on him.
In the end he finally understood and introduced me to a guy who sells Yamahas. After a few days they brought a beautiful Yamaha DT-125 that I knew was mine right away. On Monday we are going to arrange all the paperwork and complete the sale. So when Dave drove me home that day I said, “Just think, pretty soon you won’t have to drive me everywhere (form).” He replied “It just means pretty soon we won’t see you as often (function).” I guess Africa has rubbed off on me already.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Holiday in Gao
When you live in a developing country, it’s amazing what qualifies as a vacation. Last Sunday the entire AG missionary team packed up for a three-night holiday in Gao, Mali. After a long, hard summer and fall, everyone was ready for an escape from Niamey. Having only been here three weeks, I was in no need of a break. But, I am always up for exploring new places and adding a few more stamps to my passport.
How do you define a nation in Africa? By the arbitrary political boundaries established by European colonizers, or by the people that inhabit those lands? Gao is home to same tribes that make the majority of Niamey’s indigenous population: the Tuareg, the Djerma, the Fulani and the Hausa. Walking through the marketplace I heard the song of familiar tongues and was met with the hospitality of familiar cultures. When I was called to Africa, God didn’t give me a burden for the nation of Niger. He gave me a burden for the nations of that land. I fell in love with its people, not its borders; with its tribes, not its government.
Even though we spent most of our time being tourists and taking photos, the trip was about more than just sightseeing. It was a vision quest. Here’s a quick geography lesson. If you head west from Niamey, in 115km (70 miles) you run into Tillabery. Tillabery marks the end of the AG church reach. You only need go another 100km (60 miles) to reach the Niger/Mali border and from there it’s only another 200km (120 miles) to Gao. In that 300km stretch from Tillabery to Gao there are dozens of villages with almost no NGO aid presence, and no churches. The same highway and the same river connect all of these cities.
The whole trip Rodrigo, Brent, Dave and I were looking for opportunities for ministry in the future. We spent a long afternoon visiting with a Tuareg pastor, Cigdi, learning about the city and its needs. Rodrigo and I talked the whole way back about the possibilities we saw there. There is so much potential for partnership and mutual growth between the three cities. With a 5-year, multiple-entry visa there is no telling what may come of the relationships we made there. God knows.
On the tourist side of the trip, we were able to see some pretty awesome things. We visited the tomb of Mohammed Askia, ruler of the Songhoy Empire. We were also able to see the active archeological site where they were digging through the palace ruins. We took a long riverboat ride to see the Pink Dunes where the movie Sahara was filmed. We all climbed and took pictures, but I was the only one who persisted to the highest dune. From the heights of the dune I could see for miles in every directions over the flat, desert terrain. To the South I could look down the river towards Niger. To the North I could look up the river towards Timbuktu. East stood Gao and West was a vacant desert, with only the occasional Tuareg tent. Standing atop that giant hill, I realized what Abraham must have felt like when God took him to a high point to show him the Promised Land. “Lift up your eyes and look from the place where you are, northward, southward and eastward and westward, for all the land that you see I will give to you.” Genesis 13:14-15.
Riding back from the dunes on a moonlit river, Dave’s youngest son, Nathanial, fell asleep in my lap. His elder son, Sam, fell asleep in his father’s lap. While reclining Dave said, “Google Earth this moment. Zoom-out and think about where we are and what we are doing. It doesn’t get much better than this.” I had to agree.
How do you define a nation in Africa? By the arbitrary political boundaries established by European colonizers, or by the people that inhabit those lands? Gao is home to same tribes that make the majority of Niamey’s indigenous population: the Tuareg, the Djerma, the Fulani and the Hausa. Walking through the marketplace I heard the song of familiar tongues and was met with the hospitality of familiar cultures. When I was called to Africa, God didn’t give me a burden for the nation of Niger. He gave me a burden for the nations of that land. I fell in love with its people, not its borders; with its tribes, not its government.
Even though we spent most of our time being tourists and taking photos, the trip was about more than just sightseeing. It was a vision quest. Here’s a quick geography lesson. If you head west from Niamey, in 115km (70 miles) you run into Tillabery. Tillabery marks the end of the AG church reach. You only need go another 100km (60 miles) to reach the Niger/Mali border and from there it’s only another 200km (120 miles) to Gao. In that 300km stretch from Tillabery to Gao there are dozens of villages with almost no NGO aid presence, and no churches. The same highway and the same river connect all of these cities.
