Fruit Growing in the Desert

February Fast

2010-04-03T04:55:00.000-07:00

As one could easily imagine, being an American missionary in Niger comes with its share of challenges. It is difficult to love people you do not fully understand. It is easy to develop a fondness, even a strong liking, for people you can hardly identify with. But love is greater than liking and stronger than fondness. It encompasses more than just kindness and entails much more than generosity. As Christians we are called to love everyone, even our enemies. But how do we achieve love without liking, charity without condition?

It is understanding that facilitates love and it is experience that facilitates understanding. It is easier to love the womanizer and rapist if you have ever struggled with the same issues of lust. It is easier to love the anorexic and the suicidal if you have ever been repulsed by the mirror’s reflection. The murderer suddenly becomes lovable when you, too, are washing away the bitter taste of hatred. Experience leads to understanding, and understanding reduces the villains in our lives to mere humans and it transforms our nemeses into neighbors. It allows us to see people for what they are… a wonderfully and fearfully made creation.

In all of my travels I think Nigeriens are one of the more likable people I have encountered. However, this instant liking does not always evolve into love. Sometimes love is blocked by a lack of understanding. They come from a world that is truly foreign to my western expectations and experiences. There are three major experience gaps that have hindered my ability to understand the way they act and think. There is a gap in cultural experience. Regardless of tribe, their languages, foods, values and customs are distinct from those of Western society. There is also a gap in spiritual experience. Though “spirituality” is the salient trend in the States, there is an overwhelming disregard for and disbelief of the spirit world, even amongst evangelical Christians, that Africans embrace. And finally there is the tremendous gap in economic experience. Even the poorest Americans do not have to walk miles to reach the nearest water source.

Over the past seventeen months I have sought to overcome these gaps in understanding by having as many experiences as possible. I have had tremendous cultural experiences, embracing the lifestyles of the Gourmantche, Hausa, Djerma and Fulani. I have had unforgettable spiritual encounters that have allowed me to better understand and appreciate the difference in spiritual background. While I still have much to learn in these two areas, my experiences now allow me to better understand these foreign peoples. It is the third gap of economic experience that has proven the most difficult to overcome. The African paradigm of money use remains an enigma to me. And as a missionary working in business development, this is an area of understanding that is vital to the effectiveness of my work.

In order to overcome the gap in economic understanding I decided to subject myself to an experiment. If experience is our oldest teacher, then what better way to learn their financial mindset than to experience their economic condition? During the month of February I resolved to live off 50,000 CFA, or roughly $100.00 US. This is the base salary for a Nigerien pastor in the Assemblies of God. I also put several guidelines on the experiment. First, I would refuse all aid from expatriate friends. This included meal invitations, personal ride offers (i.e. not work related) and gifts of any kind. Invitations and assistance offered by Africans, however, were considered fair game. I also decided to pay 5,000 CFA rent for my room since this is the rate paid by other students in the dormitory. The only real difference in our accommodations is my air conditioning unit, which I decided not to use all month. And finally, per normal spiritual discipline, I would tithe 5,000 CFA. This left me with 40,000 CFA in walking around money for the month of February, which works out to less than $3 a day.

During the short month of February I learned a lot about money. I learned how simple life could be. I learned how to trust God for provision each time my budget exploded. I ate almost every meal and still lost weight. But, more importantly, I believe I have taken a few steps farther across the bridge that traverses the canyon of economic experience. I hope in this update to take you on that journey.

February Fast 2: Expenses by Category

2010-04-03T04:54:00.000-07:00

*Rent*	5,000 CFA	$10.00
*Tithe*	5,000 CFA	$10.00
*Food*	14,825 CFA	$29.65
*Motorcycle*	19,100 CFA	$38.20
*Bicycle*	2,000 CFA	$4.00
*Cell Phone*	3,800 CFA	$7.60
*Other*	150 CFA	$0.30
	49,875 CFA	$99.75

February Fast 3: Consider the Birds of the Air

2010-04-03T04:53:00.000-07:00

In the miraculous feeding of the 5,000, we often neglect the sacrifice made by the boy who offered his bread and fish. We look at his gift in anticipation of the miracle. But what about the moment just before the miracle? He had little, but what he did have he gave freely. He didn’t give expecting Jesus to multiply his lunch into a banquet. He had every expectation of eating less when he gave away his food. Yet he resigned himself to hunger, choosing obedience over a full stomach.

A budget can be a dangerous thing. It is wise to plan and prudent to prepare for anticipated expenses, but this month taught me the foolishness of putting total trust in good budgeting. For the first week my budgeting bordered on obsession. Every day I would make projections and, based on my projections, calculate how much I could afford to spend on food that day. But, no sooner was every franc mentally accounted for than some incident blew my plan to smithereens.

There were some things in my budget that were fixed, and others could fluctuate. I knew I would spend about 4,000 on phone cards, so that was mentally accounted for. I had three village excursions planned, which I knew would demand about 15,000 in gas and oil for the motorcycle. I planned on using my bicycle for city commutes, cutting down on gas expenses. So in my mind I allotted 20,000 CFA for food, which broke down to around 700 CFA per day (roughly $1.40). That budget lasted less than 24 hours.

Riding on my bicycle to the Teague’s I noticed my front tire go flat. I pulled over at the nearest tire repair shop, expecting to pay around $0.50 for a patch. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just a puncture in the tube. The air valve had been ripped off, mortally wounding the tube. That meant 2,000 CFA for a new tube and a change to my per diem. I was knocked down to 640 CFA per day on food (roughly $1.25).

On the 6^th day of my experiment I had my first village voyage. I rode out to meet a group of men in Chileda who still had questions about Jesus following my last visit. After teaching on Jesus healing the paralytic in Mark 2 and answering questions, they implored me to return later that week. I had not planned to make another trip till the next month, but I felt I needed to respond to their request. Mentally I took another 3,000 CFA from my food budget, reducing my per diem to 530 CFA (roughly $1.06)

This mental accounting continued until week two. At this time I had started counting unforeseen expenses in terms of missed meals. Spending an extra 200 CFA meant missing a breakfast or lunch. Midway through my second week I was walking to buy a plate of rice and beans when I ran into my friend, Allie. I could tell by the way he greeted me that something was troubling him. Walking with me to the restaurant he started confiding his woes and asking for counsel. I felt compelled to invite him to eat with me. I knew full well Allie’s full stomach meant an empty stomach later that week. I decided to trust God, sure that I was following his prodding.

Never has my obedience to God’s direction been so immediately rewarded. After eating with Allie I returned to my apartment. On my way I ran into my friend Issoufou. He was carrying a sack of groceries and said, “Hey stop by the dorm tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to fix lunch and want you to come join me.” Just like that the hole in my meal schedule was filled. It was even more remarkable because, until that day, Issoufou had never invited me to share a meal.

I know this is a simple example of the Lord’s provision. But in February I learned just how much generosity is magnified when the means are minimized. In January, offering a friend a plate of rice and beans would have been no sacrifice at all. In February it was a leap of faith. In January, a lunch invitation would have been a nice gesture. In February it was salvation.

After that lunch invitation, the mental budgeting did not completely stop. I still made per diem calculations to keep from overspending. However, I stopped trusting in my budget to get me to the month’s end without going into the red. I trusted God to provide. This is an easy task when there is money in the bank and groceries in the fridge. It becomes a serious exercise when money runs out and the pantry is empty. Can God provide? Will he catch me when I fall? It is only by leaving behind our parachutes and taking away our safety nets that we will ever know for sure.

February Fast 4: Silver and Gold have I None

2010-04-03T04:51:00.000-07:00

Much is made of the indignant reaction of the scribes when Jesus told the paralytic his sins were forgiven. But what of the four men peering through the hole in the roof? What were their reactions in the moments between the proclamation, “Your sins are forgiven,” and the ensuing command to, “Rise, pick up your bed and go home?” They had not carried their friend for miles in search of salvation. They had not fought crowds and vandalized homes hoping for forgiveness. They had sought the Jesus who made the lame to walk and the blind to see. To those men the forgiveness of sins must have sounded like a bitter refusal of what seemed to them to be the more salient need.

When Nigeriens see white skin what they really see are dollar signs. It is the status symbol equivalent of driving a Mercedes. Walking through the markets I am instantly profiled and shopkeepers mentally add 50% to their normal asking price. Even the children in my neighborhood, who see me walking to the baker’s almost every morning, never tire of asking the Anasara (white boy) for a handout. They know who I am. They know I live in a modest apartment and drive a motorcycle. Yet they can’t dissociate the connection between white skin and money. This racial profiling is a mild nuisance in the neighborhood. It can grow to tremendous frustration amongst price gouging vendors. In evangelism, however, it can inflame into a curse.

During my first visit to Chileda my friend, Allie, had told me that he had accepted Christ as his savior. He told me there were at least 10 others in the village that had made similar confessions thanks to my evangelistic efforts. It was Allie who implored me to return within the week to meet with him and the other new believers. Greatly encouraged, I agreed to return despite the strain it put on my already tight February budget. As a result my friend and Fufulde interpretor, Alzouma, and I rode out to Chileda early that Thursday morning. We rendezvoused with Pastor Lawali at the town square and waited for Allie and his friends to come.

Allie was the only one who came. Not wanting to waste the morning (and the fuel that had brought us there) the four of us found a tree nearby where we could sit and talk. I shared from John 3 about Nicodemus and being born again. By the time I finished sharing three other villagers had taken seats to listen. Lawali, Alzouma and I then took turns sharing our personal testimonies. We then asked Allie when he first accepted Christ and what inspired him to do so. He said that he had accepted the first day I preached by the flooded road and that it was my sermon that had inspired him. What then followed this awesome and encouraging time was a series of events I will never forget:

“So when do you think you will be able to come back?” Allie asked.

“Well, I have a busy schedule this month but I am already planning to come back March 5^th,” I responded

“Well, all of us work in the fields and some of our fields are far away,” Allie explained. “If we do not know you are coming it will be difficult for us to meet with you. That’s why some could not come today. You should call me to let me know so I can tell people.”

“Ok, what is the phone number I can reach you at?” I asked, pulling out my phone to type in the number.

“Oh, I don’t have a phone,” Allie said. “You need to buy me a phone,” he added.

“I’m not going to buy you a phone,” I said. “I don’t have the money to buy you a phone.”

“That’s not true! You have the money to buy me a phone. You just won’t. How can you expect a plant to bear fruit if you won’t water it?” he argued

Normally, he would be right. But this is February. So with a clear conscience I responded, “Honestly, I do not have the money to buy you a phone. And even if I did I still wouldn’t. I told you from the beginning that I came to share the Gospel, nothing else. If you are looking for money or gifts then you came to the wrong person.”

“Well, if that’s the case then I’m no longer going to follow Jesus. If you don’t give me a phone then Jesus and I are finished,” he concluded, clapping the dust off his hands for emphasis.

At this point the conversation took a turn I didn’t expect. The truth was spoken from the most unlikely of sources. One of the strangers that had come to listen stood up and started speaking:

“Don’t listen to Allie! He’s a liar! NOBODY in this village has accepted Jesus. We are all Muslims. Maybe some have questions, maybe some want to listen to your teaching, but NOBODY has accepted Jesus.” In my heart I knew his words to be true.

Allie, irate with anger, jumped up to defend his honor. “You lie!” he shouted back. “I have accepted Jesus! I believe in Jesus! If it weren’t for this cell phone business I would still follow him! It’s because of that that I stop following.”

“If that is the truth then you never really accepted. You never really believed. You just said you did so you could get a cell phone. You are nothing but a swindler and a con artist!”

Allie can no longer stand it. In a rage he charges the bystander, throwing punches with reckless abandon. A couple of stout blows are landed before the bystander realizes he’s in a fight and starts throwing punches of his own. Lawali and Alzouma and I, with the help of the other two bystanders, jump up to separate the two combatants. Eventually they are ripped apart, still shouting curses in Fufulde. Allie, between curses, manages to free his right arm and stretched it out toward the bystander with extended fingers, giving the Nigerien equivalent of the middle finger. The bystander, still being restrained, spits at Allie over Lawali’s shoulder and returns the gesture.

After much arguing, most of which I did not understand, Allie calms down and the bystander storms away. Allie then gets the guts to make one last request for a phone. This time I laugh. “I won’t give you a phone, “ I said. “But if you ever stop thinking about that and want to learn more about Jesus, I will be here to teach you. “ With that Alzouma, Lawali and I mounted our bikes and took the road home.

Peter and John once told a lame man to rise and walk. This man, however, had a different sort of blessing in mind. He was looking for money. The moment just before he was healed his solicitation of funds was refused. I wonder how he felt in that moment just before the miracle. Was he upset at the refusal? Was he mentally cursing Peter and John as a pair of self-righteous Jews who refused to help a man on hard times? While the man did not get what he was looking for, the gift he received was far greater than the alms he had requested.

It would have been far easier for Peter to drop a few coins in the paralytic’s palm. It would have required almost no effort and even less faith. But the immediate blessing would have come at the cost of the greater miracle. And on that particular day, the coin was not an option. What did it take for that man to walk? Nothing. Nothing was necessary. I don’t mean, “nothing was necessary” as in “it was not necessary for them to have anything.” I mean, “nothing was necessary” as in “it was necessary for them to have nothing.” Empty pockets were a requirement.

