I've been back in the U.S. for three weeks now. The adjustment has been harder than i expected. It is great to be back, though. I appreciate the ease of this country more than ever. everything works here. the electricity is steady, the AC is awesome, the internet is always available, and there are options and great choices everywhere i turn. But i find myself being bothered a bit by how deeply i am allowing myself to get sucked back into this "American Ease."
At breakfast with Paul Wilson week before last, after three months working in Nigeria, I had the best blueberry muffin ever. and then the best dang eggs--ever. And perfect bacon--the best ever, and these incredible pancakes--the best ever, and a great glass of water with A+ ice--the best ever. I even had a nice ramekin of warm maple syrup.
Paul and i talked about missions, and Cibolo Church's upcoming trip to Nigeria, and life in the States and our suburban faith. I spoke of the things I saw in Nigeria and the experiences I had. I spoke of the people I met and the lives being lived. And all the while, something was really knawing at me....
i was getting irritated! I was troubled!! I was growing annoyed!!! where the heck had our waitress gone?? what was the deal with the service here??? I mean, all the lights were on and the air was cool and the food was awesome and the company was great and the conversation was about spiritual things....but crisis had struck: I had some pancakes that "needed" to be finished, and I was out of maple syrup!!!!
Sure, I was no longer hungry, but that's not the point. I wanted justice! Didn't this waitress realize that I had been serving as a missionary in Nigeria??? Oh, the things i had learned, the sacrifices i had made. the places i had gone. the suffering i had endured. SO WHERE THE HECK WAS MY EXTRA MAPLE SYRUP???
And there you have it. In less than ten days I had officially, once again, become a full-fledged idiot. I made no sacrifices in Nigeria, especially when viewed in light of what Christ has done for all of us. And the "syrup crisis" remains my #1 fear with my life here in the U.S.
I am afraid I will forget what is really important and what people are going through in other parts of the world.
Already i find myself questioning whether it was really as bad for Nigerians as i remember it to be. The contrast between this life and that life is immense. i just got back from walking in the air-conditioned shade of beautiful Northpark Mall in Dallas. In Jos, I walked on a hot, highly polluted track in a compound with an eight foot, cinder block wall topped with razor wire and three guards at the front gate. Outside that wall was more loud traffic than you can imagine, with a small "river" separating the wall and the road. People often stop there to go to the bathroom right there on the bank to the water--the same water that people draw water from to use in their homes.
So how do i help the teenage girl coming out of Hollisters at Northpark Mall, and screaming to her mother that she needs more money, understand (without making her feel bad or guilty) that there are some teenage girls in Nigeria also, that she may want to know about...and consider...and maybe even help?
I am now searching for a home in Dallas--a place to live and work--as I try do build Go Nigeria into an entity, by God's grace, which can help the people of Nigeria. There is so much that will unfold on this journey, and it will happen on God's timetable--not mine. He has revealed what He wants me to do, but not how i am supposed to do it. So I grope along as best i can, seeking counsel and praying and crying out. But it is a walk of faith, and i fear I may lose my way.
So please pray that I can stay the course and persevere. And pray that He will provide the finances I need to do this work beyond those that I am already providing on my own.
And pray that He help me remember what is important, and to keep my eye on the ball, and to not worry too much about the extra syrup that part of me is sometimes so subtlely certain i deserve.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Green Beer: Flies & Despair No Extra Charge 5.24.08
I don't really know enough to write this for certain (b/c two months here isn't enough time to determine what it takes to navigate Nigeria long-term), but life here seems to mandate a simple and goofy side to getting through each week--necessitated by the darker things you experience.
So...today I was languishing in the joys of a new pan of lasagna after having a great time playing ultimate frisbee with twenty other people serving here. I was chowing down in the kitchen for a while with Christy, one of the workers at the guest house. Over lunch I told her the long story of how a thief had obviously broken into our kitchen last night. I knew this to be "true," I explained, because an empty container of homemade vanilla ice cream was found in my room this morning by another one of our workers.
I mentioned to Christy how clever it was of this thief to steal the ice cream, consume all of it, and then manage to get into my locked room, leaving the evidence of the crime there in order to try to incriminate me. So we laugh and laugh, and it is all just sort of a silly way to enjoy life's simple pleasures and blow off a little steam while giving yourself a nice treat. We do this back in the States too, but it has a bit different flavor here.
That's because two Wednesday's ago i visited a second Blind Town here in Jos, in an area called Bukuru. I met many folks, and the village chief, and saw firsthand what leprosy does to a person's body. Took many photos which I will post on this site someday.
Saw dozens of kids playing in courtyards (euphemism) composed of trash heaps, garbage, packed dirt, mud holes, animals and their refuse, and nothing green anywhere for blocks around. Witnessed dozens of people flocking to our medical team, desperate and appreciative for any attention at all, and even more so of course for medical care. These people have nothing by our standards in the West, but are full of joy and generosity, which they manifest through personal warmth and smiles and great grace toward their western visitors, who have little if any clue of what their life is really like.
For the second part of the visit in this area we needed to travel over a mile to a place called "Lost Boys." But it was about a 30 minute walk and we were running out of time at now 5pm, so my guide suggested we take an achaba, if I was willing. These are the infamous motorcycle taxis. I said okay and a little anxiously climbed on board. I grabbed the shoulders of my driver and he turned his head to the side as if to say, "What the heck are you doing?' All their usual fares just sit there without holding on to anything as they dart around town through heavy traffic.
I looked at my guide, and he was sitting quite relaxed on the back of his achaba. So pride got the better of me and I let go of my poor driver and instead formed a death grip on the little stainless steel luggage rack directly behind my rear. We passed around the corner of the first block and were suddenly in the midst of a huge market area with people everywhere.
The driver went slowly and we weaved our way through the masses--a sight which you would have to see to fully appreciate. People smiled (read laughed) at me as I passed by. So then I decided to just go with it and relax, so I let go altogether. We of course made it, and it was really fun. Kinda like Six Flags Jos.
The breeze was nice and the ride was smooth and my driver understood what he had on board and drove accordingly. And this few minute ride costs a whopping 25 cents. Then I waited at this new area for my guide to run an errand. I stood watching schools kids walking home down this busy, dusty road; watching groups of men squatting on storefront entryways with no business and nothing to do; watching a tiny bar with an outdoor pool table of sorts under a little, rusty, corrugated metal awning.
We soon headed into the neighborhood which was right behind this outer ring of businesses. Imagine narrow little walkways of dirt and mud between crumbling walls of homes. People everywhere, staring at you. Trash and filth and noise--amidst cooking and families and joy and laughter. We went to a building in this area where our ministry does outreach each Mondays and Wednesdays, and I saw ministry booklets that are used--handouts of the Gospel of Yohanna (yes, you are right) in Hausa and English.
We walked through intersections and passed many kiosks serving roasted dog. We passed through areas where tons of people were sitting and cooking dinner with open fires in an area that smelled so foul I had to cover my mouth with my sleeve and try not to breath for 45 seconds, as I feared I would hurl.
We went into other areas, all on foot, where huge groups of men sat in hot, draftless, smokey rooms, made of mud or cheap plaster, with window openings but no windows or screens. Rows of benches, crammed full with men, set against dirty walls. No big screen TVs, no neon "Bud" signs--no electricity; no plumbing, no games, no laughter, very little talking. Open doorways: no doors or even curtains.
