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.
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