The streets of Niamey are literally crawling with widows, blind men, cripples and lepers begging for money. When I have money in my pockets these beggars can be seen as a nuisance. In February, when my pockets rarely held more than 500 CFA, these beggars ceased to resemble parasites. Even when being hassled for money, my empty pockets allowed me look past the open palm to the person extending it. I think it no small coincidence that the most ridiculous outburst I have ever seen following a sermon happened during the month of February. Any other time I would have been indignant with such a brazen request. I might have joined the bystander in labeling Allie a swindler and a cheat. But because I had nothing, because I could honestly say, “Nokia and Samsung have I none,” I felt no offence and less resent. I needed no defense because I had nothing to protect. I was not a wealthy man rejecting the poor man’s plea, insulted at the asking. I was his brother in suffering who could find no fault in his trying, laughing at the absurdity of the asking.

It’s hard to love people when you are constantly on the defensive. It’s hard to pray blessings on those you view with caution and suspicion. It was because I had no defenses and no suspicion that I left Allie with love, rather than bitterness, in my heart. I prayed for Allie the whole ride home. Maybe this is just the moment before his miracle. Maybe, like the four friends or Peter’s paralytic, he is only upset at what appears to be the denial of his request. Perhaps he will someday understand the blessing he was offered instead.

You Prepare a Table

2010-02-24T10:19:00.000-08:00

Sitting on my motorcycle under the Saturday sun I listened to speech after speech praising the courageous soldiers who brought an end to President Tandja’s rule and his short-lived 6^th Republic. Al-Hassan and Al-Husseini, my twin companions, and I had ridden out to Rond Point de L’armée to witness the rally being organized in honor of Thursday’s coup d’état. We found ourselves on the fringes of a crowd that numbered well over 50,000. Men and women of all ages and all tribes came to celebrate what they considered the rebirth of democracy. The assembly encircled a 19-place van whose luggage rack held four speakers and a makeshift podium for the day’s orators. The leaders of the Supreme Council for the Restoration of Democracy, the interim governing body, were scheduled to appear, but had not yet arrived. In the mean time, each of Niger’s political parties expressed their pleasure in the coup’s success and their wishes for a speedy return to order. Many of the speeches were repetitive and redundant, but there was one statement that stuck in my mind:

“The 6^th Republic left just as it came; by force! It forced its way in through the back door, and through the back door it was forced out!”

He spoke well when he used the word “force.” I heard the force of which he spoke. There was no finesse to their tanks and no stealth to their cannon fire. Their force was deployed without hesitation or reserve. The sounds of their force shook the house where I had taken refuge.

At 1pm on the 18 of February I was at the Teague house, a Google Earth-measured ¾ mile from the Presidential offices. I had just finished changing the oil on their generator when Pastor Adamou, who had left only a few minutes prior, came running back through the gate warning us to go inside. Ten seconds had not passed before we heard the first cannons and machine guns. I ran to the front gate to pull in my motorcycle and lock the gate behind me. The dust flew in the street as husbands raced home to wives and fathers raced home to children. After locking the gate, I ran back into the Teague house, joining Brent, Shelley, Julie, Pastor Adamou, Dankarami and Pastor Terah. Each was shouting over the gun blasts into their cell phones, locating friends and family and cautioning them to stay inside. At the conclusion of each call, updates were shouted to the others in the room:

“Jeremy (my roommate) and the girls (Ashley and Amber Teague) are at Sahel! They heard the shots and are locking down the school!” exclaimed a very relieved Shelley.

“The dorm students heard the shots and are locked down!” came Brent’s update.

“Danika isn’t answering her phone! I hope she isn’t on her motorcycle!” shouted a very concerned Julie.

“I just called Moumouni (the day guard at Julie and Danika’s house) and he says they heard the shots and are locked in the house!” I added, seeing instant relief on her roommate’s face.

“Rodrigo and Juanita are safe at home!” came Shelley’s second update.

“Isn’t Rod supposed to be in Alambare till tomorrow?” asked Brent.

“Yeah, he said for some strange reason he felt the need to come back this morning. He just got in 30 minutes ago,” Shelley explained. We all stopped at this, acknowledging God’s protection and provision. We all knew that neither of those lovebirds would tolerate being separate from their other half during such a crisis.

By the time all friends and family were accounted for the Armageddon explosions had ceased. All that could be heard were the occasional spurts of machine gun fire. Dankarami and Adamou, confident that the worst was over, headed in the opposite direction of the battle to join their families. Our cell phones were put aside in favor of laptops, tapping out hurried messages to the loved ones in the states. After Facebook and Twitter had been sufficiently updated with our statuses and emails were sent to close friends and families, we all gathered around Pastor Terah. He was vigilantly scanning the radio. The first thing successful over throwers do is take control of communications. They broadcast their military march on all radio and TV channels before making a statement announcing their new regime. All stations were continuing with their normal programming. This, combined with the rattling gunfire, assured us that the attackers had not yet been successful.

After listening to the radio and spending some time in collective prayer, Shelley beckoned us to the table. “Lunch is ready,” she said. “Seeing as we can’t go anywhere and there is nothing else we can do, we might as well eat.” So we all heeded her call and sat down to a feast of pasta casserole complete with bread and salad. Brent prayed a special prayer of blessings and thanks before we started to eat.

That was one of the strangest parts of the whole experience. Not a mile from our location a battle for control of the country was unfolding, and we gathered around a table to eat. The dogs were barking at the sound of machine guns and we hushed them so we could eat in peace. We sipped sweet tea and passed the salad dressing while people died on the streets. We talked about the coup like it was something we heard on the news, but it was still happening. My problem was not a fear of danger or anxiety over the outcome. I was troubled that we were going on with ordinary life while extraordinary circumstances were afoot.

After lunch I spent some time alone in prayer. I could not shake the aftertaste of lunch’s situational irony. All of my thoughts on the subject led me to the same question: What is the appropriate response? After chasing all the answers down their rabbit holes, I arrived at a Psalm that most churchgoers will recognize.

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in still pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

I have a new appreciation for David’s sentiments, which share the same irony as our lunch. I wonder how many times, while surrounded by the enemy, David and his men sat down to a meal. When the battle raged in the distance the Lord prepared a table. I wonder how many times David ate at the same table as those who conspired against him. In the face of sedition and mutiny the Lord prepared a table. Did David refuse to eat because his enemies were present? Did he fast because there was chaos all around him? No. With his confidence in the shepherd, David would sit and partake in the feast because “you prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

On February 18 those verses came to life in Niamey. While the army was forcing President Tandja’s regime out the back door, the Lord prepared a table for us. At around 5pm the fighting had waned to where Jeremy, Danika and the girls were able to make it home. That evening, to the sound of the military march playing on the radio, the Lord prepared a table once more.

The Lamb is Risen

2010-02-24T09:42:00.000-08:00

Political cartoons are a fantastic glimpse into the public opinion. On Saturday the 20th, when I went to the rally for the new regime, copies of the cartoon below were being sold on every street corner. Before we get to the cartoon, however, you need a little history.

Last May, President Mamadou Tandja wanted to pass a referendum to amend the constitution of Niger. His second term as President was due to end on December 22 of 2009. The constitution at the time had a two term limit for the president, much like America's. Should the referendum be successful he would be allowed a third mandate of 3 years. Parliament ruled that such a referendum would be unconstitutional and therefore illegal. Tandja shocked the nation by dissolving parliament on May 26, 2009. His actions were condemned by the Supreme Court, which was swiftly dissolved as well. On August 4, 2009, the referendum for the constitutional amendment was put to a vote. It passed with 92% approval.

Everyone expected that December 23, 2009, would be a day of action and intrigue. Since December 22 was Tandja's last day in office per the old constitution, the 23 marked the birth of Niger's 6th Republic. The protestors rested and the demonstrators sat silent. On February 2nd Tandja issued the following statement in reference to the bygone 5th Republic during a radio broadcast:

"The lamb has been slaughtered. It is finished. Nigeriens who are outside the country have nothing more to wait for. They should return. The lamb has been slaughtered."

Now the political cartoon. Tandja is drawn on the right and the military leaders are on the left. The military men are saying, "You thought the lamb was dead. He has risen and his coming for you."

Tandja, who has left a shoe behind as he flees, is responding, "Oh no, I didn't do a good job of killing the lamb."

This is Africa

2010-02-05T02:21:00.000-08:00

Africans have an unusual way of greeting you after returning from vacation. After spending a month in the states most of my friends and acquaintances welcomed me back with the same phrases:

“What’s the news from America?”

“How is the family?”

“You look refreshed. You have become young again!”

“Wow, home must have been good! You have gained so much weight! Really, you look great!”

To Nigeriens, a vacation’s worth is measured in pounds gained. Gaining weight is a compliment to the voyage. It shows that work was exchanged for relaxation and stress for indulgence. Like most compliments given in any culture, it can be used regardless of truth. Some people, particularly American women, have a hard time handling this compliment. I, on the other hand, embrace it. After all, it would be a terrible shame to come back to Africa from an American holiday lighter than when you left. Thanks to Slurpees, barbeque, burritos and the #1 combo at Chik-Fil’A, I successfully traded in my cares for a couple additional pounds.

I had forgotten how much social activity in America revolves around meals and beverages. I spent a lot of my time catching up with old friends at familiar restaurants. My daily routine was breakfast, then coffee, to lunch, afternoon coffee, to dinner and finally out for desert, usually with a different person/group of people at each place. While doing my restaurant and coffee shop circuit, most people would eventually ask how it felt to be back. I knew that it felt great to be in America, but I had the hardest time explaining why. Most people were ready to fill in the blank for me, noting that 15 months in Africa is a long time. The simple answer was usually the burger in my hand or the friend across the table. It was not until I returned to Niger that I was able to put my finger on the exact reason America was so refreshing.

When I started this blog I titled it “Fruit Growing in the Desert: Ministry in a Muslim Nation, Business in an Impoverished Nation.” The title shows my desire to encourage spiritual and economic growth in a country where it is so desperately needed. These are also the two areas where change is hardest to affect. Aware of the challenges, or at least aware that there would be challenges, I came to Niger with hope for change. However, as months went by that hope was replaced by an acceptance of the status quo, or what I like to call “DiCapprio Syndrone.”

In the 2006 film Blood Diamond, Leonardo DiCaprio damns the continent with three words:

This

Africa.

This statement of defeat is used to acknowledge everything he knows needs fixing but will never be fixed. Outrage at government corruption, child soldiers, AIDS, starvation and a general sense of injustice are silenced with each repetition of “This is Africa.” Speaking as a resident of Niger, I can attest that this attitude begins to settle in with each month passed in Africa. The status quo becomes at first tolerable, then acceptable, and finally the standard. Hope for change still exists, but hope is slowly rocked to sleep with the gentle lullaby of “This is Africa.”

The best part of my month spent in America was that my hope for change was shook awake. This reveille was inspired by a variety of people and circumstances, but is ultimately boiled down to a fresh encounter with the power of the gospel. Can Africa change? I have to believe so. To deny Africa the possibility of change is to deny the very gospel I preach. To accept the status quo is to reduce Jesus to a teacher and the Bible to moral code. This is Africa… This is Niger… This is Niamey. Were it left up to men those places would be like the phrases in which they are mentioned: defeated and incomplete. But in Christ we have hope for change. We have hope that those places can be redeemed and transformed. Things will not always be as they have been. This is Africa… ready to be made new.

(1)

2009-11-21T15:58:00.000-08:00

“Sometimes a man wants to be stupid if it lets him do a thing his cleverness forbids.” – John Steinbeck

One of the Boy Scout mottos is “Ready for anything.” My dad was an Eagle Scout and to this day still embodies that motto. My siblings and I would sometimes get annoyed with his seeming over preparedness, but we were inevitably grateful when extraneous precautionary items became essentials. Before the days of GPS there were always VA, NC, MD and DC roadmaps in the glove boxes of Williams family vehicles. He always has both a bottle of sunscreen and an umbrella in his golf bag and he always has a band-aid in his wallet. I was never a very good Boy Scout. In truth I didn’t even make it to Boy Scouts; I dropped out around WEBLOS.

I make a much better African than I do a Boy Scout. Africans tend to operate under a different mantra: “React to anything.” Preparedness is not appreciated as much as adaptation. Nigerien unpreparedness is more attributed to a lack of means than a lack of foresight. Consequently, an African ambulance would probably arrive late to the scene because they would have to stop and get gas on the way. Repairs on vehicles and tools are always in reaction to a problem. Preventive maintenance is a luxury only the rich can afford. Being prepared in Niger means driving a four-wheel drive Land Cruiser with sand tracks, an engine snorkel, tow rope and Gerry can filled with fuel. Being Nigerien means driving a beat-up motorcycle with a half tank of gas and a prayer.

These past few months I have had a series of adventures on my motorcycle. I have become skilled, if not expert at doing simple bush repairs on my bike to get it home in one piece. Spark plugs, tire plugs, dead batteries and carburetor repairs are things I’ve learned to deal with out of necessity. Despite my basic understanding of motors and how to get them running properly, I still have found myself broken down in the bush frequently of late. However, 8 months ago when I had to be rescued by Rodrigo just because my spark plug was spent (a three minute fix when you carry a spare) I resolved to never seek rescue when I break down or the road seems impassable. Prepared or not I am determined to make it to and from my destination without having to call Niamey for rescue. On several occasions I have paid the price for unpreparedness. Sometimes seeking help amongst villagers costs more than it would to call Brent or Rod. However, embracing the Nigerien mindset of reacting to anything, I have been rewarded with experiences and relationships that would not have been otherwise.

(2)

2009-11-21T15:56:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite projects that I have become involved with has been microloans amongst church members. I work through the arm of the local churches to find clients who need a small loan to reinforce their existing businesses. Usually these loans are between $100-$200 and their uses can range from pharmacies to farms, from hair salons to sheep herding. The project is still in the pilot phase, and three of my five clients live in the city. I follow up with those clients at least once a month, but usually more often due to their proximity. However, two of my clients live way off the beaten path in a village called Gueladjo.