It was "happy" hour.
This area is known for heavy drinking, rampant alcoholism, and what the Nigerians call "immorality." The men in these rooms drank an air temperature, fermented green beverage from wooden gourds dipped into wide, shallow, metal tubs set outside on the dirt by the dozens. The liquid looked more like a green, watery soup at first--not uniform in color or even texture. (I thought the tubs may have contained dirty dishes or even laundry at first.)
But no, this is their homemade beer. Flies by the thousands everywhere, including some in the beer, but no one seemed to notice or care.
Bibles are distributed to those who want them, and evangelism takes place, but interacting with these people is first really all about simple greetings, and courtesies, and relationships. People are open to God's word here, but many are also clearly fighting it. Again you feel that if Christ were visiting Jos, this is a place where He would be spending a good deal of time.
The inhabitants here are some of the most challenged members of this very impoverished city. You sense their resignation to the life they lead as you past by filthy, open prostitution shanties with ragged, partial curtains and walls--or less, where men and boys step inside for a few minutes of casual pleasure, relief and escape that will likely cost them their lives very soon through the pandemic that is AIDS.
My guide, Reverend Joseph, told me he not long ago saw a couple "romancing" right out in the open. This particular area is also known as a spot where women and prostitutes leave unwanted newborns to die. They are discarded in boxes or wrapped in plastic bags and simply thrown out.
And as you pass through all this you see and certainly smell open sewage and men and boys simply facing a wall and relieving themselves as dozens of people pass by only yards away. So as you encounter people you simply smile, and say sannu (hello), and shake hands lengthily and don't let go for a long time, and look people right in the eye and let them know as best you can that you are truly happy and honored to meet them and that you are not there to judge them in any way but instead to try to help.
But a short time later, especially given the task at hand for those who minister here each week, I leave and feel certain that I have not helped any one, in any way. (And then I suddenly capture a sense of how easily I could be a "Lost Boy" if I was born here in Jos instead of McAllen, Texas.) And I walk out feeling glad I saw it all. And have a sense of understanding it--but know I've only scratched the surface of this life for these people.
And there is a sense of hopelessness and of realizing what it would take for any of these people to break away and step out of this life, and these cycles, and these routines, and their perhaps unrecognized self-despair, and the ignorance, and the dependencies, and the peer pressure and the family dynamics, and their Islamic or animistic or atheistic entrenchments, and it is almost more than you can take.
But coupled with these enormous challenges there exists--through God's grace--a sense of hope, a sense of peace. A sense of perhaps helping even one person, though there are ten thousand others in the area who you will never meet.
So as i walked back to our little dilapidated bus to ride back to my luxurious part of town, by contrast, i feel a strange sense of exhilaration and foolishness, of joy and despair, of sadness and hope. I try to love these people in a moment's time while knowing it is a drop in the bucket compared to what they need--but a drop nonetheless.
And even now, ten days later, I struggle to find a way to convey this to all of you who are kind enough to read these blog entries. And I wonder which of you may come here someday and add a few more drops or maybe even a bucketful to the ocean of need that is Africa.
If you do, you will have days like this and be greatly blessed, even in the midst of great poverty and human suffering. You will see new things and gain new perspectives.
And at the end of your day or week, you may stop and enjoy some ice cream or a silly joke, or create a moment of goofiness--to help you offset the distinct memory, in this case, of all the men and boys trying to escape from their existence for a short time--those brothers of ours who are drowning in their green beer.
So...today I was languishing in the joys of a new pan of lasagna after having a great time playing ultimate frisbee with twenty other people serving here. I was chowing down in the kitchen for a while with Christy, one of the workers at the guest house. Over lunch I told her the long story of how a thief had obviously broken into our kitchen last night. I knew this to be "true," I explained, because an empty container of homemade vanilla ice cream was found in my room this morning by another one of our workers.
I mentioned to Christy how clever it was of this thief to steal the ice cream, consume all of it, and then manage to get into my locked room, leaving the evidence of the crime there in order to try to incriminate me. So we laugh and laugh, and it is all just sort of a silly way to enjoy life's simple pleasures and blow off a little steam while giving yourself a nice treat. We do this back in the States too, but it has a bit different flavor here.
That's because two Wednesday's ago i visited a second Blind Town here in Jos, in an area called Bukuru. I met many folks, and the village chief, and saw firsthand what leprosy does to a person's body. Took many photos which I will post on this site someday.
Saw dozens of kids playing in courtyards (euphemism) composed of trash heaps, garbage, packed dirt, mud holes, animals and their refuse, and nothing green anywhere for blocks around. Witnessed dozens of people flocking to our medical team, desperate and appreciative for any attention at all, and even more so of course for medical care. These people have nothing by our standards in the West, but are full of joy and generosity, which they manifest through personal warmth and smiles and great grace toward their western visitors, who have little if any clue of what their life is really like.
For the second part of the visit in this area we needed to travel over a mile to a place called "Lost Boys." But it was about a 30 minute walk and we were running out of time at now 5pm, so my guide suggested we take an achaba, if I was willing. These are the infamous motorcycle taxis. I said okay and a little anxiously climbed on board. I grabbed the shoulders of my driver and he turned his head to the side as if to say, "What the heck are you doing?' All their usual fares just sit there without holding on to anything as they dart around town through heavy traffic.
I looked at my guide, and he was sitting quite relaxed on the back of his achaba. So pride got the better of me and I let go of my poor driver and instead formed a death grip on the little stainless steel luggage rack directly behind my rear. We passed around the corner of the first block and were suddenly in the midst of a huge market area with people everywhere.
The driver went slowly and we weaved our way through the masses--a sight which you would have to see to fully appreciate. People smiled (read laughed) at me as I passed by. So then I decided to just go with it and relax, so I let go altogether. We of course made it, and it was really fun. Kinda like Six Flags Jos.
The breeze was nice and the ride was smooth and my driver understood what he had on board and drove accordingly. And this few minute ride costs a whopping 25 cents. Then I waited at this new area for my guide to run an errand. I stood watching schools kids walking home down this busy, dusty road; watching groups of men squatting on storefront entryways with no business and nothing to do; watching a tiny bar with an outdoor pool table of sorts under a little, rusty, corrugated metal awning.
We soon headed into the neighborhood which was right behind this outer ring of businesses. Imagine narrow little walkways of dirt and mud between crumbling walls of homes. People everywhere, staring at you. Trash and filth and noise--amidst cooking and families and joy and laughter. We went to a building in this area where our ministry does outreach each Mondays and Wednesdays, and I saw ministry booklets that are used--handouts of the Gospel of Yohanna (yes, you are right) in Hausa and English.
We walked through intersections and passed many kiosks serving roasted dog. We passed through areas where tons of people were sitting and cooking dinner with open fires in an area that smelled so foul I had to cover my mouth with my sleeve and try not to breath for 45 seconds, as I feared I would hurl.
We went into other areas, all on foot, where huge groups of men sat in hot, draftless, smokey rooms, made of mud or cheap plaster, with window openings but no windows or screens. Rows of benches, crammed full with men, set against dirty walls. No big screen TVs, no neon "Bud" signs--no electricity; no plumbing, no games, no laughter, very little talking. Open doorways: no doors or even curtains.
