“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.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Temples and Churches
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
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
Monday, March 2, 2009
Rabies and Mud Huts
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.
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.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The Sacred and the Simple
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Maradi
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.
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.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wedding Crashers
Last Saturday I had the privilege of attending a Gremanche wedding in one of Hassan’s villages. As one might expect, it was a totally different experience from a traditional American wedding. I can not say it was a traditional Gremanche wedding because traditionally marriage occurs without ceremony: a man chooses a bride, he pays the dowry, and then takes her home at the agreed upon time. But the church in this village has grown, and one of the members wanted to have a Christian wedding. This was to be the village’s first Christian wedding, which promised to be a different experience for villagers and visitors alike. It did not disappoint.
I rode to the service with Rodrigo, who would be giving the charge of marriage, Pastor Boube, who would be performing the ceremony, Juanita and two other pastors who would be translating. We arrived and greeted the groom, who could not be distinguished from the guests if you didn’t know otherwise. Upon our arrival the guests began to fill the thatched church and take seats on the logs and stumps used as pews. The drummers began to play an opening song and the whole church began to sing along.
After three songs, the bride was still nowhere to be found. I wasn’t concerned because it is normal in American weddings for the bride to make her grand appearance a little tardy. However, I could tell Hassan is beginning to wonder where she is. The translator goes out searching for her long enough for Rodrigo and I to wonder if there was going to be a wedding after all. In a few minutes he returns, saying, “Don’t worry, she’s coming. She’s just finishing grinding her millet!”
I bet no American girl’s fantasy of her wedding day involves pounding millet into grains. No, instead she’ll have bridesmaids to help her do her hair and makeup hours before the service. All will rise to greet her when she enters the sanctuary. Her pedicured feet will walk a path paved with rose petals to a pedestal where attendants will lift the train of her overflowing gown. Not so for this young Gremanche bride. The father had chores for her to finish because the next day she would belong to her husband and would prepare the grains for him.
When the bride finally arrived, the service could commence. After a couple more songs, Rodrigo preached and gave the marital charge. As Pastor Boube rose to begin the ceremony, the bride’s father made his first appearance. He didn’t take a seat, but started arguing with the groom. Rodrigo and I, who could not understand a word of the discussion, are looking at each other thinking this wedding is going to be cut short. Then, just as suddenly as he came, the father ran off, and nobody gave chase. I asked Hassan what the argument was about and he explained in between chuckles. “The bride’s mother has just recently given birth and is right now recovering. That’s why her parents aren’t here. The father just came to ask the groom for $50 so he could buy medicine for his wife. He said ‘You are part of the family now, it’s part of your responsibility.’” The service has not even begun and the father-in-law-to-be is asking the groom for money! The groom said he would discuss it after the service, once he was officially a part of the family.
The scene was such a stark contrast to the loving father who affectionately kisses his daughter on the cheek as he gives her hand to the groom. That father would nervously announce that it is he who gives this woman to be wed. He would then take his seat and observe with a mixture of pride and reluctance. He would have paid thousands of dollars for the ceremony and the celebration immediately following, and probably would not have asked the groom to help pay.
When the ceremony ended, the bride and groom walked their separate ways. The groom went to his house to prepare it for his bride who would arrive later that evening. The bride went to gather things to take to her new home. Later that afternoon we saw the groom at the village mill, talking to the neighbors. It was then that it struck me: their wedding day would pass almost like any other day. There would be no way of marking the significance of the day, aside from the simple ceremony of the morning. Immediately after life began to go on as normal, but for the newlyweds the standard of normal would never be the same.
Rodrigo, Juanita and I joked about it the whole way home. We joked because the wedding day was so insignificant compared to the significance of marriage. But, despite the seeming indifference with which the wedding was treated, I know that they place more importance on marriage than the day made it seem. During the actual ceremony, you could see a full comprehension of the commitment on the faces of the bride and groom. Though the groom was 21 and the bride maybe 15, they knew as anyone who gets married the importance of that day. They didn’t need tuxedos and gowns, flowers and feasts to understand that life had forever changed. The commitment was its own commemoration. It was a commitment that was made for the first and last time, and no amount of celebration could add to or take away from its significance. In that regard, it was just as beautiful as any wedding I had ever attended.
“Do you not understand? That is all over. Among times there is a time that turns a corner and everything this side of it is new. Times do not go backward.”
“And can one little world like mine be the corner?”
“I do not understand. Corner with us is not the name of a size.”
C.S. Lewis, Perelandra
I rode to the service with Rodrigo, who would be giving the charge of marriage, Pastor Boube, who would be performing the ceremony, Juanita and two other pastors who would be translating. We arrived and greeted the groom, who could not be distinguished from the guests if you didn’t know otherwise. Upon our arrival the guests began to fill the thatched church and take seats on the logs and stumps used as pews. The drummers began to play an opening song and the whole church began to sing along.