First there is Soja, the spiritual lion of Gueladjo. He used his loan to buy millet in the Gueladjo market and resell in his village, which is two miles farther up the road. Then there is Mohammed El Hajji, a converted Muslim who has once made the sacred pilgrimage to Mecca. For the past 60 years (yes, that’s right, 60) he has been running a small radio repair business. He used his loan to stock his radio repair shop and to fatten a few rams before Tabaski, the Muslim holiday celebrated by mass ram slaughtering. These two have faithfully attended the Gueladjo church for years.

Gueladjo is a Fulani village a little over 80km from Niamey. The first 60km are along a paved highway, but the remaining 20km are down an eroded dirt road. It is populated by 400 herders and farmers. Its distance and remoteness make it difficult to visit more than once a month. The roundtrip can be done in one day, but I usually prefer to overnight at the church to split up the driving and to spend time with the pastor.

Pastor Lawali is a man who infects all he meets with his contagious smiles and joyful laughter. He is a simple man who matches each spoonful of instant coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar, a ritual repeated four to five times a day. He loves to trade stories, especially if it is over a game of spades. He is a good card player and would probably be better if he could keep his hands from shaking with excitement when he holds all the aces. He is passionate about evangelism, especially when a long and winding motorcycle ride is required to reach the unreached. He is an expert bush rider, whose instincts and experiences have taught him how to negotiate the most difficult of trails and how to overcome the most difficult of engine troubles. If he is guilty of a sin it is coveting my mosquito-netted hammock that I spread in his yard the nights I stay. It was he who noticed Soja and Mohammed’s need for a small loan and asked me to come and evaluate their proposals.

(3)

2009-11-21T15:55:00.000-08:00

Soja and Mohammed received their loans on the 16 May, 2009. They were given two months to put the money to work before making the first payment. I visited them in June to see how their businesses were progressing and to offer my prayers and advice. On July 25 I returned to Gueladjo to visit them once more and to collect the first payment.

The afternoon of the 25^th, the pastor and I ride to meet with El Hajji to discuss his progress. At his shop he shows me the stock of radio parts he had bought. We then walk to his home where the young rams are munching on baobab leaves. He had wasted no time, investing the full loan amount into his inventory. Returning to the shop, we sit down and talk about how the business was progressing. “I thank God,” he says. “Little by little I am gaining more clients, and I know these rams will fetch a high price come November.” He then hands me his first payment of 10,000 CFA plus an additional 2,000 CFA advance. “I want to finish payments as soon as possible,” he tells me. With a sly smile he adds, “I already have plans for the next loan.”

Excited and encouraged, Lawali and I ride on to visit Soja at his home. Soja pulls out a mat and invites us to sit while he goes to get milk from his cows for us to drink while we talk. Sipping the fresh cow’s milk from the gourd I ask him how the millet trade has been going. The conversation takes a while to be translated between French and Fufulde, but the pastor is extremely thorough. “He says that he has lots of clients,” relates Lawali. “Already he has sold over five sacks of millet to his village. His price is lower than the competition and he is closer than other markets. However, this is a hard time for the village. People do not have much money. The majority of the millet has been sold on credit. Some people have started to pay their credit, but most have not paid back. He has made some money, but most of it is still tied up in unpaid debt. Consequently, he cannot make the full payment this month. He can only pay 4,000 of the 7,500.”

Meet kindness, one of the fruits of the spirit, but also the killer of good business plans. My business mind wants to tell Soja that he has to stop the credit. I want to explain how, in such a small commerce, the credit will keep him from rebuilding his inventory and stall his business. I even start to explain these things, but something in me stops Lawali from translating the lecture. Instead I say, “Soja, I think you have seen how credit can slow your business. If you really trust that your neighbors will repay you, then I will not tell you stop. Right now, I think we should pray that your debtors make good on their word and that God would provide a new way for you to make profit out of your commerce. You still owe the 3,500, but we will worry about that later. For next month, let’s focus on making a full payment.” With that we spent some time in prayer before Lawali and I head back to the church.

Following a night of cards and stories with Lawali and his neighbors, we wake up early to prepare for the Sunday service. Soja shows up early to arrange the benches and Mohammed arrives just as the pastor starts tapping the drum. I don’t understand a word of the Fufulde worship, but I love the way Soja leads it and the way the rest of the congregation responds. After worship I preached a brief message on the Holy Spirit. I taught about the first Pentecost in Acts and how God sends his Spirit to help us share the good news. I explained that the Holy Spirit, though a mystical concept, doesn’t have to be spooky. When Jesus left, he knew it would be difficult to preach the gospel to Jews and Gentiles who were hostile to Christians. That’s why God sent the Holy Spirit, “the Helper,” to aid them in proclaiming the message of hope in dark world. Being a Christian in a Muslim country, especially in a small Muslim village, can be difficult. That is why God still sends His Spirit, to help us in the most difficult of places. We finished with a time of prayer, asking God to embolden and empower us with His Spirit, so we could be His witnesses in this village and this country.

After visiting with the members and lunch with the pastor, I load my bike to head home. I thank the pastor and his wife for their generosity and hit the road. I make it back to the highway without any problem. As is my habit, I stop in Kobadie for a pack of water and to send Brent a text. I let him know I’m on the road and a best guess of when I should be back. My bike is running great as I power on to Niamey.

Just 20km outside Niamey there is a village called Boulaba. It rests in a small valley between plateaus. Descending into the valley, my engine crescendos to a high-pitched whine as the RPM’s increase. This is normal and I think nothing of it until, “POP!” and my bike halts as abruptly as if I had slammed the brakes. This causes me to lurch forward and, on such a steep decline, the rear wheel starts lifting up. I pull the clutch to keep from flipping over the handlebars and coast down into the valley. At this point my engine trouble experience is limited to bad spark plugs and running out of gas. The spark plug is still good and I can hear the fuel sloshing in the tank, so that eliminates those possibilities. I can’t get a kick-start, so I ask a villager to help me push start. We are able to coax out a low rumble, but the engine never revs to life. “Sounds like you blew a piston,” he offers. I don’t know enough to validate or refute his words, but there is wisdom and experience in his voice. I pull out my cell phone to look for service. “There isn’t service down in the valley,” he tells me. “For that you have to climb the plateau.”

I park my bike and climb the small mountain of a plateau in search of service. My quest renders one bar. I call Brent and try to explain the situation. “Brent, I’m 20km outside of Niamey and my bike broke down. Can you come with the truck and pick me up?” The signal is so weak that all Brent hears is “Brent, *** 20km ****ide ** Nia*** *** my **ke broke do**. Can *** *** with the truck *** pi** me *p?” That’s all I could get out before the call was dropped. My solo journey that started with adventure has now deteriorated into frustration. I’m frustrated with the dropped call. I’m frustrated that I’m stuck just 20km from home. And, as I think on the situation, I become increasingly frustrated with myself. In March I had resolved not to ask for rescue any more, yet at the first trouble I revert to my old MO and call Brent. Just then I get a text from Brent, “You OK? Do I need to come and get you?” I think a moment and text back “No. I’ll call you when I get to the city,” and descend into the valley.

I ask the villagers if there is a transport going to Niamey anytime soon. It’s Sunday, so this means nothing is coming or going. The guy that helped me push start speaks up, “I can give you a tow into Niamey.”

“How?” I ask.

“We’ll tie your bike to the back of mine and you’ll just ride on it behind me.”

My first thought is that this is a terrible idea. Motorcycles aren’t cars. One sharp turn and I could pull his rear end out from under him. Then we’ll both be ripped off the road in a tandem of death. If he slams the breaks I could crash into him or fly past, ripping his tail around as I go. But then I start to wonder if it’s just my inexperience that makes his suggestion seem foolish. After all, he’s probably done this before. Eventually my American concerns surrender to the African problem solving and I agree to the suggestion.

He ties a rope around his luggage rack and then ties the other end around both struts of my front wheel. He leaves a good meter and a half of slack between the two bikes. “Put it in neutral and follow me as straight as possible,” he directs. “Try and keep the rope taut, even if you have to ride the brake. That’ll keep the rope from snapping and keep you from jerking me around.” Slowly he pulls out onto the highway, with my bike in tow. Not wanting to strain the engine, we cruise at a gentle speed all the way to the roundabout in Niamey. He drops me at the station where I fill up his tank, thank him and wish him a safe return.

Now I call Brent, and he comes across the river with the pickup to haul me the last bit to my mechanic. “I was worried about you, dude. How’d you make it in?”

“African code,” I respond. “React to anything.”

(4)

2009-11-21T15:53:00.000-08:00

It’s late August and I still haven’t been able to make it out to Gueladjo to visit Soja and Mohammed. The early part of the month was split between Niamey and Maradi, helping with the three different weeklong children’s camps. Just after the camps Mike Thaler came to visit from the states with his family. The camps have been amazing, and I am enjoying rest and time with the Thalers, but I am feeling a little guilty about being late on my visit to Gueladjo. I decide to make a quick daytrip on the morning of the 28^th. Mike wants to meet with Brent, Dave and I in the afternoon, so Brent offers me his truck to be sure I’ll make it back in time. While I love my motorcycle, it’s hard to refuse an offer of air conditioning and a reliable engine. So at 6:00am Friday morning I climb into the truck and head out for Gueladjo.

Travel in the rainy season is always unpredictable. All the lessons on erosion I learned in 6^th grade Earth Science come to life at this time of year. What was once a smoothly graded road can be worn into a washboard or cratered with potholes. Sandy floodplains can turn into rushing rivers and flash floods can rip apart bridges of concrete and steel. Entire sections of road disappear after a hard rain. Consequently, even a familiar road can be altered beyond recognition overnight.

Turning left at Kobadie towards Gueladjo, I send Brent my usual text message that I am leaving cell service. This also marks the transition from paved highway to dirt path. Immediately I start to notice the changes in the road. Sections of road that were formerly smooth and even are now rough and bumpy. Sections that were rough before now put the truck’s shocks and suspension to a test that could be showcased in Toyota commercials. All of this is, however, is foreplay leading to the challenge ahead.

Halfway between Kobadie and Gueladjo there is a valley village called Chileda. I descend into this small valley that normally troughs into a dried and sandy floodplain. On this day, however, the valley is filled with a stream that is over 200 meters across. This area is normally quiet and vacant, but today it is alive with activity. Women are washing clothes and pots at the rivers edge. Farther out there are men with nets and fishing lines. And on both sides there is a group of opportunistic men, ready to help carry bikes, motorcycles and baggage across. I pull up to the water’s edge and get out of the truck. A group of men in the water come sprinting to my assistance. They tell me they can help push the truck across, for a price. “How deep is it at the center?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s only waist high,” they assure me. “We can push you across no problem.” I measure waist height against the side of the truck, and that makes it midway up the driver door. Even if the water doesn’t destroy the engine at that depth, it’s bound to flood the cab. I am not about to ruin Brent’s truck, so I tell them no and hop back in to go home.

About a kilometer up the road I stop the car. I am frustrated that the road is flooded, but even more frustrated that I have no foreseeable opening in my schedule to make another trip. Plus, the river could be there for another week before drying. As I ponder my options my frustration slowly turns into adventurous determination. By the time I turn the truck around I have decided to make it to Gueladjo, one way or another.

The men in the water see my truck coming back into the valley and think I have finally succumbed to their plan. They rush to the bank to meet me as I climb out of the truck again. “You want us to push the truck?” they ask.

“No, I want you to guard the truck. Is there somebody here that has a motorcycle?” One of the guys steps forward. “Good, I’ll pay you to drive me to Gueladjo. I only need to stay a couple hours and then we’ll come back. Does that work?”

“It all depends on how much you are willing to pay.”

We agree on a price and the motorcycle owner runs off in search of his bike. The rest of the men, and growing crowd of children, start chattering excitedly in Fufulde. I don’t understand, but it sounds as if they are mentally spending the exorbitant amount they just charged me. I take my bag out of the truck and lock all the doors, making sure first that everything of value is either with me or concealed. My ride is coming down into the valley just as I lock the last door. The other guys start splashing water on the motorcycle’s engine to cool it before lifting. I take off my pants to put them in my bag and the women respond with shrieks of laughter. I must have scandalized them with my pasty white legs that have hardly seen sunlight since leaving America. Either way, we are ready and start crossing the rushing stream.

It took a team of six guys to lift the bike on to its front tire and push it across the stream. I follow behind them, watching their steps to avoid falling in the many sinkholes. Midway across, the water is at my waist and the current is flowing strong. I pat myself on the back for not trying to push the truck across and continue on to the other side.

My chauffeur to Gueladjo is named Bouba. He looks around 18 years old and speaks broken French. After a few hundred yards I realize that this is not his bike. In fact, I don’t think he even has a license. At every sandy section he makes me dismount and run to the other side because he is afraid of tipping. This makes for slow progress, but eventually we arrive at the church door.

Lawali laughs hysterically when he sees me on the back of another person’s bike. “I was wondering how you were going to get across that river,” he says. “Looks like you found a way.” I tell him all about the adventure, but then remind him that I only have a few hours before I need to be back in Niamey. “No problem. Soja and El Hajji are expecting us.” We hop on his DT and head out to make our rounds.

Mohammed’s business continues to thrive. He again pays 12,000 CFA, 2,000 over the minimum. His sheep are already looking older and fatter, showing promise of a large profit in a few months. After a quick visit we ride on to Soja’s house. Soja tells me that his debtors have started paying him back. He is no longer selling millet on credit and is experimenting with reselling simple medications. He not only makes a full payment of 7,500, but also an arrears for last month’s missing 3,500. We rejoice together at the success of his business and spend time in prayer, thanking God for his provision and for answering our prayers.