It was "happy" hour.
This area is known for heavy drinking, rampant alcoholism, and what the Nigerians call "immorality." The men in these rooms drank an air temperature, fermented green beverage from wooden gourds dipped into wide, shallow, metal tubs set outside on the dirt by the dozens. The liquid looked more like a green, watery soup at first--not uniform in color or even texture. (I thought the tubs may have contained dirty dishes or even laundry at first.)
But no, this is their homemade beer. Flies by the thousands everywhere, including some in the beer, but no one seemed to notice or care.
Bibles are distributed to those who want them, and evangelism takes place, but interacting with these people is first really all about simple greetings, and courtesies, and relationships. People are open to God's word here, but many are also clearly fighting it. Again you feel that if Christ were visiting Jos, this is a place where He would be spending a good deal of time.
The inhabitants here are some of the most challenged members of this very impoverished city. You sense their resignation to the life they lead as you past by filthy, open prostitution shanties with ragged, partial curtains and walls--or less, where men and boys step inside for a few minutes of casual pleasure, relief and escape that will likely cost them their lives very soon through the pandemic that is AIDS.
My guide, Reverend Joseph, told me he not long ago saw a couple "romancing" right out in the open. This particular area is also known as a spot where women and prostitutes leave unwanted newborns to die. They are discarded in boxes or wrapped in plastic bags and simply thrown out.
And as you pass through all this you see and certainly smell open sewage and men and boys simply facing a wall and relieving themselves as dozens of people pass by only yards away. So as you encounter people you simply smile, and say sannu (hello), and shake hands lengthily and don't let go for a long time, and look people right in the eye and let them know as best you can that you are truly happy and honored to meet them and that you are not there to judge them in any way but instead to try to help.
But a short time later, especially given the task at hand for those who minister here each week, I leave and feel certain that I have not helped any one, in any way. (And then I suddenly capture a sense of how easily I could be a "Lost Boy" if I was born here in Jos instead of McAllen, Texas.) And I walk out feeling glad I saw it all. And have a sense of understanding it--but know I've only scratched the surface of this life for these people.
And there is a sense of hopelessness and of realizing what it would take for any of these people to break away and step out of this life, and these cycles, and these routines, and their perhaps unrecognized self-despair, and the ignorance, and the dependencies, and the peer pressure and the family dynamics, and their Islamic or animistic or atheistic entrenchments, and it is almost more than you can take.
But coupled with these enormous challenges there exists--through God's grace--a sense of hope, a sense of peace. A sense of perhaps helping even one person, though there are ten thousand others in the area who you will never meet.
So as i walked back to our little dilapidated bus to ride back to my luxurious part of town, by contrast, i feel a strange sense of exhilaration and foolishness, of joy and despair, of sadness and hope. I try to love these people in a moment's time while knowing it is a drop in the bucket compared to what they need--but a drop nonetheless.
And even now, ten days later, I struggle to find a way to convey this to all of you who are kind enough to read these blog entries. And I wonder which of you may come here someday and add a few more drops or maybe even a bucketful to the ocean of need that is Africa.
If you do, you will have days like this and be greatly blessed, even in the midst of great poverty and human suffering. You will see new things and gain new perspectives.
And at the end of your day or week, you may stop and enjoy some ice cream or a silly joke, or create a moment of goofiness--to help you offset the distinct memory, in this case, of all the men and boys trying to escape from their existence for a short time--those brothers of ours who are drowning in their green beer.
Chicken: Nigeria vs. U.S.A 5.20.08
Last Friday I asked one of the workers here (Marta) to bring me a chicken to cook on Saturday. She took a motorcycle taxi here that Saturday morning, carrying in one hand the live chicken she brought for me. She killed it out back, plucked it and got it ready to roast. She already knew that I would give her the gizzard (normally reserved for men in Nigeria) and liver. I also learned that she kept and would cook, the heart, the feet, the intestines and the chicken head. This $14 dollar chicken represents for many Nigerians a week or two worth of pay--so nothing is wasted--and any kind of protein is a real treat for them.
Marta also brought with her on Saturday, on the same motorcycle as she and the driver, a 13 year girl named Amama (or Mamalis to those who know her best) from her neighborhood. She looked more like 11 years old, probably because of nutritional issues. She worked hard that morning and by noon we all sat down to eat in the kitchen. The "non-U.S." chicken parts had been boiled in a pan and actually smelled really good. Mamalis is a very sweet girl from a very poor family with a non-working mom and alcoholic father who drinks most of the small wages he earns. She was VERY excited that she would get to eat chicken that day. A huge treat. She loved the skin and intestines and the liver...and the head. I decided I should branch out a little and so had some of the feet and part of the cheek. And I shared some of my chicken with them as we sat in the kitchen and talked and laughed. I told them I liked how they wasted nothing and how my father, who grew up during the Depression, was raised the same way. They of course fully understood, because they live each day that way.
Then Marta asked if she could take the bones home to her dog, which she said he normally eats whenever she is able to get them. Just today (Tues.) for lunch we finished the chicken. The workers here had some with me yesterday and a little more today.
Early this AM, Marta brought in another chicken, which I told her last night I wanted to watch as she did her thing. So at 7:45am she took it out back and showed me how she stands on the chicken with one foot on its legs and one foot on its wings, and hold its head and then slices its throat with a knife. Quite a bit of blood drains and spurts out as the chicken writhes for a minute or two. Then after it dies, she put the chicken in boiling water, which helps make the plucking of the feathers easier. Ten minutes after the first cut, it is ready to be cooked.
This may seem a bit gruesome to you, but over here, it really isn't. It is just part of the process. It is just the part of things that we never see back in the U.S., where we are so good about hiding and ignoring the less pleasant side of life.
Give us the boneless, skinless, roasted chicken breast--and let's skip all the innards--and maybe the dark meat, too--and pretend like somehow this creature didn't have to die for us to enjoy our fajitas. (Don't get me wrong, I am a big fan of beef and chicken). But the experience does in a small way remind me how much we blind ourselves to larger truths and realities back in the U.S., and even here in Nigeria, to a lesser extent.
But not much is hidden here in Nigeria. I like that, and I think you would, too.
So enjoy that lunch the next time you visit Chick-fill-A or Taco Cabana or La Fonda or Alamo Cafe. But you may want to give pause for extra thanks for the Provision, and recall that our easy lunch in Dallas or San Antonio may be a week's pay here in Nigeria. Maybe we will all enjoy and appreciate the "simple" things a bit more.
Personally, I am looking forward to Blanca's chicken nachos at Casa Navarro in Dallas as soon as I return. I think it will be better than ever--for lots of reasons.
Marta also brought with her on Saturday, on the same motorcycle as she and the driver, a 13 year girl named Amama (or Mamalis to those who know her best) from her neighborhood. She looked more like 11 years old, probably because of nutritional issues. She worked hard that morning and by noon we all sat down to eat in the kitchen. The "non-U.S." chicken parts had been boiled in a pan and actually smelled really good. Mamalis is a very sweet girl from a very poor family with a non-working mom and alcoholic father who drinks most of the small wages he earns. She was VERY excited that she would get to eat chicken that day. A huge treat. She loved the skin and intestines and the liver...and the head. I decided I should branch out a little and so had some of the feet and part of the cheek. And I shared some of my chicken with them as we sat in the kitchen and talked and laughed. I told them I liked how they wasted nothing and how my father, who grew up during the Depression, was raised the same way. They of course fully understood, because they live each day that way.