After three songs, the bride was still nowhere to be found. I wasn’t concerned because it is normal in American weddings for the bride to make her grand appearance a little tardy. However, I could tell Hassan is beginning to wonder where she is. The translator goes out searching for her long enough for Rodrigo and I to wonder if there was going to be a wedding after all. In a few minutes he returns, saying, “Don’t worry, she’s coming. She’s just finishing grinding her millet!”
I bet no American girl’s fantasy of her wedding day involves pounding millet into grains. No, instead she’ll have bridesmaids to help her do her hair and makeup hours before the service. All will rise to greet her when she enters the sanctuary. Her pedicured feet will walk a path paved with rose petals to a pedestal where attendants will lift the train of her overflowing gown. Not so for this young Gremanche bride. The father had chores for her to finish because the next day she would belong to her husband and would prepare the grains for him.
When the bride finally arrived, the service could commence. After a couple more songs, Rodrigo preached and gave the marital charge. As Pastor Boube rose to begin the ceremony, the bride’s father made his first appearance. He didn’t take a seat, but started arguing with the groom. Rodrigo and I, who could not understand a word of the discussion, are looking at each other thinking this wedding is going to be cut short. Then, just as suddenly as he came, the father ran off, and nobody gave chase. I asked Hassan what the argument was about and he explained in between chuckles. “The bride’s mother has just recently given birth and is right now recovering. That’s why her parents aren’t here. The father just came to ask the groom for $50 so he could buy medicine for his wife. He said ‘You are part of the family now, it’s part of your responsibility.’” The service has not even begun and the father-in-law-to-be is asking the groom for money! The groom said he would discuss it after the service, once he was officially a part of the family.
The scene was such a stark contrast to the loving father who affectionately kisses his daughter on the cheek as he gives her hand to the groom. That father would nervously announce that it is he who gives this woman to be wed. He would then take his seat and observe with a mixture of pride and reluctance. He would have paid thousands of dollars for the ceremony and the celebration immediately following, and probably would not have asked the groom to help pay.
When the ceremony ended, the bride and groom walked their separate ways. The groom went to his house to prepare it for his bride who would arrive later that evening. The bride went to gather things to take to her new home. Later that afternoon we saw the groom at the village mill, talking to the neighbors. It was then that it struck me: their wedding day would pass almost like any other day. There would be no way of marking the significance of the day, aside from the simple ceremony of the morning. Immediately after life began to go on as normal, but for the newlyweds the standard of normal would never be the same.
Rodrigo, Juanita and I joked about it the whole way home. We joked because the wedding day was so insignificant compared to the significance of marriage. But, despite the seeming indifference with which the wedding was treated, I know that they place more importance on marriage than the day made it seem. During the actual ceremony, you could see a full comprehension of the commitment on the faces of the bride and groom. Though the groom was 21 and the bride maybe 15, they knew as anyone who gets married the importance of that day. They didn’t need tuxedos and gowns, flowers and feasts to understand that life had forever changed. The commitment was its own commemoration. It was a commitment that was made for the first and last time, and no amount of celebration could add to or take away from its significance. In that regard, it was just as beautiful as any wedding I had ever attended.
“Do you not understand? That is all over. Among times there is a time that turns a corner and everything this side of it is new. Times do not go backward.”
“And can one little world like mine be the corner?”
“I do not understand. Corner with us is not the name of a size.”
C.S. Lewis, Perelandra
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Drink the Sauce
For years I worked for a Japanese exchange program called High School Diplomats. Each summer, as part of my responsibility, I would help prepare a group of 26 high school students for a three-week trip to Japan. In encouraging those students to experience as much of the Japanese culture as possible, we always told them about one student who took our advice to the extreme. This guy didn’t want a bit of Japanese culture to escape his eye, his ear, and especially not his stomach. At every restaurant he went beyond eating whatever was served. At the end of each meal he would also drink the bowls of dipping sauces. To the point of absurdity, he tasted Japanese culture down to the last drop.
The past few weeks I have been drinking the sauce of African culture here in Niger. I have spent almost as many nights sleeping in village huts as I have in my own bed. I’ve eaten almost as many meals with my hands from a calebasse as I have from a plate with fork and knife. I’ve had experiences that wouldn’t be possible anywhere else in the world, and I’ve had experiences that would look ridiculous anywhere else in the world. I have tasted the sauce and found it is sweetest when you feel like you are drowning in it.
First, let me say that this Thanksgiving I was incredibly thankful to be healthy. Driving in Niger is as much of a cultural experience as anything else, and I have embraced one of the most African means of motorized transport… the motorcycle. While efficient, convenient, and ultimately fun, it also the more dangerous way to get around town. On Thanksgiving I was in not just one, but two, bike accidents. I was sideswiped by a taxi that didn’t see me and collided with a car at a sandy intersection with no stop signs or clear right of way. Despite getting tossed once, I was fine, my bike was fine, and only minor scratches were done to the other cars. Thank the Lord for letting me survive that aspect of Nigerien culture that seemed to want to kill me that day.