We get so caught up in the moment that we lose track of time. “Lawali, it’s 11:15. We told Bouba I’d be back by 11:00.” We quickly say farewell to Soja and his family and then speed back to Gueladjo. Bouba is waiting for me at the door so I say goodbye to the pastor and hop on with Bouba. The ride back to the Chileda stream is as unnerving as the ride from it. I have to give Bouba credit, though, because despite all the near tips and slides he manages to keep us both upright the whole way there. At the stream, I once again strip down to my briefs before crossing back to the truck.

When I arrive at the truck it seems as if the whole village has gathered to witness the mysterious white boy that left his truck and traversed their stream. There are over 30 men gathered, not counting women and children. Feeling extremely self-conscious, I put my pants on before asking why there were so many people.

“We heard about what you did,” their leader, Hamadou, explained. “Most white people either drive by or don’t come at all. They almost never stop. We wanted to see what kind of man would trust us so much.”

“Well, now you see me,” I say a little impatiently. My mind is still on the fast approaching afternoon rendezvous.

“What does ‘AD’ mean?” he asks, referring to the large logos that cover the hood and sides of the truck.

“Well, it is a church, les Assemblées de Dieu (Assemblies of God),” I explain. “I am a missionary from America and I work with the AD church.”

“What is your work that you come so far out here?” he prods further.

“Well I work with a few small business projects in Gueladjo, but I also preach there from time to time. Wait a second, have any of you heard of a man called Jesus?” I get nothing but blank stares and shaking heads in response.

The lunch date is forgotten. Suddenly there is something more important in my schedule. “Well part of the reason I am here in Niger is to share the good news of Jesus Christ. Would you like to hear a little about him?” They look at each other and nod in agreement, as if to say, “We have nothing better to do.”

For the next 20 minutes I gave a simple Gospel presentation. Hamadou translated from French into Fufulde. I use the river as an example, explaining how the river separated me from my destination. By myself, I could not get to my destination. But they had saved me. With their help I was able to cross and get to Gueladjo. Without their help it would have been impossible. Similarly, our sin separates us from God. We all have done something bad in our lives, and this darkness separates us from a perfect God. By ourselves we are unable to be reunited with God. We need somebody to save us, to help us cross the river of sin and reunite us with our heavenly father. Jesus is a man who came to save us. He was God’s only son, but more than that, He was God. He lived a perfect life, without sin. He died on a cross as a sacrifice, so that we could be reunited with God. I explained how he was the only way to be reunited with God. All you must do is believe with your heart and confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and you will be saved.

At the end of my sermonette the large audience applauds for me. Nobody accepts the Gospel in that moment, but they invite me to come back and share more. Bouba and Hamadou ask for my phone number so they could call if they had more questions. I give them my number, thank them again for their help then climb into the truck and head home.

When I finally meet up with Mike, Brent and Dave at the restaurant they give me a hard time for being late. Dave notices that my pants are wet right around the underwear region. “What, did you have an accident there buddy?” he jokes.

“No. But have I got a story for you guys.”

(5)

2009-11-21T15:51:00.000-08:00

Fall is a busy time for missionaries. Children are back in school and the return of structure to children’s schedules has mysteriously strong residual effects on their parents’ organization. The rains have ceased, allowing for roads to be repaired making bush travel more predictable and therefore more programmable. The weather is plenty warm, but it comes nowhere close to the heat of spring and there isn’t the perpetual dust haze of winter. This makes fall the preferred travel time for short-term mission groups from the states.

From September 15 until November 8 there were twelve days when there has not been a short-term team from the states that I have helped host. There was Uncle Charity who came with his construction and evangelism team in mid-September. Then there was the medical team lead by my mother that overlapped with Charity’s group. A week after their departure came the WINSHAPE team that we took to Maradi for a business leadership conference. We wished them farewell at 11pm Tuesday night and were scheduled to be back to greet the next team on Friday at 3pm. This 2.5-day gap is perfect for my monthly visit to Gueladjo to follow up with Soja and Mohammed on their microloans. I spent Wednesday helping prepare for the coming team and making arrangements for my overnight visit to Gueladjo. The last thing Brent told me before I left his house Wednesday night was “Remember, you have to be back by 3pm Friday so you can drive the truck to the airport.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’ll make it back in time to greet Marcia’s team at the airport.”

(6)

2009-11-21T15:46:00.000-08:00

Thursday 6:00am – I pull out of the dorm on my DT-125. The engine sounds the best it has in months thanks to the recent tune-up and oil change. The sun is just peeking over the hills as I head south towards Gueladjo. I cruise at a comfortable speed, enjoying the freshness of the cool morning air and the solitude of an empty highway. I did not make good time on the road, but the conditions made time great. I get to Lawali’s house just in time for coffee and fresh tapioca. I can tell Lawali is excited because today we are going to Mayunga Gourma for a baptism. He is excited about the baptism, but I can tell he is equally excited about the two-hour ride over the mountains it takes to get there. He loves riding the trails on his DT and he loves it even more when he has somebody to keep him company.

9:30am – After fueling our stomachs and our bikes, Lawali and I head down the long winding trail to Mayunga Gourma. Just a few kilometers out of Gueladjo we come across a small stream. Gunda, one of our friends from the village, is crossing in the opposite direction. The water is knee high in the center and he shows us the best place to cross. “Just put it in first gear and accelerate through it,” Lawali shouts. “Even if you think you are getting stuck, don’t let off the accelerator because then the exhaust will suck in water.” With that the pastor kicks his feet over the handlebars to keep them from getting soaked and speeds into the stream. He enters at an angle, following the current so as not to be pushed over by it. In the middle the water is high enough to cover the cylinder but his speed is enough that the channel cut by the front tire keeps it relatively dry.

When Lawali gets to the other side, he stops and looks back, laughing with childish glee. I laugh too, but mine is more nervous than confident. “So much for my tune-up” I think to myself as I plunge in after the pastor’s tracks. I try to follow his model of lifting my feet, but my tires catch on the edges of the his rut. This pitches me left, and then right causing me to lose balance. I slam my foot down on the right to push myself back up, then on the left when my overcorrection sends me tipping in that direction. My front tire twists, sending mud and water splashing all over my face. I look more like a mud wrestler than a motorcyclist by the time I reach the other side. Now Lawali and Gunda are really laughing at how pathetic my attempt looked in comparison to their expert crossings. I’m soaked and mud stained, but grateful my bike didn’t tip and the engine is still running strong.

11:30am – After two hours of riding Lawali and I finally reach Mayunga Gourma. It’s not even noon and I’ve already been riding for over four hours on narrow and winding trails. I am exhausted. We greet the chief and other villagers and then sprawl out on some mats while we wait for Bouba, the deacon, to assemble the other church members. I am finally relaxed when Lawali looks at me and says, “So are you ready to preach a message before the baptism?” This is a classic Lawali move, asking you to preach an hour before the service starts. I half expected this invitation, but time did not allow me to prepare for it.

I look at him and ask in a facetious tone, “What you didn’t prepare anything?”

“No. I thought you would want to speak since it has been so long since your last visit.”

“I was just kidding, I’m ready,” I half lied. The Bible tells us to be ready in season and out of season. In that sense I am ready, but I’ve not actually prepared anything. I think to myself, “African Code” as I pull out my bible and start looking for the verses to the sermon that was already forming in my head.

12:30pm – The wheel drum used as the church bell has been rung and the Christians are beginning to assemble under the thatch hangar used as the sanctuary. Lawali is thumping away on the drum as one of the ladies leads the growing group in song. After a few songs Bouba leads the group in prayer before the floor is given to me for the message.

Matthew 10:32-33

So everyone who acknowledges me before men, I also will acknowledge before my Father who is in heaven, but whoever denies me before men, I also will deny before my Father who is in heaven.

I teach how baptism is a public profession of faith, nothing more. We are not saved by baptism, but it is a way of celebrating the salvation that we already have. We do baptism to publicly proclaim our commitment to Jesus, so that he may acknowledge us before the Father. We baptize by immersion because that is the model set forth by Jesus. I explained the symbolism: how the new believer is submerged into death (for if he is not brought out of the water he will surely die) and then raised again into life. It was a short speech, but with two translators it took time for the message to be communicated. After closing in prayer, the drummer rises and begins leading the way to the baptismal. The congregation follows, singing and dancing the two kilometers to the water hole.

1:30pm – The six men being baptized line up at the water’s edge, waiting for Lawali and I to call them into the water’s depths. The drummer continues to beat and the women continue to sing throughout the entirety of the ceremony. One by one, these men are submersed into a watery filth before being lifted again into a new life with Christ. “Hallelujah!” calls Lawali as he lifts each one out of the pool. The women and men respond with a deafening series of tribal war cries that seem to pull all of their ancestry and heritage into the celebration. Over seventy people have gathered from Mayunga and surrounding villages to take part in this celebration. I watch with a hint of pride while a church, whose beginning I witnessed less than a year ago, baptized six into its already flourishing congregation.

2:00pm – Gathered again under the hangar, the newly baptized men bring the platters of food their wives have prepared for the celebration. We feast on beans and rice, macaroni and red sauce, couscous and sauce and wash it down with millet-based bui. After Lawali and I finish eating we notice storm clouds gathering on the horizon in the homeward direction. We bid farewell to the church and mount up for the long ride back to Gueladjo.

4:00pm – Still an hour and a half ride from home, we stop in a village along the way for a break. Lawali manages a mill in this village and has not been seeing the expected returns lately. He wants to stop and work the mill for an hour to see if his current employee is keeping honest books. I wait at the machine while Lawali goes in search of Diesel fuel to crank her up. The Fulani women line up with their gourds of grain, waiting for their turn to grind their produce to flour. The storm clouds have now reached us and a light drizzle starts which quickly develops into a downpour. The women scatter in search of shelter, skillfully sprinting without spilling the loads bourn gracefully on their heads. Fortunately it’s a typical Nigerien storm: just as fast as it is furious. In 10 minutes time the women have re-gathered as Lawali and I attempt to crank the mill to life.

5:00pm – After forty-five minutes of trying to start the machine without success, Lawali concedes defeat and promises to return tomorrow with the mechanic to see what the problem is. We hop on our bikes to leave, but mine refuses to start. After a series of unsuccessful attempts by Lawali and myself, the pastor decides to take a look at the carburetor. Sure enough, my throttle is jammed, fully opened, causing the engine to flood. Lawali shows me how, with only a screwdriver, this problem can be easily fixed. In fifteen minutes he has it working like new and we mount up to head home. “Just over an hour till home,” he tells me. “If we have no problems we should be there before sundown.”

6:00pm – The rain has hit our road hard. The narrow paths are now scattered with puddles and mud that makes us feel more like we are sledding than driving; we can steer but our speed is more dependent on the grade of the ground than the push of our throttle. I increase my following distance to avoid the spray from Lawali’s rear tire. Though the conditions slow our advancement, our lack of haste allows us to enjoy the sport of our progress. The added challenge excites us as we weave our way through the swampy paths. It is not long, however, until I can see Lawali is having engine trouble up ahead. His bike eventually sputters to a stop. “Spark plug is spent,” he says. “I forgot my spare at the house… do you have one?”

After being stuck in the bush with a burnt spark plug in March, I have always carried a spare with a plug wrench. However, fate would have it that this time I had forgotten. “I don’t have one either. What are we going to do now?” We are in the middle of nowhere, halfway between villages. There isn’t a mechanic or parts seller for miles.

“We have two choices: we can push all the way to Gueladjo, another fifteen km, or one of us can stay with my bike while the other goes to Gueladjo and back for the spark plug.” Neither of these options seems desirable to me. Just at that moment a passing Fulani, hearing our trouble tells us he knows a guy who keeps a bunch of spares and would probably sell us one. He walks us back to his hut and spreads a mat for us to rest on. Since I only speak French and Lawali speaks both French and Fufulde, I offer them my bike to go in search of the spare part. “It’s not far, “ says the Fulani herder. “We should be back in 10 minutes.”

7:30pm – It’s been over an hour since I heard the last traces of my motorcycle going over the nearby hills. I know that most Africans have a different definition of “not far” than Americans, but even I am starting to get worried at this point. The sun has long since set and I have no clue where I am. I lean back on the mat and my mind is flooded with all the possible problems that may have befallen them. I do not linger long on these thoughts because my attention is drawn to the myriad stars that are beginning to fill the dusky sky. The rain clouds have parted, uncovering the night’s beauty. No matter how many nights I spend in the villages, I am continually captivated by how clear and numerous are the stars. Lying there on my back, looking up at the heavenly hosts and listening to the man’s wife chattering to her children in Fufulde, I am struck by God’s presence in such a remote and bucolic place. I know God is always present, and even earlier today I saw His hand at work. But it is not always that I feel his presence. Some people spend all their lives searching for God’s presence and never find Him. He eludes them like the setting sun. But the truth is, God pursues us at the same time. If we just sit and wait on Him, eventually He will find us. I did not find God on this night. Instead, He threw water and mud into our engines until we stopped so He could find me. On this night He found me in the isolated nothingness of the Nigerien bush and allowed me, for the first time in a long time, to feel His presence.

8:15pm – I am awakened from my reverie by the familiar sound of my DT coming over the hill. Lawali has returned victoriously clutching a new spark plug. We quickly change out the old and, thanking the friendly Fulani, head out on the final leg of the journey.

9:00pm – I can see that Lawali has stopped. I slowly pull up beside him to discover the reason. My headlight’s reflection dances on the rushing river that impedes our progress. The stream that we had crossed earlier in the morning has since flooded into a small river. “Well, let’s see how deep it is,” Lawali says, climbing down. I take off my pants and shoes, grab a nearby branch to use as a depth gauge and slowly ease my way into the current. Poking and easing my way deeper into the river, it soon becomes apparent that we won’t be driving across this time. The water is waist high in the middle and the once smooth creek bottom is now cratered with washed out holes. “It’s a good thing there are two of us,” the pastor tells me when I return to our bikes. “Looks like we are going to have to push the bikes through, one at a time. And then we’ll have to pray that they start on the other side.”