Then Marta asked if she could take the bones home to her dog, which she said he normally eats whenever she is able to get them. Just today (Tues.) for lunch we finished the chicken. The workers here had some with me yesterday and a little more today.
Early this AM, Marta brought in another chicken, which I told her last night I wanted to watch as she did her thing. So at 7:45am she took it out back and showed me how she stands on the chicken with one foot on its legs and one foot on its wings, and hold its head and then slices its throat with a knife. Quite a bit of blood drains and spurts out as the chicken writhes for a minute or two. Then after it dies, she put the chicken in boiling water, which helps make the plucking of the feathers easier. Ten minutes after the first cut, it is ready to be cooked.
This may seem a bit gruesome to you, but over here, it really isn't. It is just part of the process. It is just the part of things that we never see back in the U.S., where we are so good about hiding and ignoring the less pleasant side of life.
Give us the boneless, skinless, roasted chicken breast--and let's skip all the innards--and maybe the dark meat, too--and pretend like somehow this creature didn't have to die for us to enjoy our fajitas. (Don't get me wrong, I am a big fan of beef and chicken). But the experience does in a small way remind me how much we blind ourselves to larger truths and realities back in the U.S., and even here in Nigeria, to a lesser extent.
But not much is hidden here in Nigeria. I like that, and I think you would, too.
So enjoy that lunch the next time you visit Chick-fill-A or Taco Cabana or La Fonda or Alamo Cafe. But you may want to give pause for extra thanks for the Provision, and recall that our easy lunch in Dallas or San Antonio may be a week's pay here in Nigeria. Maybe we will all enjoy and appreciate the "simple" things a bit more.
Personally, I am looking forward to Blanca's chicken nachos at Casa Navarro in Dallas as soon as I return. I think it will be better than ever--for lots of reasons.
The Second Best Day of my Life 5.07.08
And it all happened in 90 minutes.
but first, at least a few words about the last 10 days or so. Two Mondays ago: visited the Mashiah foundation and their AIDS ministry. went to the ladies weekly devotional. 60 HIV+ women (no men) meeting under a huge center-pole tarp, and one white man (Hausa: "ba-too-ray") sitting off in the background, watching and listening to them praise our Lord. They were singing beautiful African songs and hymns in Hausa--dancing joyfully and beating several drums. Musically alone, it was great! Later I moved into their gracious circle and listened to a lesson; they gave their testimonies and shared advice and stories. Truly amazing, humbling stuff. Beyond description, as is so much of what happens here.
Tues/Wed. of last week: The trip to Makurdi (pics--called "snaps" here--at left) was incredible. About 3+ hour drive, partly through some of the most beautiful mountains and most lush countryside I have ever seen. 24 boys at the orphanage and a small staff. this entire ministry costs only about $1,000 per month to run and currently has no sponsors for its operations, staff, etc. They have a well that all the kids draw from each night, putting water in big, heavy buckets and then walking back about 70 yards to a concrete stall where they shower. The used water simply runs out the back of the stall through a big hole in that wall the leads directly to the ground outside. no soap. no privacy. But they are very happy to have it.
The amazing female missionaries who traveled with our team did great crafts and devotionals and book reading, etc. And it was inspiring to see them exercise their gifts. We all made it through the night, but let me just say it was a tad toasty down south, off the plateau of Jos. But it was also the first place I saw TV in almost two months: a big (UEFA?) soccer game between Manchester United and Barcelona. The next morning we walked next door to the boys compound and they were already up and singing worship songs at 5:30am--a normal part of their day. At around 5:55am, we did the third of a three part lesson from James. BTW, when you ask these kids a question, they stand up before they give you an answer--always.
Got some good work done on the septic system, too. The previous night they ate their dinner (rice in bowls--no utensils available) and did a devotional in the dark of their courtyard. we had a lantern and flashlights, which made it kinda fun, and talked about the fact that God never changes. Then we stopped in Lafia on the way home at a new care center there which was to receive their first eight orphans this week. they had just received new mattresses and bedding, and bunk beds frames were on the way, but no electricity there, no transportation for the family and no water in the house, which had just been burglarized a week ago. Pray for the mom of the house, who with three kids of her own was about to take on eight more with no help other than her husband (stop snickering, ladies:).
Thursday last week: Hammered the TH senior boys (and myself) on Thursday with Proverbs Sunday after church. Timothy started us off with amazing singing and guitar playing! Wish you could have experienced it. Their school strike is finally over after two months off, so they are excited about going back. We have been pulling no punches in this Proverbs study, for any of us, and i think it has hit all of us b/t the eyes pretty well--in a good way. I am so impressed with the toughness and also sensitivity of these guys, and they have been very gracious and open toward what i am trying to say and my often very candid language in the process of doing it! Plus i now know who Ronaldo (soccer) is, so that has helped my credibility a bit. :)
Sunday after church was a donation ceremony for severely handicapped people. Beautiful Gate is a ministry which builds and donates wheelchairs to those in need of all faiths. three of the four there on Sunday were Muslim. The chairs are more like very large tricycles with big seats and pedals welded up top as part of the handlebars, since these people cannot use their legs. They pedal and steer with their hands. They were SO EXCITED to get these things--you cannot imagine the looks on their faces.
Here's the part you will have trouble grasping: the magnitude of their crippled-ness and the fact that some of these men have literally been dragging themselves around on the ground for decades. I have never, ever seen men this badly crippled. Amazing to watch them pull and slowly maneuver their deformed legs and feet and selves and climb into these new chairs. they used no crutches--not some other chair--no other aid at all--ever. Some use sandals on their hands, or wooden blocks, to help "walk," some use rubber pads on their knees to keep from tearing themselves up as they move around town on shattered concrete and asphalt and sand and peddles and rocks and debris. no social service help here. No charity or organized aid of any kind. No city or government subsidies. some of these men were in this shape b/c of polio--it's Africa..... These are hundreds if not thousands of these folks who need chairs, which cost about $125 each and literally change lives while also serving as a great testimony.
But today, Wednesday, was the second best day of my life (after Feb 6, 1977). I went to one of the two blind towns served by City Ministries here--just got back a little while ago as i write the draft of this entry. Gotta admit i was pretty apprehensive about being able to deal with what I suspected i would see there at Bauchi Road. Worried about getting overwhelmed emotionally or physically, b/c things get a bit intense here at times, and I'm not as tough as I used to be! These towns are what they are named, along with leprosy and crippling poverty and horrific living conditions. Take the worst thing you have probably ever seen and then multiply it a few times over and then you are starting to get close....Yet tons of joyful Nigerian children pressed up and just wanted to hold my hand, hug my legs, play with my watch, pinch my white skin and pull the hair on my arms.