The day after Thanksgiving I left with my friend Hassan for a weekend in the villages he pastors. Each weekend he holds six church services in four villages. I went along to encourage and help him in any way I could. Mounting our motorcycles, we rode for four hours into the African wilderness. Going where only pedestrians and bikers could go, we rode through lion hunting grounds, by elephant watering holes, and under monkey filled trees. I would have stopped to take in the view were it not so terrifying trying to keep up with the daredevil on the motorcycle in front of me. When we finally reached our destination we ate yams and rice and relaxed as the midday heat passed.
That night we held two services in two villages. We rode out to the first village down miles of winding and sandy roads. I preached in the first service, under the shade of a baobop tree: my second French sermon in as many weeks. By the time we finished the sun had long since set, which meant riding back along that windy, sandy road in the pitch dark. I had the pleasure of being the lead bike, with our translator and guide riding with me. Keep in mind: I’m only 24 hours away from my accidents. And let me add that driving in sand is like a perpetual hydroplane, except on a bike that can tip over. Swerving away from low hanging tree branches and jerking for turns at the last second instruction of our guide, we found our way back to our hut without getting out of second gear.
Waiting anxiously for our return was a group of 120 herders and farmers, hungry for the Word and Hassan’s teaching. Night services have a much larger turnout because the daylight working hours aren’t being wasted. So, under the glow of a dangling flashlight, Hassan preached to his church. I sat on the ground amongst the congregation. We clapped and sang songs of worship together and we prayed together. We all leaned in attentively as the one villager who could read shared the Word from the village’s communal Bible. Hassan preached on the passage and then answered the questions of those searching for truth. At the conclusion of the service, these farmers gave happily out of their poverty to the work of the church, proudly dropping pennies into the collection basket.
After the service, we returned to our hut where we shared a meal from a single calebasse. I would tell you what it was if I knew. It was too dark to see what I was putting in my mouth, but it was good. I then set up my hammock to try to sleep. If you aren’t accustomed to the sounds of the village, you don’t really ever sleep; there are just parts of the night you don’t remember so well. Between the neighbor’s donkeys making all sorts of noise, the goats having sex right by my hammock, and the women pounding their grains at 4am, I “awoke” the next morning only slightly rested.
Saturday morning, after two services in two different villages, we rode on to the weekend market to buy lunch: mutton and milk straight from the cow. When we got to the market one of the men I sat with the night before was selling things out of his small corner shop. He was so excited to see us that he put his younger brother in charge of the shop while he showed us around. He then took me by the hand to lead me around. This is a Nigerien custom that, I must admit, I still cannot get comfortable with. It is perfectly normal for men to hold hands, interlocking fingers and all, as they walk down the street. It startles me every time a guy tries to hold my hand. But this time, embracing the culture, I walked through the market holding his hand the whole way.
That night, long after the sun had set, we hiked out to an empty field where the church was again waiting for us. They had already built a large bonfire and the drum skins had been warmed. Hassan opened with a welcome and a brief prayer. As soon as the Amen escaped his lips the drummers began to beat a song of celebration. The whole congregation joined in, singing and dancing praises to God. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I felt as if I were spying on an ancient ritual, a rhythm and movement that had been practiced for generations. The Gremanche tribe has been singing and dancing for centuries. But this newly converted Gremanche village has found a new song to sing and a new step to dance. Their drums echoed through the heavens and their dancing shook the earth as they offered praise to their savior the best way they knew how. They praised a God who has redeemed them, not sought to reform them. They worshipped as a culture that has been reborn, not replaced. And the whole time God smiled back with the most brilliant array of heavenly bodies that can fit in one sky. I joined in, dancing as foolishly as David, until I was covered with sweat, dust, and ash.
The next morning we had one last service before heading home. The journey home was just as long and windy as the trip there. When we finally made it back I was exhausted, but so satisfied. Hassan and I toasted the journey with ice-cold cokes. He had shared so much with me over the weekend. He shared his food, his water, his hut, and even his motorcycle fuel when I ran out. We talked about everything under the sun during our journey. But most importantly, he put the sauce-bowl of Nigerien culture in front of me and showed me how to drink it. And it was good.
The past few weeks I have been drinking the sauce of African culture here in Niger. I have spent almost as many nights sleeping in village huts as I have in my own bed. I’ve eaten almost as many meals with my hands from a calebasse as I have from a plate with fork and knife. I’ve had experiences that wouldn’t be possible anywhere else in the world, and I’ve had experiences that would look ridiculous anywhere else in the world. I have tasted the sauce and found it is sweetest when you feel like you are drowning in it.