This sounds foolish to me. My bike has started leaking oil, so I know water is bound to leak into the engine through the same breach. I know our only alternative is to leave the bikes and come back in the morning with more help. I think a moment and then, quieting my wisdom with either faith or foolishness, say, “OK let’s go. We’ll push yours first, then mine.”

Halfway across the stream I step on a thorn branch drifting on the creek floor. These are not your American briars, but your Jesus, crown of thornsesque barbs. I don’t say anything but each step becomes more painful as the dirty water and sand rush into the fresh puncture wound. We get Lawali’s bike across and marvel at the flood of water that comes pouring out of the cylinder as we pull it out of the stream. We head back and follow the same path with my bike. High and drying on the other side we say a quick prayer over our motorcycles. Some might think us crazy for praying over motorcycles, but with my new foot wound I in no way want to push the remaining kilometer to Gueladjo. By no small miracle our bikes fire to life and we sputter the rest of the way home. We pull into the churchyard and thank the Lord for bringing us safely home.

(7)

2009-11-21T15:40:00.000-08:00

Friday 9:30am – It’s a late start, but after a lazy breakfast and a cup of coffee Lawali and I head out to meet with Soja and Mohammed. We find Soja at his home, buying basic medications from a passing vendor that he will eventually resell to his neighbors. I laugh and joke with Lawali that Soja’s competition might hurt the church supported pharmacy that he and I opened just a few months back. Soja and I sit and he explains all the different small commerce projects he has been doing to earn extra money. He then explains how this year he has been weathering the famine much better than years past thanks to the additional income he has been earning. He smiles and thanks me as he hands over the month’s payment.

10:30am – We find Mohammed waiting at his radio repair station. A young Fulani boy has brought his boom box to be repaired. The boy needs it fixed so he can carry it around the market on his shoulder, circa 1980’s, and impress the young Fulani girls. Mohammed puts down the soldering iron and smiles a toothy smile as we approach. “You see how much work I have?” he says with a laugh. “Before they would have to wait, sometimes weeks, for me to have the parts needed to fix their radios. Now, since I am well stocked, they can have it repaired in the same day.” We talk for a while about his family, his business and the growth of his sheep. “I thank God,” he says conclusively before making his payment plus an advance payment.

11:30am – Having finished our visits, I tell Lawali that I really cannot stay for lunch. I have to make it back by 3pm, in time to drive to the airport, and want to leave myself some extra time. I bid him and his wife farewell then drive over to the mechanic’s tree to buy some fuel and to change my oil. They fill my gas tank and then crack the lug nut to drain the oil. The liquid spills out gray and thin, rather than the normal thick blackness of used motor oil. “You have a bunch of water in your engine,” the mechanic explains to me. “That’s why the oil is so gray. It’s a miracle your bike even started with oil like that.”

“So what do we do about that?” I ask.

“Well, we need to run a round of petrol through the engine to clean it out before we can put new oil in. Then it should be fine.”

They send one of their little trainees off with 1000 francs and an empty bottle to bring back some petrol.

12:00pm – Just as I started getting worried that the boy was lost, he comes around the corner with the bottle of petrol. We run it through the engine for a few minutes before draining it out again. It, too, spills out thin and gray. They fill the newly cleaned motor with oil and then wish me a safe journey back to Niamey. It’s now 12:15. It normally takes an hour and a half to make it to Niamey. That leaves me an hour to shower and change before heading to the airport. Perfect.

12:45pm – Riding down the dirt path to the highway I am enjoying the beautiful, clear day. I can tell by the reddening of my arms that it is plenty hot, but the wind feels cool thanks to yesterday’s rain. I take my right hand off the throttle to scratch my knee, only to realize that the throttle is stuck once again. I try to free the jamb by jerking the throttle a few times, but to no avail. The only way to slow down is to cut power to the bike. This works, but I know if I completely stop I may not be able to start her again. I try not to panic and think, “If I can just make it to Kobadie, I can stop and fix the carburetor before heading on to Niamey.” This seemed like it could work until I remembered the washout in the road just ahead. It’s impossible to cross at any speed above a crawl without falling off the rain torn ridge. I ride until I can see the ravine in the distance and then cut the engine.

I remember Lawali’s lesson on freeing a stuck throttle, but then further remember that I don’t have a screwdriver. I do my best to loosen the jamb manually and then try to start my bike. After a few minutes of attempted kick-starts without success, I hop off and try to push-start. I put the bike in first gear. I then push it till I’m going at a fast jog and pop the clutch. As soon as I pop the clutch the engine roars to life and the bike starts speeding away. I have to sprint to keep up with it and cut the engine before it outpaces my guiding hands. I stop to catch my breath and think a minute. “The rest of the road after the washout is good. There’s only three kilometers left to Kobadie. If I can just make it there I’ll get my bike fixed and be in Niamey by 2:30.” This time there is no hesitation, no digging for the cell phone. I know what I need to do.

1:00pm – I push my bike across the washout to a smooth stretch of road. I feel proud of what I’m about to do: adapting and triumphing despite difficult circumstances. I feel as if I am living the African motto of reacting to anything. I take a deep breath and whisper a short prayer, “God, please don’t let this be the stupidest thing I have ever done.” And with that I lower my shoulder and start pushing the bike. This time I wait till I am at a quick run before popping the clutch. Once again the engine roars to life and I can already feel the bike starting to accelerate. In my head I see myself jumping, expertly swinging my right leg over the back of the bike, sliding gently into the saddle and speeding all the way to Kobadie. I do jump, and gracefully kick my leg over the back of the bike. However, in my estimation I forgot to account for the large overnight pack I had tied to the back of the bike. So, instead of gently sliding into the saddle, my leg collides with the pack. I land awkwardly on my left foot, right on last night’s puncture wound. The shot of pain causes me to fall to my left, pulling the revving motorcycle on top of myself. The left handlebar drags my left hand along the ground, ripping off my pinky nail and tearing a good chunk of flesh with it. Quickly I cut off the engine and pull myself from underneath the wreckage. I pick up my bike to keep the gas from leaking out and put it on its kickstand. The bike looks scraped, but otherwise unharmed. Similarly, I am scraped down my left side and my pinky is bleeding pretty heavily, but I have not suffered any serious injuries.

Now, I like to consider myself a smart guy. I did well in school and generally feel I exercise at least a normal amount of common sense. However, sometimes the voice of pride shouts over those of intelligence and common sense. For a third time I lower my shoulder and start pushing my bike. At just above a jog I pop the clutch and this time do not wait for the engine roar to try and hop into the saddle. Again, I clumsily collide with my overnight pack. Fortunately I am under enough control to keep from falling and am able to cut the engine before the bike takes off. After three failures, the voice of wisdom is finally louder than my pride. I count my blessings and decide not to tempt fate with a fourth push.

Two Fulani ladies, who had apparently witnessed the whole charade, creep out of the millet stalks just as I am ripping off my shirtsleeve to use as a bandage. They don’t speak a word of French, but by their gestures I see that they want to help. They pour some water from their gourd on my shredded pinky, then rip my shirtsleeve into tiny strips and bandage my finger. In the mean time, I pull out my cell phone and see that there is no service. Great. I thank them as best I can, then lower my shoulder and start pushing my bike to Kobadie.

1:45pm – I feel the full weight of the midday sun as I trudge slowly down the road. I have only pushed one of the three kilometers and already my shirt is soaked through with sweat and my hands are starting to cramp on the handlebars. A Fulani boy headed to Kobadie on his bicycle pulls up and dismounts beside me. He follows for a minute, watching me every step, then tries to stop me. He offers to trade loads: my motorcycle for his bike. I look in his eyes and see that it is genuine. I have been humbled greatly this day, but I still have enough pride to bear my own cross. I am not yet ready to suffer the ultimate humility of passing my cross to another. He follows another 100 meters or so before climbing back on his bike and pedaling ahead.

2:00pm – I am now over two thirds of the way to Kobadie. There is still no cell phone reception, so I have little other choice but to plod on. A motorcycle coming in the opposite direction slows as it approaches and eventually stops. “A boy told me somebody was having trouble on the road,” he says as he gets down. “What’s wrong with the bike?” Looks like my Fulani friend sent for help.

“My throttle is stuck open,” I replied.

“Let me take a look at it.” He starts poking around and I start thinking. Even if he does get it started and working, I don’t feel great about riding the last hour to Niamey. I’m exhausted and my hand is throbbing with pain.

“Hey, why don’t you just tow me into Kobadie and then I’ll find a transport to the city,” I suggest.

“No problem. It’s going to be hard on my motor though… it’ll cost you.”

Normally I would negotiate, but I know his price is under what I’m willing to pay and I’m too tired to argue. Plus, he has me by the balls here, so I agree to his $4 tow fee. He pulls a rope out of the bag and ties it to his luggage rack and then around both struts of my front wheel. “Make sure you are in neutral,” he shouts as he slowly drives off with my bike in tow.

2:15pm – We pull into Kobadie just as the afternoon prayer is ending. That means that as we drive by the Mosque on our way into town there is huge crowd to witness my shame. Oh well, they probably think I’m a stupid American anyway. We park at his shop and I leave my bike to start looking for transport to Niamey. I find a beat up Peugeot 504 that is mostly empty. There’s ample space in the bed for my bike, so the owner and I negotiate a price. Twenty bucks to haul my bike and me the 60 kilometers home and thirty if I want to ride in the cab. I give him ten dollars and tell him he’ll get the rest when we arrive in Niamey. His crew helps me load my bike and then I hop in the truck bed with two of them. Just before we pull out I call Brent, “Hey Brent, it’s me. Yea I’m OK but I might be a little late. Will you see if Danika can drive the truck to the airport? Yea, and can you pick me up at the clinic around 3:30? No, it’s nothing serious, just might need a couple stitches. I’ll tell you all about it when you pick me up at the clinic. Alright, see you soon.”

3:00pm – The transport drops me off at Clinique de la Paix and helps me unload my bike. I park it with the guard then hurry in to get my hand looked at. The clinic is relatively empty so I get seen right away. The doctor unwraps the shirtsleeve bandage and winces. “That’s an ugly cut you have there. I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but it might take some time for it to heal and for the nail to grow back. And we definitely need to wash it out well. This might hurt a little.” That’s what I was most afraid of. I ball up my shirttail and stick it in my mouth to bite down on. I grip hard with right hand on the side of the table as the doctor starts cleaning the wound. First he rinses it with water. Then he cuts off the flap of skin that I apparently “Don’t need any more” and starts disinfecting. He scrubs it first with alcohol, then with peroxide, and finally with betadine. Just as he finishes wit the antibiotic ointment and bandage my phone rings. “Hey, Brent. Oh you’re outside. Well I just need to pay and then I’ll be out.”

3:45pm – Riding in the cruiser to the airport I explain to Brent the whole stupid story of my last few hours. I can tell he’s snickering, trying to contain the laughter because he isn’t sure how much teasing my pride can take. When I finish I start laughing and say, “Well at least it’s a good story right?” He can’t hold it back anymore. Laughing hysterically he says, “That was pretty stupid, Daniel. But if it’s any comfort, I can say that it wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve heard you do.” This makes him laugh even harder.

At the airport I’m forced to retell the story to everyone who notices the bandage on my hand. Dave and Danika laugh at my foolishness, reminding me of how stupid that was. However Dankarami, one of the Africans we work with, listens intently to the story. Before I even explain the part about push starting and hopping on the back of my bike, he is a step ahead of me. He tells me what I did before I get there. I ask how he knew and he responds, “Because that’s the solution. I would have done the same thing. Anybody else here would have tried the same thing.” I am hit simultaneously with equal doses of pride and shame. There is pride that I am beginning to think like an African and assimilating myself into their cultural mindset. For the same reason I feel a little shame, like a little bit of the American in me had died. I still haven’t decided which of those sentiments should rule over the other, probably because I’m still not sure which way of thinking I favor.

Fortunately I don’t have the time to decide because the team starts coming out of the airport. I greet the team members and give Marcia a big hug. “What happened to your finger?” she asks, noticing the bandage.

“It’s a long and stupid story… I’ll tell you sometime soon.”

10:00pm – With the team all settled into their rooms I head over to Brent’s for our usual Friday night game of Rook. A few hands into the game my phone rings. It’s Lawali.

“Daniel, how are you? I heard you had an accident. I just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

Amazing. The Fulani ladies who came to my aid must have passed the news up the road. The Fulani grapevine works faster than most news networks. “Yes, I am fine. Thank you for calling. How did you hear about it, pastor?”

“Someone told me they saw you bleeding and pushing your bike to Kobadie. Even though they don’t know you they recognize you and your bike. They knew you were my friend so they passed the word on to me.”

“Thank you for calling, Pastor. God Bless,” I conclude and hang up the phone.

I am still amazed that Lawali caught word of my accident when, a few hands later, my phone rings again. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway. I am greeted by a familiar voice that I haven’t heard in a while.

“Daniel, it’s Bouba. Do you remember me? I drove you from Chileda to Gueladjo.”

“Yes, I remember. How are you Bouba”

“I am good. Are you OK? I heard you had an accident.”

Incredible. Everyone on the road to Gueladjo must have heard by now. “Yes, Bouba, I am fine. It was just a small accident, so I am fine. Thank you for calling.”

“Thank God. I also wanted to know when you will be coming back to teach us more. Everyone is talking about what you taught us that day. We have lots of questions. Can you please come?”

“Of course I will come. Let me just speak with my pastor and we will find a day to come.”