And all this is going on while I am talking with the blind secretary of this "village" in Jos, via translator. then the same thing a few moments later with the blind chief of the village of perhaps of few hundred people in this neighborhood, in this part of Jos. everything goes through him. these men were kind and gracious and appreciative and welcoming, and they quoted scripture to me. our driver, the head of this ministry, needed to stay with our van for safety reasons, so you can perhaps picture the part of town we are in. They normally don't allow many pictures to be taken, but with the help of Joseph, my guide and translator and a leader of this ministry outreach and others, i was able to take about 26 "snaps," which i will take back to the U.S. and show you in about 6 weeks.
Picture mud brick walls with frayed fabric for doors. Picture broken concrete and sand and rocks and pebbles and trash and filth and animal and human excrement and thousands of flies and interesting odors and not a non-Nigerian anywhere in sight as you head into dark hallways and meet blind, much older, Islamic husbands with six arranged wives and lots of kids. Imagine meeting a beautiful woman who wants you to meet her husband. So she leads you to a dark, dank hallway, a place where you can't believe anyone could even exist, filled with holes in the roofing and spider webs and rotting boards and disintegrating plaster, and out steps a stooped-over, old blind man with virtually no teeth left who is at least 40 years older than she.
Picture an entire home that is one room--much smaller than your bathroom in your own home (not your master bath--just the regular ones). no plumbing. no water from the community faucet (broken). No electricity. Refuse everywhere. (No education, obviously) Narrow little concrete walkways, three feet wide with a dozens curtains blowing out into the passageway, each piece of fabric being an entire home. A grown man sitting on his doorstep, washing his feet with a little orange, plastic tea "kettle", filled with water he got from somewhere else. People living on far, far less than a dollar a day. A grandmother, holding her 4 year old grandson in her arms, a boy deathly sick and who might not be alive in a week or two.
Yet joyful, smiling people--not feeling in any way sorry for themselves, glad for the medical help brought by the ministry team, comprised mainly of several nurses dispensing all sorts of care as people came 'round. imagine yourself surrounded by nothing but concrete (and nothing green or growing within two miles of where you stand) with barely enough room to turn around, and suddenly facing eight sheep and a goat and a bunch of chickens and their chicks, as you try not to squash them underfoot, and a turkey and then a big cow pokes his head around the corner of a building at the end of a passageway that looks like a dead end. Imagine rooms that hang over the end of a bank of a river that runs through this part of town, and then picture a river that has more debris and trash along it in 500 yards than you would see over 500 miles in the U.S. Imagine listening to women speak at length in Hausa and then hearing Joseph explain that these ladies are simply asking for help with part of their back wall--pieces of rusted, torn corrugated roofing that is all that is keeping their young children from falling, or more accurately, being swept, 50 feet below into this "river." Imagine that all these passageways and wooden planks which I weren't even sure would hold my steps, are all sloped downhill from the main street, and they all become violent currents of water, sewage, trash, etc. whenever it rains even a little bit.
You can just feel the disease creeping about as you move through the place and as you shake and hold every hand and spend time with all the kids. (Remember, this is the land of little or no "paper.") Yet imagine the sound of laughter and the beauty of white teeth against dark skin. Imagine woman braiding other women's hair, and sharing their happiness over your visit, and their cooking for the night (outside pot, over firewood), and thankful for the medicine and advice, and imagine little kids squealing with delight as you take their picture. and little girls simply wanting to hold your hand as you move through their little part of the neighborhood. And in the midst of all that, imagine yourself feeling INCREDIBLY fortunate and blessed and thankful that you get to see it, understand it, experience it in a small way and witness and feel firsthand what God is doing in this really wretched environment. He is there--in the work of Benjamin and Jummai and Joseph and Ladi and Vicki and John. Muslims are secretly (so they won't be thrown out of their families and even these living conditions) accepting Christ. Lives are being touched. And in that these people in our team served the very least of mankind, we know from scripture that their aid was as if directly to Christ Himself, and this is probably where He would be hanging out in He was in Jos in physical form. i got to see it all, and I get to benefit from a perspective that I'll never forget.
Please come here or somewhere like it if you ever have even the remotest chance. I promise you that it is not possible to do so and then come back to the U.S. and say, "Well, that was a waste of time." I'm convinced that the best days of our lives are outside of our comfort zone. Appreciate being an american and all the huge benefits and comforts it brings, but don't get trapped by all the crud of the western world, because it is so costly in terms of the stuff you will miss.
and in the utter simplicity of that 90 minutes in blind town, and of the day, and the help of my colleagues as i stood ignorantly by, you could feel God and see His truth--so much light, inexplicably, in the midst of incredible spiritual and physical darkness. you can feel the oppression of Islam. you see the cycles in which days revolve and people are mired but yet you are honored to be spending time with the least and last of this society, knowing these are the folks God has His eye on in a mighty way. the time was raw and real and all boiled down. it was life and death and the daily struggle for survival to see the sun rise again the next hopeful, cool morning. they wasn't a lot of fretting by the inhabitants of blind town. objectives were clear. life is very complicated yet equally simple. and the things that really matter to all of us, especially once we strip away our western baggage, have long been understood with a clear eye by the christian women and men who live in this place and have nothing but each other--and a God they worship perhaps more purely than we ever will.
so it was and always will be a day that i can never forget and shall always cherish. as i have many times heard and now often experienced, when you go to the mission field to work with people, they end up helping you more than you can ever help them.
but first, at least a few words about the last 10 days or so. Two Mondays ago: visited the Mashiah foundation and their AIDS ministry. went to the ladies weekly devotional. 60 HIV+ women (no men) meeting under a huge center-pole tarp, and one white man (Hausa: "ba-too-ray") sitting off in the background, watching and listening to them praise our Lord. They were singing beautiful African songs and hymns in Hausa--dancing joyfully and beating several drums. Musically alone, it was great! Later I moved into their gracious circle and listened to a lesson; they gave their testimonies and shared advice and stories. Truly amazing, humbling stuff. Beyond description, as is so much of what happens here.
Tues/Wed. of last week: The trip to Makurdi (pics--called "snaps" here--at left) was incredible. About 3+ hour drive, partly through some of the most beautiful mountains and most lush countryside I have ever seen. 24 boys at the orphanage and a small staff. this entire ministry costs only about $1,000 per month to run and currently has no sponsors for its operations, staff, etc. They have a well that all the kids draw from each night, putting water in big, heavy buckets and then walking back about 70 yards to a concrete stall where they shower. The used water simply runs out the back of the stall through a big hole in that wall the leads directly to the ground outside. no soap. no privacy. But they are very happy to have it.
The amazing female missionaries who traveled with our team did great crafts and devotionals and book reading, etc. And it was inspiring to see them exercise their gifts. We all made it through the night, but let me just say it was a tad toasty down south, off the plateau of Jos. But it was also the first place I saw TV in almost two months: a big (UEFA?) soccer game between Manchester United and Barcelona. The next morning we walked next door to the boys compound and they were already up and singing worship songs at 5:30am--a normal part of their day. At around 5:55am, we did the third of a three part lesson from James. BTW, when you ask these kids a question, they stand up before they give you an answer--always.