The whole trip Rodrigo, Brent, Dave and I were looking for opportunities for ministry in the future. We spent a long afternoon visiting with a Tuareg pastor, Cigdi, learning about the city and its needs. Rodrigo and I talked the whole way back about the possibilities we saw there. There is so much potential for partnership and mutual growth between the three cities. With a 5-year, multiple-entry visa there is no telling what may come of the relationships we made there. God knows.
On the tourist side of the trip, we were able to see some pretty awesome things. We visited the tomb of Mohammed Askia, ruler of the Songhoy Empire. We were also able to see the active archeological site where they were digging through the palace ruins. We took a long riverboat ride to see the Pink Dunes where the movie Sahara was filmed. We all climbed and took pictures, but I was the only one who persisted to the highest dune. From the heights of the dune I could see for miles in every directions over the flat, desert terrain. To the South I could look down the river towards Niger. To the North I could look up the river towards Timbuktu. East stood Gao and West was a vacant desert, with only the occasional Tuareg tent. Standing atop that giant hill, I realized what Abraham must have felt like when God took him to a high point to show him the Promised Land. “Lift up your eyes and look from the place where you are, northward, southward and eastward and westward, for all the land that you see I will give to you.” Genesis 13:14-15.
Riding back from the dunes on a moonlit river, Dave’s youngest son, Nathanial, fell asleep in my lap. His elder son, Sam, fell asleep in his father’s lap. While reclining Dave said, “Google Earth this moment. Zoom-out and think about where we are and what we are doing. It doesn’t get much better than this.” I had to agree.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Miracles
John 14:12
Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I am going to the Father.
The past two weeks I have been working with a team of medical professionals in a free medical clinic. They came to practice medicine in an orphanage and a remote village called Sansanne Hausa. Throughout those two weeks, over 2,200 patients were seen by two doctors, two surgeons and an OBGYN. That is, at least, five times as many patients as they would normally see in that amount of time. I spent most of my time assisting two dentists from El Salvador, cleaning, filling and pulling teeth, and making dentures. Now that the team has safely returned home I have time to sum up some thoughts.
What constitutes a miracle? Does it always manifest itself through supernatural signs and wonders? This week I watched a different sort of miracle in action. The sick were made well, the malnourished were given food and the toothless were given smiles. And all it took was a team of 16 people who were willing to set aside their overcrowded schedules for two weeks, spend thousands of dollars (and sacrifice thousands more in missed work) to travel thousands of miles with dozens of crates of medicine to treat strangers and beggars who speak a different language and worship a different god. That’s no small miracle if you ask me.
So when Jesus said we would do even greater things than he, what did he mean? Did he mean his supernatural power would dwell within us and manifest itself in signs and wonders greater than he ever demonstrated? Yes, I believe so. The Bible says that wherever Peter’s shadow was cast people were healed. But I think that explanation is incomplete. I think he also intended that through our own free will and God given abilities we would accomplish things greater than his signs and wonders. For an omnipotent God, which is easier: to supernaturally heal a person dying of malaria, or to rally a group of free-willed doctors from across the world to administer a cure that took years to develop and costs way more than the average person can afford? Both are improbable, if not seemingly impossible. Both are miraculous. And for both, to Him be the glory and praise, Amen.
Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I am going to the Father.
The past two weeks I have been working with a team of medical professionals in a free medical clinic. They came to practice medicine in an orphanage and a remote village called Sansanne Hausa. Throughout those two weeks, over 2,200 patients were seen by two doctors, two surgeons and an OBGYN. That is, at least, five times as many patients as they would normally see in that amount of time. I spent most of my time assisting two dentists from El Salvador, cleaning, filling and pulling teeth, and making dentures. Now that the team has safely returned home I have time to sum up some thoughts.
What constitutes a miracle? Does it always manifest itself through supernatural signs and wonders? This week I watched a different sort of miracle in action. The sick were made well, the malnourished were given food and the toothless were given smiles. And all it took was a team of 16 people who were willing to set aside their overcrowded schedules for two weeks, spend thousands of dollars (and sacrifice thousands more in missed work) to travel thousands of miles with dozens of crates of medicine to treat strangers and beggars who speak a different language and worship a different god. That’s no small miracle if you ask me.