When I hang up the phone I look at Brent incredulously. He gives me a questioning look that suggests I better spill it. “Brent, you have to come with me to Chileda. They are asking me to come and teach more about Jesus.”

He laughs, remembering the story about Chileda. “Well, Williams,” he responds. “Looks like something good came out of your silly shenanigans. Maybe you should break down in more villages, then the whole country will get saved.”

How Many Gourmantche Does it Take to Build a Toilet?

2009-09-16T15:09:00.000-07:00

Community. This is an idea that we Americans love; a group of people working alongside one another, breaking bread together and helping each other through life’s many challenges. We like the thought of a group of people sharing life together. We love the idea of community, but it is a practice that is seldom seen as pure as it can be found in any Nigerien village. In Niger, community is not just an ideal. It is a tapestry woven from the lives of those that make up the community; pull one thread and the fabric falls apart.

There is something magical about the village of Alambare that continues to mystify me after nearly a year of being a part of its life. Hassan’s dream of a building a Christian community there is quickly being realized. Where there once was nothing but weeds and grazing sheep there are now six mud huts and a large tin roof hangar that will soon be walled as the new church sanctuary. These structures do not make community, but they do facilitate its growth. Whenever I stay in my hut the other five are frequently occupied by visitors from the eight satellite churches that Hassan pastors. During the heat of the day people laze and talk in the shade of the church hangar. And almost every night, even the nights when there is no service, the men of the village gather in the compound, drinking chai and sharing stories with their neighbors. Though I do not speak their language or understand their customs, the more time I spend in Alambare the more I feel a part of their close-knit community.

This summer we hosted a group of 11 college students. My brother, who helped lead the team from the states, said that they wanted to leave the city to experience the “real Niger.” I could think of no better place and no better community to bring a group of college students than Alambare. However, I knew that in order to accommodate a group that included 3 teenage girls we needed to have a little more than mud huts and reed mats. In the weeks leading up to the team, Dave and I made several trips out to prepare the church compound for the team’s arrival. The list of things to be done included making doors and windows for the huts, closing off two shower areas, building a hangar for our cook and her equipment and, most importantly, building a latrine.

My roommate, Jeremy, affectionately refers to Niger as one giant kitty litter box. It is perpetually sandy and anywhere can be a toilet. Nigeriens have also mastered the art of discreetly relieving themselves even in public places. I once saw a guy squat in the median of a busy city thoroughfare. I was probably the only one on the street who did a double take. To everyone else it was normal. The truth of Jeremy’s observation becomes more apparent as you leave the city. The most advanced plumbing you will find in most villages is the irrigation channels dug for their gardens. Water is pulled from a well, showers are done with a bucket and cup, and the best toilet you can find is a nice grove of bushes. This can be a difficult practice for any American to adjust to, and something that becomes even more difficult when the unfamiliar cuisine takes revenge on your digestive system. Therefore Dave and I made it our goal to have a sit-down enclosed latrine so, at the very least, the team could go to the bathroom in private. It’s funny to say, but it was throughout the course of this project that I learned a great deal about true community from our Alambarien friends.

Latrine Building Step One: Digging a Pit

Community Building Step One: Communal Child Care

On our first trip Dave and I were accompanied by three South Africans. They were part of a group doing a yearlong tour of the continent and working with different churches along the way. I found them camping in the courtyard of one of the city churches. They had no schedule while they waited three days for their bus, so I offered the three available spaces in our truck to any who wanted to see how life was in the village. John, Pierre and Wayne jumped at the opportunity.

As soon as we arrived we set to work on building doors for the huts and digging the pit for the latrine. Many of the church members left their fields to come help. Soon our group of five was split amongst four different work crews. We had a crew measuring and squaring doorways, another crew assembling the scrap wood and tin into doors, a third outside digging the pit for the latrine, and the all important fourth crew boiling chai and distributing the caffeinated jolts to the workers. All told there were over 20 Alambarien men who came to help or watch, including the chief.

Whenever there is a large gathering in a village, you can be certain the child population will be double that of the adults. Our Thursday construction project was no exception. Toddlers, hardly able to walk, grabbed the hands of their older brothers and were drug to see the commotion. Babies were strapped to the backs of their six-year-old sisters and toted to the construction site. Some were the children of the men at work, but the majority are just curious observers of the strange white men who claim to be African.

American moms who witness such a gathering of children always ask, “Where are their parents? I wonder if they know their baby is so far from home?” I always dismissed those questions with a simple answer to the effect of, “It’s their culture.” While true, that response is incomplete. Digging that latrine pit, I learned a profound truth about communal childcare in Alambare. Pierre was taking a break from the work and began playing with some of the surrounding children. He noticed one of the children had a festering wound on his foot. It was infected and the flies were swarming it. Having a background in medicine, he asked Dave if he could be taken to the village clinic to get some medication. They went, came back, cleaned and bandaged the child’s foot and gave him the first dose of the antibacterial treatment. Pierre then asked if the boy’s parents could be found so he could entrust the remaining medication to them. The men of the village looked at each other for a moment, saying nothing. After a long pause the chief rose from his seat and said, “The boy is my son. I will make sure he gets this medication every day.”

I cannot say that the chief lied, but the truth is the boy is not his son. There was, however, a deeper truth to the chief’s words that showed the depth of communal bonds in Alambare. While a son may be the offspring of one man and one woman, he is a child of the village first. The entire village has a hand in raising him. Parents do not worry about their children wandering because they know any one in the village will correct and punish a child they see doing wrong. Conversely, a child being mistreated will be defended by anyone in the village, even if the abuser is the child’s parent. They do not worry about their child getting lost because everyone knows who the child is and where his home is. I would go so far as to say that African parents do not care about their individual children as much as American parents. Their specific neglect, however, is replaced by a general concern for the well being of all children in the village. They worry as much over their neighbor’s children as their own and they can be at ease knowing their neighbors are doing the same.

In the villages there is no such thing as an orphan. If a child’s parents die his relatives will bring him in. If they cannot be found then a neighbor will become responsible. Similarly, there are no retirement homes, those orphanages of old age. Instead the widows and the elderly are respected and cared for by the community. Christianity did not teach them this sort of true community. They did not need Solomon to teach them to raise a child in the way he should go. They did not need Jesus’ exhortation to care for the widows and the elderly. It was already a part of the tapestry that makes up a community. When the chief claimed that hurt child as his own he was not speaking falsely: he was speaking on behalf of the community.

Latrine Building Step Two: Making a lid

Community Building Step 2: Fellowship of Women

It’s T-minus one week till the team’s arrival, and our toilet hasn’t got much beyond a shallow cistern with seepage holes. Dave and I figure that with two trips we can finish the project, haul all the supplies we need, and finish any other miscellaneous jobs that need to be done. Tuesday morning I get the truck loaded with all the supplies and tools we need to haul and head over to get Dave.

Mulligan, the Johannson’s Labrador, starts barking uncontrollably when I walk in, then proceeds to run around slobbering as he goes. Nata, Dave and Hope’s one year-old, is singing/shouting in his own language as he beats loudly on the African drum sitting in their living room. Sam, their three year-old, is standing on his kitchen chair spooning his morning milk to himself. He drinks with a spoon because it is powdered milk and with a spoon he can scoop all the excess powder and sugar off the bottom. He’s almost done which, with his method of drinking, means two things: the majority of the milk has dribbled off his spoon onto the floor and he is already hyper from the sugar and concentrated milk powder. He shouts “Dan!” and jumps off the chair to run and greet me. Hope emerges from the kitchen looking frazzled and already exhausted.

“Hi Hope. How are you doing?” I ask.

“Oh, you know how it is. Sam kept us awake with nightmares last night and Nata has diarrhea. Just one of those mornings.”

It’s only 7:45… and Daddy’s leaving for an overnight in Alambare… this is going to be a long day for Hope.

“Hope, I can’t find the iPod. Where did you put it last?” Dave shouts down the hallway. I guess he isn’t ready yet. Looks like we won’t be getting on the road at 8:00 as planned. This could be a long day for us, too.

Two hours later Dave and I are in Alambare preparing to seal our hole in the ground with a giant cement lid. Using a hole in the ground and a few pieces of scrap metal for a mold, Dave had already managed to make a steel reinforced cement lid. To prevent rainwater from getting into our latrine we decide to seal the lid down with another layer of cement. Cement requires lots of water, so I get sent with the truck to fetch some from the village forage.

It’s 10:00, which means the forage is busy with women getting water for cooking and washing. We have 20 Gerry cans to fill so, knowing it will be a while, I find a spot in the shade to sit and wait for our turn. As I watch I realize that fetching water is not just a chore for these women: it’s their social hour. Some of these women have walked up to 3 miles to the forage, and they are preparing to walk 3 more miles with an extra 5 gallons of water on their head. They are in no hurry to get on the road so they linger and joke with their neighbors and catch up on the village gossip. The women who live near the forage have brought out their wash buckets and, gathered in a circle, are doing their laundry and dishes together. Their children play together under the shade of a nearby tree, the older ones climbing it only to be chastised down by whichever mother sees them first. Their babies are strapped on their backs and either sleep or smile in contentment (except when they catch a glimpse of the scary white man who sends them crying). Two and three at a time, but almost never alone, the water gatherers heft their loads to their heads and start walking back home.

Some people see this picture and have pity on such women. They see the toil and the struggle of the simplest tasks and wonder how anyone could live such a life. They regret that these matriarchs will grow old and know little beyond cooking, cleaning and raising children. They regret even more that these women hope for little beyond food to cook, clothes to clean and children to raise. Maybe they are right to pity such women. I have experienced similar sentiments myself. That day, however, I felt something different. I was overcome by a sense of irony.

I could not help but pare the picture of the women at the forage and the picture of Hope earlier that morning. By comparison, Hope lives a life of luxury those village women could never imagine: a large house, electricity, and running water. Hope has more education than those women could ever aspire to. Two days a week Hope teaches music at an American high school in Niamey, a welcome liberation from the normal household routine. She is the quintessential liberated working mom. However, on this particular morning Hope was counting the costs of all her liberties. The price of having electricity and a washing machine is that modern women don’t circle up their washing machines so they can talk why they push the button. The cost of running water is the time spent with a friend while fetching water. The price of having a big house with ample privacy is sometimes you find yourself trapped, alone in a large, empty home. The irony that struck me at the forage was that, despite all of her advantages and education, those village women seemed more liberated than Hope.

Latrine Building Step Three: Building a Hut

Community Building Step Three: Men’s Fellowship

With the help of ten church members the large cement lid has finally been rolled and sealed in place. All that remains is to build a small hut around the latrine to give its user some privacy. The rains just started three weeks ago, which means two things for the brick market. First, it means that everyone has been buying and using bricks to repair their homes and walls before the rains. Second, it means the planting season has begun, so everyone has left their normal day job to begin tilling their fields. The men who normally mix and mold the mud and straw bricks have all become farmers. Depletion of inventory and diminished production means a scarcity of bricks, and we need 300.

The church members begin asking friends and family members if they have bricks for sale. We go throughout the entire village and can only scrounge together 90. As we are sitting contemplating how we will find the necessary 210 bricks that remain, a villager comes to announce that he has 150 bricks for sale. Excited, Dave and I hop in the truck with five other church members. We get to the salesman’s home and there is not a spare brick to be found. We ask him where the bricks are and he points to the brick wall that forms an entryway to his home. “You can knock down that wall and use the bricks for your project,” he tells us. The normal cost of a brick in Alambare is 10 francs, or roughly two cents. The scarcity has driven the price all the way to 25 francs, or five cents. This guy figures he can sell us the wall, rough it out during the rainy season, then rebuild for a handsome 150% profit, or if you do the math, $4.50. While I appreciate the man’s business sense, we could not justify destroying his home so our toilet could have a wall. The man tells us he knows someone in Tamou, 40 km up the road, who can sell us bricks. So, in true Nigerien form he piles in the truck and shows us the way to the vendor in Tamou.

At this point we are eight full-grown men in a truck that sits five comfortably, driving 40 km down a rain-torn dirt road. Eight men + 130 degree weather - showers = one hot and smelly truck. Dave and looked at each other and just laughed as we rolled down the windows. We had a blast the whole smelly drive to Tamou. When we arrived we found a vendor who had 300 freshly cast bricks for sale, just as our new friend had promised. Since the truck can only handle 100 bricks at a time, we pay, load up the first 100 and promise to return for the remaining 100.

As soon as we pull into Alambare and pass by church members’ fields, some men leave their work to come help unload the truck and build the latrine hut. After unloading, Dave and I climb back into the truck to go retrieve the remaining 100 bricks. To our surprise the same six guys climb back in the truck with us. In my American mind I did not see the need for more than four people to go back to Tamou: we knew where we were going, it only takes three to load the bricks, and the extra hands could be more useful building the hut. Instead, we were once more eight full-grown men in a truck that sits five comfortably. As we piled back in the truck, I was reminded of something Dan Ligon said back in February. We were going out to breakfast before he and his wife returned to Maradi and the restaurant was on their way out of town. Nobody wanted to take two cars, but one car meant having to go back in the opposite direction to drop people off, costing an extra 30 minutes of travel time. Finally Dan said, “We don’t need to find a reason to take one car. In this case the only real reason to ride together is that it is just nice to ride together.”

Dave and I had a great time laughing and joking with the villagers, but they were having way more fun than we were. It was a great day for them because they were able to spend the whole day together. Instead of working by themselves in their fields they were riding around with seven of their friends. Dave and I were thinking of the second trip to Tamou in terms of optimizing time and labor on the project. The villagers were thinking in terms of time spent together. Even if it meant squeezing eight full-grown men in a truck that fits five comfortably, the fellowship was worth it. To them, the time spent together riding to and from Tamou was more valuable than finishing the latrine a couple hours earlier.