Got some good work done on the septic system, too. The previous night they ate their dinner (rice in bowls--no utensils available) and did a devotional in the dark of their courtyard. we had a lantern and flashlights, which made it kinda fun, and talked about the fact that God never changes. Then we stopped in Lafia on the way home at a new care center there which was to receive their first eight orphans this week. they had just received new mattresses and bedding, and bunk beds frames were on the way, but no electricity there, no transportation for the family and no water in the house, which had just been burglarized a week ago. Pray for the mom of the house, who with three kids of her own was about to take on eight more with no help other than her husband (stop snickering, ladies:).
Thursday last week: Hammered the TH senior boys (and myself) on Thursday with Proverbs Sunday after church. Timothy started us off with amazing singing and guitar playing! Wish you could have experienced it. Their school strike is finally over after two months off, so they are excited about going back. We have been pulling no punches in this Proverbs study, for any of us, and i think it has hit all of us b/t the eyes pretty well--in a good way. I am so impressed with the toughness and also sensitivity of these guys, and they have been very gracious and open toward what i am trying to say and my often very candid language in the process of doing it! Plus i now know who Ronaldo (soccer) is, so that has helped my credibility a bit. :)
Sunday after church was a donation ceremony for severely handicapped people. Beautiful Gate is a ministry which builds and donates wheelchairs to those in need of all faiths. three of the four there on Sunday were Muslim. The chairs are more like very large tricycles with big seats and pedals welded up top as part of the handlebars, since these people cannot use their legs. They pedal and steer with their hands. They were SO EXCITED to get these things--you cannot imagine the looks on their faces.
Here's the part you will have trouble grasping: the magnitude of their crippled-ness and the fact that some of these men have literally been dragging themselves around on the ground for decades. I have never, ever seen men this badly crippled. Amazing to watch them pull and slowly maneuver their deformed legs and feet and selves and climb into these new chairs. they used no crutches--not some other chair--no other aid at all--ever. Some use sandals on their hands, or wooden blocks, to help "walk," some use rubber pads on their knees to keep from tearing themselves up as they move around town on shattered concrete and asphalt and sand and peddles and rocks and debris. no social service help here. No charity or organized aid of any kind. No city or government subsidies. some of these men were in this shape b/c of polio--it's Africa..... These are hundreds if not thousands of these folks who need chairs, which cost about $125 each and literally change lives while also serving as a great testimony.
But today, Wednesday, was the second best day of my life (after Feb 6, 1977). I went to one of the two blind towns served by City Ministries here--just got back a little while ago as i write the draft of this entry. Gotta admit i was pretty apprehensive about being able to deal with what I suspected i would see there at Bauchi Road. Worried about getting overwhelmed emotionally or physically, b/c things get a bit intense here at times, and I'm not as tough as I used to be! These towns are what they are named, along with leprosy and crippling poverty and horrific living conditions. Take the worst thing you have probably ever seen and then multiply it a few times over and then you are starting to get close....Yet tons of joyful Nigerian children pressed up and just wanted to hold my hand, hug my legs, play with my watch, pinch my white skin and pull the hair on my arms.
And all this is going on while I am talking with the blind secretary of this "village" in Jos, via translator. then the same thing a few moments later with the blind chief of the village of perhaps of few hundred people in this neighborhood, in this part of Jos. everything goes through him. these men were kind and gracious and appreciative and welcoming, and they quoted scripture to me. our driver, the head of this ministry, needed to stay with our van for safety reasons, so you can perhaps picture the part of town we are in. They normally don't allow many pictures to be taken, but with the help of Joseph, my guide and translator and a leader of this ministry outreach and others, i was able to take about 26 "snaps," which i will take back to the U.S. and show you in about 6 weeks.
Picture mud brick walls with frayed fabric for doors. Picture broken concrete and sand and rocks and pebbles and trash and filth and animal and human excrement and thousands of flies and interesting odors and not a non-Nigerian anywhere in sight as you head into dark hallways and meet blind, much older, Islamic husbands with six arranged wives and lots of kids. Imagine meeting a beautiful woman who wants you to meet her husband. So she leads you to a dark, dank hallway, a place where you can't believe anyone could even exist, filled with holes in the roofing and spider webs and rotting boards and disintegrating plaster, and out steps a stooped-over, old blind man with virtually no teeth left who is at least 40 years older than she.
Picture an entire home that is one room--much smaller than your bathroom in your own home (not your master bath--just the regular ones). no plumbing. no water from the community faucet (broken). No electricity. Refuse everywhere. (No education, obviously) Narrow little concrete walkways, three feet wide with a dozens curtains blowing out into the passageway, each piece of fabric being an entire home. A grown man sitting on his doorstep, washing his feet with a little orange, plastic tea "kettle", filled with water he got from somewhere else. People living on far, far less than a dollar a day. A grandmother, holding her 4 year old grandson in her arms, a boy deathly sick and who might not be alive in a week or two.
Yet joyful, smiling people--not feeling in any way sorry for themselves, glad for the medical help brought by the ministry team, comprised mainly of several nurses dispensing all sorts of care as people came 'round. imagine yourself surrounded by nothing but concrete (and nothing green or growing within two miles of where you stand) with barely enough room to turn around, and suddenly facing eight sheep and a goat and a bunch of chickens and their chicks, as you try not to squash them underfoot, and a turkey and then a big cow pokes his head around the corner of a building at the end of a passageway that looks like a dead end. Imagine rooms that hang over the end of a bank of a river that runs through this part of town, and then picture a river that has more debris and trash along it in 500 yards than you would see over 500 miles in the U.S. Imagine listening to women speak at length in Hausa and then hearing Joseph explain that these ladies are simply asking for help with part of their back wall--pieces of rusted, torn corrugated roofing that is all that is keeping their young children from falling, or more accurately, being swept, 50 feet below into this "river." Imagine that all these passageways and wooden planks which I weren't even sure would hold my steps, are all sloped downhill from the main street, and they all become violent currents of water, sewage, trash, etc. whenever it rains even a little bit.
You can just feel the disease creeping about as you move through the place and as you shake and hold every hand and spend time with all the kids. (Remember, this is the land of little or no "paper.") Yet imagine the sound of laughter and the beauty of white teeth against dark skin. Imagine woman braiding other women's hair, and sharing their happiness over your visit, and their cooking for the night (outside pot, over firewood), and thankful for the medicine and advice, and imagine little kids squealing with delight as you take their picture. and little girls simply wanting to hold your hand as you move through their little part of the neighborhood. And in the midst of all that, imagine yourself feeling INCREDIBLY fortunate and blessed and thankful that you get to see it, understand it, experience it in a small way and witness and feel firsthand what God is doing in this really wretched environment. He is there--in the work of Benjamin and Jummai and Joseph and Ladi and Vicki and John. Muslims are secretly (so they won't be thrown out of their families and even these living conditions) accepting Christ. Lives are being touched. And in that these people in our team served the very least of mankind, we know from scripture that their aid was as if directly to Christ Himself, and this is probably where He would be hanging out in He was in Jos in physical form. i got to see it all, and I get to benefit from a perspective that I'll never forget.