So when Jesus said we would do even greater things than he, what did he mean? Did he mean his supernatural power would dwell within us and manifest itself in signs and wonders greater than he ever demonstrated? Yes, I believe so. The Bible says that wherever Peter’s shadow was cast people were healed. But I think that explanation is incomplete. I think he also intended that through our own free will and God given abilities we would accomplish things greater than his signs and wonders. For an omnipotent God, which is easier: to supernaturally heal a person dying of malaria, or to rally a group of free-willed doctors from across the world to administer a cure that took years to develop and costs way more than the average person can afford? Both are improbable, if not seemingly impossible. Both are miraculous. And for both, to Him be the glory and praise, Amen.
Personal Update
It has been over a week since my last update, and for that I apologize. Life here has been very full and there were many days where I left the house at 7 and would return after 10 that night. But, as tiring as the past two weeks were, I am so satisfied with how they were spent. It was incredible to watch the medical team in action. I got to know some pretty incredible people, American and Nigerien alike. I had the opportunity to get to know to of the Nigerien pastors, Djibo and Hassane, really well. We conversed through my limited (yet growing) French and joked during the long, crammed drives to and from the village.
The team left two days ago, which meant saying goodbye to new friends and my mother. It also marked the first time I have been in Niger without a mission team. I have officially joined Nigerien society, buying a cell phone and moving into my apartment. The moto won’t come for a little while, but Rodrigo and I have been price shopping while I gather the funds. We are also planning a weekend retreat to Gao, Mali with the missionaries here. It should be a great chance to relax after a busy two weeks. I’m also looking forward to the chance to visit with and get direction from my supervising missionary, Brent Teague.
Personally, I am doing very well. I am learning so much each day, both during my hours of French and the time I spend with people here. After a day down with a stomach bug, I have been healthy with ample energy for the day. But most importantly, God is teaching me and showing me so many things during this time. I am still excited for what is in store during the coming months and so glad to be right where I am.
The team left two days ago, which meant saying goodbye to new friends and my mother. It also marked the first time I have been in Niger without a mission team. I have officially joined Nigerien society, buying a cell phone and moving into my apartment. The moto won’t come for a little while, but Rodrigo and I have been price shopping while I gather the funds. We are also planning a weekend retreat to Gao, Mali with the missionaries here. It should be a great chance to relax after a busy two weeks. I’m also looking forward to the chance to visit with and get direction from my supervising missionary, Brent Teague.
Personally, I am doing very well. I am learning so much each day, both during my hours of French and the time I spend with people here. After a day down with a stomach bug, I have been healthy with ample energy for the day. But most importantly, God is teaching me and showing me so many things during this time. I am still excited for what is in store during the coming months and so glad to be right where I am.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Finally Here
Greetings to everyone from Niger! It is so great to finally be where for so long I have felt called to be. Before I left, the most common question asked was, “has it sunk in yet that you will be moving to Niger for the next two years?” I was excited, but it still didn’t feel real. But as I flew over the desert it began to settle. And when I was greeted by new family, Brent (the 14 year missionary from Texas), Dave (2 year missionary from MCC), Rodrigo (4 year missionary from El Salvador), and Boureima (a pastor who sits on the board of the National Church) with “Welcome Home” the reality of the situation finally sank in. This is home. I’m not moved in to my apartment yet, and I am still living out of my suitcases, but this is most definitely home.
Reasons I know God wants me in Niger:
1 I had window seats on both plane rides… score
2 The seat next to me was empty on the first plane (7 hours)
3 How excited all the missionaries and pastors were at my arrival
4 How perfect my new apartment is
Ok, maybe those are just details that have gone in my favor. But I like to see them as God smiling on me, showing me in little ways that I am doing as I am supposed to.
I have experienced a huge change of pace from the life I had gotten used to in the States. Contrary to what one might expect, I am way more busy now than I was before I left. That’s partially because I didn’t have anything to do in the States, but also because there is so much to do here. I came in the company of a medical team from the states that will be running a free medical clinic in the villages for two weeks. The team includes two surgeons, two PA’s, a general physician, a couple of nurse practitioners, an OBGYN and two dentists from El Salvador. My first two days I assisted the two dentists from El Salvador, translating where possible, but mostly assisting them as needed since I am the only one, other than Rodrigo (who can’t stand to watch) and Juanita, who understands them. If you ever want to feel stretched, come to work in Africa. In my first two days I have made dentures for a pastor, pulled teeth, translated from Spanish to English and French, where possible, and already had 3 hours of French class.