Building a Latrine Step 4 : Ventilation

Community Building Step 4: The Heck if I know

Having found all the bricks needed for the latrine’s hut, Dave and I layed out the first course and gave instructions for how to finish. It was 4 :00 and we were hoping to make it back to Niamey in time for dinner. Hassan assured us the latrine would be finished before our final preparatory visit in three days. Feeling confident that he could handle the job, we packed up and hit the road.

Three days later we return to Alambare with our final load of supplies. Approaching the Church from behind, we can see the latrine hut is finished as promised. Excited, we get out and walk around to the front. To our shock and horror, there is a window in the wall, directly in front of the toilet seat. I look to the side and see a small pile of extra bricks, so the window could not have been the result of too few bricks. Confused, I ask, “Hassan why is there a huge hole in the wall directly in front of the toilet seat?”

Proudly Hassan responds, “I thought on this a long time. Without the window there is not much light, and it is hard to take care of your business if you cannot see. Also, there needs to be some ventilation. Now the person can get fresh air while they use the toilet. Also, they can see if someone is coming and can tell them not to come in.”

“But Hassan, don’t you think it will be hard for people to go if others can see them through the window?”

“Oh, but nobody here will look through the window. It is normal for people to use the bathroom in the open where anyone can see. They will not watch if someone goes in the hut to do so.”

I guess there are costs for such a close-knit community. If you become a member of a community like Alambare, you reap the benefits of that community but also surrender some of your rights. One of those rights privacy. Nothing is private, not even a toilet.

Soja

2009-07-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

There is a story I remember from when I was a child. The story is about a lion that trapped a mouse. The mouse pleads for his life, promising to help the lion some day. Feeling ever so magnanimous the lion releases the mouse, sure that his graciousness will never be repaid. The story ends, as you surely know, with the lion getting caught in a hunter’s trap. And who should come by but the very mouse the lion set free. The mouse returns the favor, freeing the lion by gnawing through the trap’s ropes.

We tell this story to children so they will learn to value everyone, regardless of social status. From the rich and powerful to the weak and poor, everyone is to be appreciated. We tell it so they will understand that even mice can unleash the fury of a lion. We love the lessons of this story. But why do we tell it? Is it to teach mice how to befriend lions? Or are we teaching lions to be gracious to mice?

Meet Soja Abdou. He is a Fulani farmer who lives about five miles outside of a small village called Gueladio. Every Sunday he walks those five miles to lead worship for a congregation of four Christians at the church in Gueladio. He speaks no French and is completely illiterate. When asked to sign his name he laughs and draws two small lines, slightly cocked so they look like a cow’s hoof print. He grows millet on his land during the rains and maintains a small garden during the dry season. Often his farming isn’t even enough to subsist, forcing him to leave his family behind and go as far as Benin in search of work. The money he sends back helps his family make it through till the next harvest. But no remittance can fill the void his absence leaves in his family and in the church.

Two months ago while spending a weekend in Gueladio, Soja came to me asking for a small loan. He wanted to get started doing small commerce that would earn him the residual income needed to make it through the famines. So with the help of Lawali’s translation, he and I looked at his business plan. After much discussion and prayer, he was given a small loan to put his plan in action. With that money he walks with his donkey cart every Saturday 15 km to a village market. There he buys sacks of millet to cart back to his village, which he sells for a $5 profit, still under the inflated price of the village’s sole vendor. Since giving that loan I have been out to visit him a few times to see his progress and collect the first payment.

The whole time I have worked with Soja I have been mystified by him. Here is a man who can’t read or write his own name, yet he understands the Bible better than I. He is the only Christian in his immediate family, and one of five in his village, yet he still has a stronger faith than I. He has to borrow money to make ends meet, yet he gave me a crate of eggs and a sack of mangos when I came to collect the first loan payment. He has every reason to complain about his life, yet he sings the purest praises I’ve ever heard. I am mystified because, by all appearances, there is nothing to sustain Soja’s faith, let alone allow growth. Yet somehow, his life reflects that of Christ more than anyone I have met. He is a simple, uneducated man, yet he has an understanding that, as Hassan described, “surpasses all others.”

I say without an ounce of pride that my job is one that earns me the admiration of others. People hear about the work I do with people like Soja and Moumouni and think how wonderful it is that I am helping those less fortunate than myself. Every month I get calls, emails, letters and facebook posts telling me how great what I am doing is. But the admiration I receive is the same admiration we feel for the lion when he releases the mouse. As Americans, we tend to fancy ourselves lions. We are born into a land of tremendous blessing with seemingly endless resources at our disposal. We are THE world power, so that must mean that we as Americans wield that tremendous power. We are the gatekeepers of the “American Dream” and have the ability to pass the keys to those we choose.

In Second Corinthians chapter 12, Paul talks about weakness. He speaks of a thorn in his flesh that he prayed three times for God to remove. This thorn made him weak and he wanted all the strength he could muster to better serve God. After the third prayer God responded, “ My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” I do not idolize Soja. I am sure he has flaws, imperfections buried deep within. But I have been plagued by a singular thought. Though everything may seem contrary, I am not the lion in this relationship. Instead, I am a mouse working beside one of the fiercest spiritual lions the world has ever known. Any help I give is just undoing the binds that keep him at bay.

Moumouni

2009-05-03T08:21:00.000-07:00

“Every woman has two sacks,” explained Moumouni one afternoon as we sat under Dave’s tree waiting for the chai to boil.

“What do you mean Moumouni? Two sacks like the one I carry on my motorcycle?”

“No, no, no. Two BIG sacks. The hundred kilo sacks you see in the market.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

Pouring the tea and mixing in the sugar he explained further. “You see, every woman has two sacks. In one they put all the good things you do for them. Every nice thing you say, every gift you give them, all the favors you do for them. They put it all in one sack. The other sack they fill with all the bad things you do to them. Every mean thing you say, every time you forget to do something, every time you leave dirty laundry on the floor, any bad thing you do goes in the second sack. But there is one problem. “

“What’s that?” I asked, taking a sip from the first round of chai.

“The sack with all the good things has a hole in the bottom. So every time they pick it up to look inside, all the good things fall out. They can’t find one good thing you did for them. Meanwhile, the sack with all the bad things is getting so full they have to cram things to the bottom,” he explained, stomping down the load of an imaginary sack. Then, with a devious grin, he said, “You will see one day when you get married.”

“I don’t need to wait till then. I know enough married couples to know that’s true.”

That got a good laugh out of Moumouni. “You think you understand, but you can’t understand fully until you get married.”

“Why?”

At this point he is putting the second round of chai on the coals to boil. “You think you understand a woman. You think you know her. But I promise, you don’t. It doesn’t matter if you are engaged for 10 years, you don’t know her true character. Women are experts at hiding their true selves. But the day you get married, their hidden character rises to the top like a thermometer. And women are FULL of character.”

****

This is Moumouni, the day guard at the Johannson residence. He’s the type of worker who gets disappointed if you don’t bring home a truckload of groceries because then you don’t need his help unloading. He’s the type of worker that, if you leave your laundry on the line too long, will iron and fold it all for you… even your socks and underwear. Dave’s car is always freshly washed, his garden always watered, and despite the best efforts of his two sons, his floors are always clean. But beyond being a great worker, he’s the type of person who, when you greet him, refuses to believe you are in good health unless you a do a little dance. He’s the type of person that will bring you tea just because he noticed you look tired. He’s Nathaniel’s third favorite person, next to his mom and dad, because of the way he loves the Johannson boys like his own.

In February Moumouni attended a three-day sermon series on Biblical principles for success in business that I taught at his church. I started the series teaching from the parable of the three servants who were given money to manage. The first two servants used it in various business efforts and made large profits for their master. However, the third hid his money in the ground until the master asked for it back. In the parable, the master gets angry that the servant did nothing with the money he was given. I explained that God isn’t unhappy when we try and fail, but he is unhappy when he gives us gifts we do not use.

I don’t know for sure if it was my teaching that caused Moumouni to approach me a few weeks later about his garden. Maybe the teaching made him think about his current situation and how he was sitting on unused resources. Maybe he was already thinking about asking for help and my sermon was the final nudge he needed. Maybe my sermon had nothing to do with his request. No matter the reason, he came to me and asked if I could discuss a farming project with him. We set up a time and one afternoon we rode down to his riverside garden.

Walking down the path to his plot of land he turned to me and said, “Now you are going to see why I cried.” I didn’t really understand what he meant at the time, so I just said “OK” and kept walking. After passing through a row of trees we came upon a hectare of beautiful land, practically untilled save the few rows of lettuce he was growing. He stopped me and said “This is my garden, come I want to show you.”

Excited, he took me by the hand and walked the perimeter with me. He introduced me to his wife, who was pulling weeds and watering plants with their baby tied to her back. “This must be the woman who is so full of character,” I thought to myself as I shook her hand. He showed me the plots that were good for lettuce, for rice and for tomatoes. He showed me the cistern where he draws water for his plants and then lead me down the pipe to the river where he pumps the water. As we walked back up to the garden from the river, he started to explain his situation to me.

“This was my father’s garden. I grew up working this land with him; me and my brothers. All of my brothers eventually moved away from the city, so I was the only one left to help him. Since I work all day at Dave’s, I could not help full time, but together we managed. A year ago my father died and he left the land for me to farm. After my father’s funeral, I came down to the garden and, as soon as I saw it, I cried. I cried because I knew that I did not have the strength or the resources to work the whole garden. That is why, right now, there are only a few rows of vegetables. It is all I can do.” Looking out on the huge plot of land still left to be worked, I understood what he meant. “It is not work that I fear. It’s working and not gaining anything that I fear. I know this land, and I know if I farm it that it will produce much. So what I fear even more is not working and losing what could be won. With just a little bit of money I could hire people to help me work this garden and I know it would produce much.”

I asked him lots of questions about the garden, just to get a feel for how it operates and how much it produces. Then, that day we sat down and worked out a small loan agreement. We talked about how much he would need to get the garden working and how long it would take before it would start producing. We talked about how he would pay it back and with what amount of interest. After discussing all the details of how the loan would work, I told him I would have a response in two weeks.

Yesterday afternoon I rode over to Dave’s house and met with Moumouni in the guard’s quarters. We went over the small loan contract I had prepared and reviewed all the details. Before giving him the money, we prayed for his garden. We prayed that God would send the rains needed to make his crops grow. We prayed that God would multiply his efforts and yield a harvest greater than his father ever saw. We prayed that this loan would be a blessing to him and his family and that it would help them to earn the extra income their household needed.

When we finished praying, I handed him an envelope that held the loan and our signed agreement. After taking the loan, he shook my hand and then pulled me close for a hug. Near tears, he took a deep breath, smiled and said, “Thank you Daniel. You have no idea what this means to me.” That may be true. But he has no idea what that loan meant to me.

To the casual observer it was just a small loan. But for men like Moumouni there is nowhere they can go to ask for a loan. There are no credit cards, banks will not give them a second look, and loan sharks charge interest upwards of 100%. What seemed like a small loan was to Moumouni, a source of livelihood and the fulfillment of his late father’s wishes. And for me this loan had just as much meaning. It was the fulfillment of my call to Niger. It was the reason I came here. It was for Moumouni and others like him that God called me out of business school to work in Niger. And what excites me more than that loan is that I know it is just a taste of what is to come.

Temples and Churches

2009-04-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

Jesus answered them, “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.”
The Jews then said, “It has taken forty-six years to build this temple, and will you raise it up in three days.”
John 2:19-20

Jesus made this statement near the beginning of his ministry. Because his ministry was just being established, I bet most people still saw him as a carpenter, not yet as a Rabbi. For the first 30 years of his life he built things. In a sense, he was a construction worker. So when he claimed he could rebuild the temple in 3 days, I bet the Jews thought he was the most arrogant carpenter to walk the streets of Jerusalem. Because he was a carpenter, he knew a lot about buildings. But, because he was Christ, he knew even more about temples.

Since January, we have been visited by three different short-term construction teams. With those teams, five church buildings were erected and the new offices for the National Church Council were remodeled. There were the guys from Tuxedo, Oklahoma who built a tabernacle in two villages and did cosmetic work on the 2,000 seat central church. There was the LINK veteran construction crew who spent two weeks knocking down walls and putting up new ones for the offices of the National Church Council. Finally, there was Uncle Charity and his A-Team of builders who erected two church buildings and built an extension on a third.

I love construction work. No, not because it was fun to spend all day mixing cement by hand. Not because it felt good when I knocked a fingernail off while demolishing a wall. Not because I got a nice tan while screwing down a tin roof in 130+ degree heat. Not because I understood why the tower of Babel was never finished when translating between Nigerien and American construction workers. No, the reason I love it is because at the end of the day, when you are sore and exhausted, you can look and see the fruits of your labor. You can see the roof you helped raise, the walls you helped brick, and the floors you helped cement and tile. It is a source of pride when you see a finished church building that you helped build. You feel attached to it, a certain degree of ownership you can claim. And these are just simple little tin roof, block wall buildings that take about a week to build from start to finish. I can only imagine the pride with which the Jews regarded their temple that took forty-six years to build.

The main reason the Jews had such a hard time understanding what Jesus meant by temple was because they were so attached to buildings. As they understood it, God’s presence was housed in the extravagant edifices constructed by their forefathers. It was there that you went to encounter God. Today we have a similar fixation on buildings. To many, Mechanicsville Christian Center is recognized as the large building at 8061 Shady Grove Road, not as the group of people that gather there. Sometimes while doing construction we get this idea that we are building churches, that these simple structures will be monuments to God’s presence in the community. But the truth is, these structures are not the temples we intend them to be. The temple, the church, becomes no bigger when we put up a roof and four walls. Let me give you two examples.