Please come here or somewhere like it if you ever have even the remotest chance. I promise you that it is not possible to do so and then come back to the U.S. and say, "Well, that was a waste of time." I'm convinced that the best days of our lives are outside of our comfort zone. Appreciate being an american and all the huge benefits and comforts it brings, but don't get trapped by all the crud of the western world, because it is so costly in terms of the stuff you will miss.
and in the utter simplicity of that 90 minutes in blind town, and of the day, and the help of my colleagues as i stood ignorantly by, you could feel God and see His truth--so much light, inexplicably, in the midst of incredible spiritual and physical darkness. you can feel the oppression of Islam. you see the cycles in which days revolve and people are mired but yet you are honored to be spending time with the least and last of this society, knowing these are the folks God has His eye on in a mighty way. the time was raw and real and all boiled down. it was life and death and the daily struggle for survival to see the sun rise again the next hopeful, cool morning. they wasn't a lot of fretting by the inhabitants of blind town. objectives were clear. life is very complicated yet equally simple. and the things that really matter to all of us, especially once we strip away our western baggage, have long been understood with a clear eye by the christian women and men who live in this place and have nothing but each other--and a God they worship perhaps more purely than we ever will.
so it was and always will be a day that i can never forget and shall always cherish. as i have many times heard and now often experienced, when you go to the mission field to work with people, they end up helping you more than you can ever help them.
A Hair Raising Experience 5.01.08
Stop the presses! Only a few entries ago I mentioned that I was feeling less like a moron in Nigeria. Even as I wrote that, I cringed.
A few weeks ago I decided that I wanted to come back to Jos in the late summer to work for a longer period of time. I was feeling better about being able to actually accomplish that and about life here in general. Still, in a moment of which Murphy would be proud, I decided, chuckling to myself, to wait until something bad happened before I made that decision final. Well, my best laid "plans" actually worked out this time.
Not 48 hours later, on a confidence-high like none of the previous month and a half of time here, I came back from a long evening walk and decided to have some toast for dinner, as we bachelors sometimes do. I leaned down and opened the gas oven door wide.
Then I had a 5 second delay, as I could not find matches. Then i found the matches but broke the first one in two trying to light it on the box, so I picked up the broken pieces and threw them away. Finally, getting frustrated at my own slothfulness regarding such a simple endeavor, I lit a match and slowly leaned over to hand-light the gas oven.
As I bent over, I noticed the most beautiful, deep blue wave--something akin to the aurora borealis in movement--dancing right in front of my very eyes and seemingly expanding with each split second. I realized at that point what all this actually was and managed to jerk my upper body back, close my eyes and at least begin to turn my head. As I did so, the explosion came and encompassed me. Turns out that this little gas stove has a knob for the oven that is different from the other four knobs, all of which turn off by going clockwise as far as possible. The oven knob, if turned fully clockwise, actually turns on the gas for the broiler. So since lunch some five hours earlier, my broiler had been spewing cooking gas.
I was not seriously hurt, but I felt the explosion around my head and body as it happened, and there was a fairly loud "boom." :) I could feel my hair strongly blown back. I went into the bathroom to survey the damage, so to speak, and looked up to see that I resembled something like a ziplock bag that one sometimes lets get too close to a burner. I was frayed and curled around the edges, all of which was accompanied by the lovely odor of burned hair. (Okay, let's get these out of the way for your sake and mine: hair today, gone tomorrow; people told me Africa was hot; I knew I'd get burned; Nigeria is an explosive place, ad nauseum).
The event has grown funny with time, but it was NOT funny that evening or even the next--mainly because I knew that if I had simply had the matches in hand, struck one, then opened the door as I leaned down, all this gas would not have had time to dissipate, as it did. That would have resulted in a far more intense explosion, through a much narrower gap in the oven door. And that could have obviously been very serious to my vision and maybe more. As painful and as embarassing as the whole experience was, especially as i scraped, cut and washed burned hair from all over my head, the real lesson lies elsewhere, I think:
Something about the danger of missing little details; the obvious mortality that we face; but mainly the pain and discouragement of self-inflicted wounds--the spiritual and emotional kind especially.
Thanks to all of you who have been praying for my safety, b/c I believe that is what made this whole incident minor rather than major.
I think God spends lots of time waiting for us to come to Him and waiting for us to realize that, on our own, we are a mess. I got a very clear reminder of my own ineptness that night. Pride took another blow, and I'm glad it did. So I continue to try to walk forward as best as I can, seeking not to blow myself up unnecessarily. And trying to persevere as I inevitably fail and fall short on so many fronts. For me, it was just an oven this time 'round that reminded of things I so often forget.
So i will keep plodding along, fueled by God's grace and mercy, and occasionally by cooking gas.
And right after the explosion, feeling really stupid and foolish and uncapable of everything needed here, I knew i still wanted to come back to Jos.
B/c of all this, I have been able to put off that haircut I needed for at least another couple weeks. And if vanity was still a problem, I have come to the inevitable theological conclusion that eyebrows are deeply overrated.
A few weeks ago I decided that I wanted to come back to Jos in the late summer to work for a longer period of time. I was feeling better about being able to actually accomplish that and about life here in general. Still, in a moment of which Murphy would be proud, I decided, chuckling to myself, to wait until something bad happened before I made that decision final. Well, my best laid "plans" actually worked out this time.
Not 48 hours later, on a confidence-high like none of the previous month and a half of time here, I came back from a long evening walk and decided to have some toast for dinner, as we bachelors sometimes do. I leaned down and opened the gas oven door wide.
Then I had a 5 second delay, as I could not find matches. Then i found the matches but broke the first one in two trying to light it on the box, so I picked up the broken pieces and threw them away. Finally, getting frustrated at my own slothfulness regarding such a simple endeavor, I lit a match and slowly leaned over to hand-light the gas oven.
As I bent over, I noticed the most beautiful, deep blue wave--something akin to the aurora borealis in movement--dancing right in front of my very eyes and seemingly expanding with each split second. I realized at that point what all this actually was and managed to jerk my upper body back, close my eyes and at least begin to turn my head. As I did so, the explosion came and encompassed me. Turns out that this little gas stove has a knob for the oven that is different from the other four knobs, all of which turn off by going clockwise as far as possible. The oven knob, if turned fully clockwise, actually turns on the gas for the broiler. So since lunch some five hours earlier, my broiler had been spewing cooking gas.
I was not seriously hurt, but I felt the explosion around my head and body as it happened, and there was a fairly loud "boom." :) I could feel my hair strongly blown back. I went into the bathroom to survey the damage, so to speak, and looked up to see that I resembled something like a ziplock bag that one sometimes lets get too close to a burner. I was frayed and curled around the edges, all of which was accompanied by the lovely odor of burned hair. (Okay, let's get these out of the way for your sake and mine: hair today, gone tomorrow; people told me Africa was hot; I knew I'd get burned; Nigeria is an explosive place, ad nauseum).
The event has grown funny with time, but it was NOT funny that evening or even the next--mainly because I knew that if I had simply had the matches in hand, struck one, then opened the door as I leaned down, all this gas would not have had time to dissipate, as it did. That would have resulted in a far more intense explosion, through a much narrower gap in the oven door. And that could have obviously been very serious to my vision and maybe more. As painful and as embarassing as the whole experience was, especially as i scraped, cut and washed burned hair from all over my head, the real lesson lies elsewhere, I think:
Something about the danger of missing little details; the obvious mortality that we face; but mainly the pain and discouragement of self-inflicted wounds--the spiritual and emotional kind especially.