So instead of moving into my apartment, I am currently living with Dave and his family, which includes his wife Hope and sons Sam (2) and Nathanial (5 months). I’ll be living here until I get fixed up with a cell phone and a way of getting around town. I’m currently shopping for dirt bikes, which means the Mechanicsville redneck in my head is doing cartwheels. I’ll probably move into my apartment soon after the medical team leaves and things settle down.
As a side note, Ramadan ends on Tuesday, which I am pretty excited for. As I understand, the holy month culminates with a great feast and ceremony, including mass goat sacrifices, commemorating how God provided for Abraham when he was about to sacrifice Ishmael, not Isaac as Christian doctrine teaches. It’s exciting to see and learn all of these differences first hand.
All in all, I am so happy to be here and things are going really well. I know this initial excitement will wear off, which is why it is reassuring the best things for me are people and places that will endure. When the honeymoon ends I will still be in a place I love with people I love, and that is what matters most.
Reasons I know God wants me in Niger:
1 I had window seats on both plane rides… score
2 The seat next to me was empty on the first plane (7 hours)
3 How excited all the missionaries and pastors were at my arrival
4 How perfect my new apartment is
Ok, maybe those are just details that have gone in my favor. But I like to see them as God smiling on me, showing me in little ways that I am doing as I am supposed to.
I have experienced a huge change of pace from the life I had gotten used to in the States. Contrary to what one might expect, I am way more busy now than I was before I left. That’s partially because I didn’t have anything to do in the States, but also because there is so much to do here. I came in the company of a medical team from the states that will be running a free medical clinic in the villages for two weeks. The team includes two surgeons, two PA’s, a general physician, a couple of nurse practitioners, an OBGYN and two dentists from El Salvador. My first two days I assisted the two dentists from El Salvador, translating where possible, but mostly assisting them as needed since I am the only one, other than Rodrigo (who can’t stand to watch) and Juanita, who understands them. If you ever want to feel stretched, come to work in Africa. In my first two days I have made dentures for a pastor, pulled teeth, translated from Spanish to English and French, where possible, and already had 3 hours of French class.
So instead of moving into my apartment, I am currently living with Dave and his family, which includes his wife Hope and sons Sam (2) and Nathanial (5 months). I’ll be living here until I get fixed up with a cell phone and a way of getting around town. I’m currently shopping for dirt bikes, which means the Mechanicsville redneck in my head is doing cartwheels. I’ll probably move into my apartment soon after the medical team leaves and things settle down.
As a side note, Ramadan ends on Tuesday, which I am pretty excited for. As I understand, the holy month culminates with a great feast and ceremony, including mass goat sacrifices, commemorating how God provided for Abraham when he was about to sacrifice Ishmael, not Isaac as Christian doctrine teaches. It’s exciting to see and learn all of these differences first hand.
All in all, I am so happy to be here and things are going really well. I know this initial excitement will wear off, which is why it is reassuring the best things for me are people and places that will endure. When the honeymoon ends I will still be in a place I love with people I love, and that is what matters most.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Countdown: 6 days
Less than a week until I leave. On the 24th of September I will finally be boarding the plane that I have been waiting for since December 2005. Everybody asks me if I am nervous. Of course I am. But it’s the same mix of excitement and anticipation that I felt 4 years ago when I left for college. My excitement far outweighs any apprehension I might feel. These past two years I have done all I can to prepare myself for the adventure that lies in front of me. I am as ready as I can possibly be, minus the packing.
This past week I learned exactly what my living arrangements will be. I will be sharing an apartment with another American, Jeremy, at the Bible school in Niamey. I will have my own bedroom and bathroom and will be sharing a kitchen with Jeremy. I will have electricity, running water, and access to internet at the Teague home. This is better than I expected to have, and sooner than I thought I would be living in the Bible school, so I’m pretty excited about it. This living arrangement will definitely be more conducive to my French language skills.