The final tabernacle we put up was in Alambare. The church there is flourishing. They have been holding their meetings in a thatched hangar that barely fits the 60 or so members that show up on a Sunday morning. At night, when the work is done, over 100 gather around a fire to sing, dance, pray and hear God’s word. When we explained that we had the funds to build a tabernacle church, they promised to build the walls if we would only build the frame and roof. We furnished the things they could not afford or procure and they completed the work; a perfect partnership between the American Mission and the National Church. It took our seven-man crew less than four hours to raise the roof with the help of the church members. By the time we screwed down the last sheet of tin, over 70 had gathered to dedicate the new building, including the village chief. They danced and worshipped in the shade of the new roof that won’t be destroyed or leak during the rainy season. Hassan preached from the new pulpit to an attentive congregation.

Compare Alambare with Boubon. The church in Boubon has been established for three years. After three years there are only four Christians in the village. It took the same seven man working crew seven hours to raise the roof because we didn’t have as many members to help. The chief did make an appearance. He came to remind Djibo of the church’s property lines and to warn him not to build the wall outside those boundaries. At the dedication, the twelve of us who were present made a small circle in the shade and prayed over the new building. A paid construction crew will come later and build the walls.

The story of Alambare is far more encouraging than the story of Boubon, isn’t it? When you read the story of Alambare your heart wants to shout “Amen!” because the temple we constructed is already filled. But when you read about Boubon, instead of “Amen!” the word that comes to mind is “Why?” Why build a tabernacle that will be practically empty and shows no signs of being filled in the near future? Are there not better ways to use those resources?

I confess to asking those questions myself. But are those the same sorts of questions the Jews were asking Jesus? Are we so prideful about our church buildings that we forget for what they are intended? Do we mistakenly think we are constructing churches instead of buildings that serve the church? It’s easy to make the connection when you see the large congregation gathered under the tabernacle at Alambare. It’s a little harder when you see the handful that assembles on a Sunday in Boubon. But that does not necessarily mean the need in Boubon was any less.

Even though the church in Boubon is smaller, the building serves the church no less. Now the Christians there have a safe place to gather and hear God’s word, safe from the persecution of other villagers. Now those that are shunned by the Muslim community have a place of sanctuary. Those who have been kicked out of their homes by Muslim families have a place to sleep. It is still a house of prayer, a house of worship where God’s word is preached. But, it is also a place of refuge and a source of encouragement. It is a reminder that though they are few in number, the Nigerien church is big and stands alongside them. And by faith, I pray and believe that the church will one day fill the building we constructed.

“Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s spirit dwells within you?”
1 Corinthians 3:16

Rabies and Mud Huts

2009-03-02T08:01:00.000-08:00

Ministry in the bush is not without its risks. Riding from village to village with Hassan, there is any number of potential dangers to be faced. Animals from the neighboring, fenceless game reserve frequent the roads we travel. One of the faithful church members survived a lion attack and has the scars to prove it. Hassan himself has twice turned around because he saw lions playing in the road. Elephants often roam down one of the major village roads on their way to the river. The sandy and eroded paths are treacherous themselves, sending motorcycles spilling and shredding car tires (I have changed 8 tires in 5 months). There is also the risk of accidentally crossing the border into neighboring Burkina Faso, quickly becoming an illegal alien.

With all of those hazards, the greatest danger is all too familiar. It’s one I have faced for years as a runner: dogs. I love dogs, but the beaten and abused guardians you encounter in the villages are seldom sniffing for friends. Far more common than lions, more territorial than wandering elephants, and more aggressive than both, we would be much more likely to fall prey to a dog than any other danger on the road. Whenever we pass by village compounds on motorcycle, we accelerate to outpace the mutts that give chase, kicking away any fast enough to catch up. Whenever we enter a new village, we are welcomed by the growls and barks of their canine protectors. And since “The Price is Right” never aired in Niger, you are almost guaranteed to cross paths with a mother protecting her newborn pups.

In January I made another trip out to Alambare with Rodrigo and Juanita. We rode out to three new villages that Hassan had just begun evangelizing. While we were preaching in one of the villages, we were invited in for a meal of couscous. Walking into the village I was suddenly attacked from behind. Without a bark, growl or any other kind of warning, a mother dog sprang from her hiding spot and got a good bite of my leg. Before I go any further, let me first answer some of the obvious questions that you are probably thinking at this point. Yes, it broke skin and let a good bit of blood. No, I did not need stitches. No, I did not cry. After patching it up we ate, had our service, and began the return trip to Alambare.

That night, while we were eating and relaxing in our hut, almost every person from the village visited us. They had heard about my “heroic” encounter with the wild dog and wanted to see the price of glory. Each time I would sheepishly lift up my pant leg to reveal a cut easily covered by one band-aid. Sympathetically they would wince at the sight of blood, tell me how bad the bite was, and wish me a quick recovery. Hassan began to get jealous of all the attention I was getting. He said he had fallen from his motorcycle recently and did not get near the same amount of fanfare. From that time since, any time an Alambarian dog has gotten near to me, the villagers chase it off and warn me to be careful. I was more frustrated and mad about the dog bite when it first happened because I knew I would have to go get rabies shots… super expensive here. However, by the end of the trip I was glad it happened because by it I learned just how much the villagers care for me.

Later that trip, sitting around the fire, Hassan shared his latest vision for ministry. In seven months he has opened churches in eight villages, of which he is the sole pastor. The work has grown to where it is difficult to visit all of the churches in one week. There are nine other villages that have invited him to come open a church, begging him to bring them the gospel. He quickly realized that the work is growing beyond what he is able to do alone. The amount of traveling, combined with the dangers, was becoming too much to handle. But God gave him a vision for how he could minister to all of those villages and more. He wants there to be a compound of huts just outside the church. They would invite other villages to send one or two to build a hut and stay in Alambare for a couple weeks to learn the gospel. After a few weeks of teaching they could then return to their home and share what they had learned. At the time there were two huts: one his own and the other for missionary visitors. I became so excited about his vision that I decided to join it. Right then we laid out the plans for my first home.

A month later I am a proud first-time homeowner. The circular mud hut they built comes complete with a thatched roof, two wooden chairs and a table. I share an outdoor shower and toilet with the other five huts in the compound. I still spend most of my time living in my apartment in Niamey, but now whenever I go out to Alambare I have a place of my own.

There is a song by an almost-famous American band about new love. The singer laments the loss of the mystery and excitement that define the beginning stages of a relationship. He has gotten past the honeymoon period and wonders, “why can’t it be like the first week.” I could say the same thing about my time here in Niger. I could say that I have been here long enough for the initial excitement to wane. I could talk about all the bad of this country that I have seen that could cancel out the wonderful experiences that comprised the content of my first few updates. I could miss the novelty of getting acquainted with a new country and a new people. I could. But those who have ever been in love know that true love is only beginning when the initial excitement ends. The longer I stay in this country and live amongst its people the more I fall in love. It may not seem new anymore, but everyday is just as exciting as the one before it. My experiences may not have the same novelty, but the familiarity makes them all the more enjoyable. In a place I never knew existed I now have a home. In a place where I was once a stranger I now have family that has named me and looks after me. In a place where the gospel was unknown a year ago I now belong to a church that almost mirrors the Acts model of loving and serving one another. Each morning that I walk out of my hut and I look on a village and a tribe that has captured my heart, I can’t help but think there is no better place for me than where I am right now.

The Sacred and the Simple

2009-01-08T15:58:00.000-08:00

Sometimes in Niger there seems to be little distinction between the sacred and the simple. The everyday walks hand in hand with the extraordinary. I know that the significance of events depends largely on the cultural lens through which you view them. Just because I regard certain moments and events as more important than others doesn’t mean they necessarily are. But even after four months I still am struck with how often the sacred is found in the simple and vice versa. Sometimes you find a burning bush when you go looking for berries and other times you take off your sandals in reverence to find you are standing in a field of cow pies.

My first Christmas in Niger was a perfect example of that sort of uncanny juxtaposition. I slept over at Chez Johannson so that I could wake up and have Christmas morning with my Virginia family. After opening presents and playing with Sam’s new toys, I met up with Djibo and Hassan to go to a concert downtown. A number of churches from Niger and Burkina had gotten together for a giant Christmas service. I had a wonderful time listening, worshipping, and at times even dancing with the rest of the audience. There was, however, one practice that struck me as odd every time it happened. Just when the musicians had worked themselves to a frenzy and the singer was dancing and singing with all their might, someone from the audience would walk up and stick a dollar bill on the singer’s forehead. Because of their sweat, the bill would stay for just a moment before falling into the singer’s waiting hands. It didn’t matter if their was a pause or not, people would come and stick their bills on the singer, and the singer would never miss a note. I turned and asked Djibo and Hassan about it because, through my American eyes, it looked grotesquely similar to throwing money at a stripper. They told me that it usually means something similar here in Niger. But this crowd of new believers and unchurched passerbys knew of no better way to show their appreciation. They felt compelled to give and did so the only way they knew how, appropriate or not.

The Sunday after Christmas I helped Boureima lead a group of his church’s youth for a three-day Christmas campaign in Hassan’s villages. There were 18 of us altogether, and in true African style we crammed them all into two cars. Boureima drove his Suzuki 4 runner and I drove Saber’s Nissan Sunny hatchback. Let me just say, that was the most stressful drive of my life. The roads I had navigated with difficulty on my motorbike a few weeks earlier I had to drive in a 4-cylinder, 2-door FWD hatchback filled with 5 other passengers and their luggage. With every ravine and sandy floodplain I thought for sure his car was going to break down in the middle of the Nigerien bush. But, the Lord provided and we made it to Alambare without issue.

Alambare is a village that has won a special place in my heart. It’s a village I claim as my own not just for the amount of time I have spent there, but the events I have been a part of. I’ve shopped in their market, danced with them under the stars, slept in their huts and attended their weddings. I’ve watched as their thatched church has grown in size and numbers and twice I have preached from its pulpit. The visit with Boureima only increased my feeling of attachment to this village as, once again, I was a part of important milestones in the church’s history.

During the morning service we baptized eight new church members. They had dug a giant hole just outside the church and covered it with plastic. The women from the village slowly filled the hole with water bourn from the well. When the hole had been filled, everyone gathered around and watched as, one by one, eight men and women climbed into the watery grave. The drums and the cheers resounded as each successive person who was submersed in the tomb-like baptismal was lifted out of its depths into a new life in Christ.

That evening I preached on the significance of Emmanuel, God with us. To conclude the service there were four couples who wished to dedicate their children to God. Boureima explained the significance of the event then asked for the other pastors to come up and bless the babies. Much to my surprise, he asked me to come up and bless one of the babies, named Isaac. It was the first time I had ever dedicated a baby, and the only way I can describe it is as a terribly awesome privilege. It was terrible because, as I held a five-day-old bundle of pure innocence in my hands, I was confronted with all of my corruption that should disqualify me from giving any blessing. How can I, who am so sinful, hope to add anything good to something that was so fearfully and wonderfully made? But, at the same time, it was awesome because the Christ in me rose above all my inadequacy to bring that child before his Creator and ask for His blessing. I don’t remember what I prayed out loud, but my heart was bursting with hopes and wishes for this child I had just met: that he would grow up into a man of wisdom and integrity, that he would pursue righteousness all his days, and that the Lord would bless his every step. Before I could finish I was brought back to reality by a warm, wet sensation. The little guy had peed all over me. Boureima, who began to laugh hysterically, said it was the mark of a good blessing. Eventually the whole village began laughing at the white guy who was covered in baby urine. I guess it’s appropriate, since Isaac means “she laughs.”

After three days in Alambare with Boureima and his church I came home for 12 hours, only to turn around and go back with the American mission. We spent new years at a hotel near Park W, just a little way up the road from Alambare. After a day looking for lions and elephants we rejoined Hassan for three more days of services in his villages. Rodrigo and Brent took care of the preaching, so I was able to sit back, play soccer, and just enjoy being amongst my friends there. At the end of one of the services, Hassan asked me to pray as we closed. When I came up to the front, one of the villagers suggested that since I was spending so much time in their village that I needed a true Gremanche name. So right then the congregation began debating what to call me. Eventually they decided on “Yampabo” which means “God’s Gift.” Because I had spent so much time in those villages, I had begun to take ownership of them. Little did I know that the people were also starting to take ownership of me. It was such a simple gesture, but one with tremendous meaning. With a new name they claimed me as their own.

Since coming back to Niamey, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on these moments. What makes them remarkable to me is not the incredibility of the experiences, but their simplicity. It’s remarkable that the things that appeared so simple, if not vulgar, could be so full of significance. The secular tradition of tossing money became an act of worship, a hole in the ground became a baptismal, and a new nickname became a claim to a people. And sometimes the things that appear so meaningful end with you covered in pee.

Maradi

2008-12-24T01:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Wedding Crashers

2008-12-11T15:50:00.000-08:00

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

Drink the Sauce

2008-12-07T11:20:00.000-08:00

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.

Camping, Soccer, and Christ Crucified

2008-11-26T10:54:00.000-08:00

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.

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

Living Water

2008-11-18T13:20:00.000-08:00

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.

Election Reflections from Abroad

2008-11-13T10:17:00.000-08:00

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.

The Motorcycle Diary

2008-10-25T04:32:00.000-07:00

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.

Holiday in Gao

2008-10-18T05:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Miracles

2008-10-09T13:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Personal Update

2008-10-09T13:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Finally Here

2008-09-28T14:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Countdown: 6 days

2008-09-18T12:30:00.000-07:00

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.

A page from my Niger Journal, December 11, 2005

2008-09-18T08:24:00.002-07:00

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.