First, let me say that this Thanksgiving I was incredibly thankful to be healthy. Driving in Niger is as much of a cultural experience as anything else, and I have embraced one of the most African means of motorized transport… the motorcycle. While efficient, convenient, and ultimately fun, it also the more dangerous way to get around town. On Thanksgiving I was in not just one, but two, bike accidents. I was sideswiped by a taxi that didn’t see me and collided with a car at a sandy intersection with no stop signs or clear right of way. Despite getting tossed once, I was fine, my bike was fine, and only minor scratches were done to the other cars. Thank the Lord for letting me survive that aspect of Nigerien culture that seemed to want to kill me that day.
The day after Thanksgiving I left with my friend Hassan for a weekend in the villages he pastors. Each weekend he holds six church services in four villages. I went along to encourage and help him in any way I could. Mounting our motorcycles, we rode for four hours into the African wilderness. Going where only pedestrians and bikers could go, we rode through lion hunting grounds, by elephant watering holes, and under monkey filled trees. I would have stopped to take in the view were it not so terrifying trying to keep up with the daredevil on the motorcycle in front of me. When we finally reached our destination we ate yams and rice and relaxed as the midday heat passed.
That night we held two services in two villages. We rode out to the first village down miles of winding and sandy roads. I preached in the first service, under the shade of a baobop tree: my second French sermon in as many weeks. By the time we finished the sun had long since set, which meant riding back along that windy, sandy road in the pitch dark. I had the pleasure of being the lead bike, with our translator and guide riding with me. Keep in mind: I’m only 24 hours away from my accidents. And let me add that driving in sand is like a perpetual hydroplane, except on a bike that can tip over. Swerving away from low hanging tree branches and jerking for turns at the last second instruction of our guide, we found our way back to our hut without getting out of second gear.
Waiting anxiously for our return was a group of 120 herders and farmers, hungry for the Word and Hassan’s teaching. Night services have a much larger turnout because the daylight working hours aren’t being wasted. So, under the glow of a dangling flashlight, Hassan preached to his church. I sat on the ground amongst the congregation. We clapped and sang songs of worship together and we prayed together. We all leaned in attentively as the one villager who could read shared the Word from the village’s communal Bible. Hassan preached on the passage and then answered the questions of those searching for truth. At the conclusion of the service, these farmers gave happily out of their poverty to the work of the church, proudly dropping pennies into the collection basket.
After the service, we returned to our hut where we shared a meal from a single calebasse. I would tell you what it was if I knew. It was too dark to see what I was putting in my mouth, but it was good. I then set up my hammock to try to sleep. If you aren’t accustomed to the sounds of the village, you don’t really ever sleep; there are just parts of the night you don’t remember so well. Between the neighbor’s donkeys making all sorts of noise, the goats having sex right by my hammock, and the women pounding their grains at 4am, I “awoke” the next morning only slightly rested.
Saturday morning, after two services in two different villages, we rode on to the weekend market to buy lunch: mutton and milk straight from the cow. When we got to the market one of the men I sat with the night before was selling things out of his small corner shop. He was so excited to see us that he put his younger brother in charge of the shop while he showed us around. He then took me by the hand to lead me around. This is a Nigerien custom that, I must admit, I still cannot get comfortable with. It is perfectly normal for men to hold hands, interlocking fingers and all, as they walk down the street. It startles me every time a guy tries to hold my hand. But this time, embracing the culture, I walked through the market holding his hand the whole way.
That night, long after the sun had set, we hiked out to an empty field where the church was again waiting for us. They had already built a large bonfire and the drum skins had been warmed. Hassan opened with a welcome and a brief prayer. As soon as the Amen escaped his lips the drummers began to beat a song of celebration. The whole congregation joined in, singing and dancing praises to God. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I felt as if I were spying on an ancient ritual, a rhythm and movement that had been practiced for generations. The Gremanche tribe has been singing and dancing for centuries. But this newly converted Gremanche village has found a new song to sing and a new step to dance. Their drums echoed through the heavens and their dancing shook the earth as they offered praise to their savior the best way they knew how. They praised a God who has redeemed them, not sought to reform them. They worshipped as a culture that has been reborn, not replaced. And the whole time God smiled back with the most brilliant array of heavenly bodies that can fit in one sky. I joined in, dancing as foolishly as David, until I was covered with sweat, dust, and ash.
The next morning we had one last service before heading home. The journey home was just as long and windy as the trip there. When we finally made it back I was exhausted, but so satisfied. Hassan and I toasted the journey with ice-cold cokes. He had shared so much with me over the weekend. He shared his food, his water, his hut, and even his motorcycle fuel when I ran out. We talked about everything under the sun during our journey. But most importantly, he put the sauce-bowl of Nigerien culture in front of me and showed me how to drink it. And it was good.
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