There are things that I do not look forward to leaving. Most of those things are not things, but people. I hope to connect with as many of those people as possible over the next 6 days. But, inspired by Turner, I have come up with a “bucket list” of things I want to do before I leave. It’s pretty short with nothing too drastic, but here it is:
Drink at least one 7-11 Slurpee every day
Play 2 rounds of Frisbee Golf
Call as many of my cell phone friends as possible (goal: 40)
Finish “The Fate of Africa” by Martin Meredith
Eat a Giovanni’s Stromboli
Go to the movies one last time
Run my old 10 mile loop
Have a River City Diner milkshake
Salvage my struggling fantasy football team
But, more important than this list of things I want to accomplish, I just want to enjoy the last remaining days with my friends and family. My last Saturday of college football (please beat UAB, Gamecocks), my last Sunday of English speaking church, and my last meal with my family (even Benjamin is making the voyage home from Tech), these are the things I look forward to most.
Anyway, that is all for now. Hopefully I will have another about a week after I land.
This past week I learned exactly what my living arrangements will be. I will be sharing an apartment with another American, Jeremy, at the Bible school in Niamey. I will have my own bedroom and bathroom and will be sharing a kitchen with Jeremy. I will have electricity, running water, and access to internet at the Teague home. This is better than I expected to have, and sooner than I thought I would be living in the Bible school, so I’m pretty excited about it. This living arrangement will definitely be more conducive to my French language skills.
There are things that I do not look forward to leaving. Most of those things are not things, but people. I hope to connect with as many of those people as possible over the next 6 days. But, inspired by Turner, I have come up with a “bucket list” of things I want to do before I leave. It’s pretty short with nothing too drastic, but here it is:
Drink at least one 7-11 Slurpee every day
Play 2 rounds of Frisbee Golf
Call as many of my cell phone friends as possible (goal: 40)
Finish “The Fate of Africa” by Martin Meredith
Eat a Giovanni’s Stromboli
Go to the movies one last time
Run my old 10 mile loop
Have a River City Diner milkshake
Salvage my struggling fantasy football team
But, more important than this list of things I want to accomplish, I just want to enjoy the last remaining days with my friends and family. My last Saturday of college football (please beat UAB, Gamecocks), my last Sunday of English speaking church, and my last meal with my family (even Benjamin is making the voyage home from Tech), these are the things I look forward to most.
Anyway, that is all for now. Hopefully I will have another about a week after I land.
A page from my Niger Journal, December 11, 2005
So I thought it would be interesting to see what was going through my head during my first trip to Niger. I think it's good to look back and remind myself just how deep my love for this country goes.
Saturday December 11, 2005
Today I found myself caught up in a love affair. I don't know yet if it is God speaking to me or just me being caught up in the novelty of my experiences. I know there is something I am supposed to take from this journey, I'm just not sure what it all means yet. Or maybe I do know, and that certainty is what surprises me.
These past few days of seeing all that God is doing in Niger has been nothing short of incredible. Spending time with the missionaries, seeing the countryside, visiting with nationals and doing children's camps has been eye-opening, to say the least. But here is what got my wheels turning. Today we went and saw a shop that was owned by the church. The man running the shop was a recently converted Christian. When he gave his life to Christ, his Muslim family shunned him. They kicked him out of the home and the family business. With nowhere else to go, he went to the church. They took him in and put him in charge of their nearby store. Working at that store sustained him in many ways. Not only did it sustain his physical needs, but it also sustained him spiritually. Now his family is wondering at a church that loves its members so much. Amazing. This experience, among others, has caused me to fall in love with the people and the country.
So here is where the love affair begins. I love it here. I still am not totally sure if it is God's voice or my own, but I definitely feel something changing in me. I feel guilty because my first love is Japan. I love the Japanese people, the friends I have there, their culture, the people in the States I work with and share my love. I also have a fondness for Latin America after 8 years of studying Spanish and hispanic culture. But I am definitely in love with all of those things here. The Teagues are such an amazing couple that are doing such an incredible work. Rodrigo and Juanita I have loved from the moment I met them. Boureima and the other pastors are the most loving people I know and I only wish I could communicate better with them. The younger men of the Master's Commission that I have worked with have become brothers. The people in the villages are so different. Maybe it's my white skin, but they are so friendly it's contagious. The culture speaks for itself.
But am I betraying my first love? I have a vision for this country unlike any I have had for Japan or Latin America. I can see my place here so clearly, creating jobs or training nationals so they could generate their own businesses. I have ideas of how to prepare myself: learning French, researching African business case studies, studying abroad in Africa. I have no such vision of my place in Japan or Latin America. And by coming here I would be joining a work that God is already doing, not seeking to start something new abroad.
I have a lot to ponder over this Christmas break. All I know for sure is that I am coming back. My part in God's work here is only beginning.
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