Thanks to all of you who have been praying for my safety, b/c I believe that is what made this whole incident minor rather than major.
I think God spends lots of time waiting for us to come to Him and waiting for us to realize that, on our own, we are a mess. I got a very clear reminder of my own ineptness that night. Pride took another blow, and I'm glad it did. So I continue to try to walk forward as best as I can, seeking not to blow myself up unnecessarily. And trying to persevere as I inevitably fail and fall short on so many fronts. For me, it was just an oven this time 'round that reminded of things I so often forget.
So i will keep plodding along, fueled by God's grace and mercy, and occasionally by cooking gas.
And right after the explosion, feeling really stupid and foolish and uncapable of everything needed here, I knew i still wanted to come back to Jos.
B/c of all this, I have been able to put off that haircut I needed for at least another couple weeks. And if vanity was still a problem, I have come to the inevitable theological conclusion that eyebrows are deeply overrated.
Sleeping on Concrete 4.25.08
Tuesday was a great day. Tim Malloy (Aggie), Brian (from Chicago) and Johnny (from N. Ireland) and I went to a ministry center about 90 minutes away, a small town called Kagoro. Saw lots of countryside, met about 20 orphans living at the center there, and was able to see the donation of the motorcycle which some of you helped purchase back in December. the new owner, the coordinator of the center, was truly ecstatic. The boys got new soccer balls and some other gifts. and plans were made for a team to visit the center in July to do work of all sorts there and at the nearby Fulani school.
The Fulani people, some 20 million of them, are semi-nomadic cattle herders who are 99% Muslim. The school is part of this ministry here in Nigeria, and used as a means to help meet their needs. we also got to visit with the local chief's wife. the chief of this tribal area has been in power for about 64 years! they are believers and hugely supportive of our ministries in their area.
Today was highlighted by the senior boys work back here in Jos at their main health and outreach center, Gidan Bege. We started the morning with our bible study, Proverbs 4-5 today. Then the boys spent the morning painting the front of the center--will finish tomorrow. They had to walk 2-3 miles to get there, but were early! and did great work---learning a new trade while of course also giving back to their community. We all had some jollaf rice when it was over. the "kitchens" at these places are comprised solely of huge, huge kettles used to cook rice and other grains over wood fires. (Remember the $1,000 Stampede donated toward the grain purchase last December?...well...this is it!) Imagine a pot with 150 pounds of rice in it, if you can. I will try to get photos someday when I can borrow a camera.
WRT RW: Looks like the main need they have for me here is in the area of communications. This ministry is very complex, and very few in the west can understand what is being done here and what the needs are. So I will be re-building an old web site www.cityministriesnigeria.org they have and building various collateral material to help raise awareness and support of everything going on. That was not exactly what I expected when I arrived, but it seems clear that is where God is leading me. And they are excited about getting the word out through these untapped resources, like the web. My main obstacle in doing this work, ironically, is of course the lack of my own computer and the lack of internet connectivity/electricity here.
There are of course massive needs here. and please trust that I only present you with a few that especially hit me. At the Fulani school mentioned above, 31 young kids came pouring out of the classroom, which serves as their sleeping quarters as well, when we drove up. they gave all of us big hugs around the legs, b/c most of these kids are only 8-10 years old. As I saw where they slept, what stood out was that there were only 5 large pieces of foam leaning against the walls of the room.
This meant that at least 24 of these young kids sleep directly on the concrete floor. No blankets. No pillows. no padding. nothing. Imagine your own kids sleeping directly upon the concrete in your garage each night. (some of you may like the idea!) Well, I found out we can buy basic foam bedding for about $30 per piece. I personally can't deal with the thought of these kids sleeping on concrete, so we are already in the process of getting foam beds for the kids. We have ordered 10 of them, and it would be great if someone, or many of you, chipped in to defray this cost.
If you are interested, just let me know. But how can we all sleep on beds each night when they are on the concrete? We have to get this done, and we will. and many of these Muslim children, and perhaps their parents, will see the love and care they are receiving from us, and some may someday come to the Lord. Even if they don't, I gotta believe this act of helping these kids pleases our Lord and demonstrates our service toward those in need. thanks.
The Fulani people, some 20 million of them, are semi-nomadic cattle herders who are 99% Muslim. The school is part of this ministry here in Nigeria, and used as a means to help meet their needs. we also got to visit with the local chief's wife. the chief of this tribal area has been in power for about 64 years! they are believers and hugely supportive of our ministries in their area.
Today was highlighted by the senior boys work back here in Jos at their main health and outreach center, Gidan Bege. We started the morning with our bible study, Proverbs 4-5 today. Then the boys spent the morning painting the front of the center--will finish tomorrow. They had to walk 2-3 miles to get there, but were early! and did great work---learning a new trade while of course also giving back to their community. We all had some jollaf rice when it was over. the "kitchens" at these places are comprised solely of huge, huge kettles used to cook rice and other grains over wood fires. (Remember the $1,000 Stampede donated toward the grain purchase last December?...well...this is it!) Imagine a pot with 150 pounds of rice in it, if you can. I will try to get photos someday when I can borrow a camera.
WRT RW: Looks like the main need they have for me here is in the area of communications. This ministry is very complex, and very few in the west can understand what is being done here and what the needs are. So I will be re-building an old web site www.cityministriesnigeria.org they have and building various collateral material to help raise awareness and support of everything going on. That was not exactly what I expected when I arrived, but it seems clear that is where God is leading me. And they are excited about getting the word out through these untapped resources, like the web. My main obstacle in doing this work, ironically, is of course the lack of my own computer and the lack of internet connectivity/electricity here.
There are of course massive needs here. and please trust that I only present you with a few that especially hit me. At the Fulani school mentioned above, 31 young kids came pouring out of the classroom, which serves as their sleeping quarters as well, when we drove up. they gave all of us big hugs around the legs, b/c most of these kids are only 8-10 years old. As I saw where they slept, what stood out was that there were only 5 large pieces of foam leaning against the walls of the room.
This meant that at least 24 of these young kids sleep directly on the concrete floor. No blankets. No pillows. no padding. nothing. Imagine your own kids sleeping directly upon the concrete in your garage each night. (some of you may like the idea!) Well, I found out we can buy basic foam bedding for about $30 per piece. I personally can't deal with the thought of these kids sleeping on concrete, so we are already in the process of getting foam beds for the kids. We have ordered 10 of them, and it would be great if someone, or many of you, chipped in to defray this cost.
If you are interested, just let me know. But how can we all sleep on beds each night when they are on the concrete? We have to get this done, and we will. and many of these Muslim children, and perhaps their parents, will see the love and care they are receiving from us, and some may someday come to the Lord. Even if they don't, I gotta believe this act of helping these kids pleases our Lord and demonstrates our service toward those in need. thanks.
The Best of Times & the...... 4.02.08
A great day yesterday:
Gave my first dryland workout to the senior boys at Transition House, which is part of City Ministries, the group with which I am working. Doing some training with these boys once a week while they are on holiday from school. Later visited the Univ. of Jos and may have a chance to do a little teaching there. Also visited JETS, Jos Evangelical Theo. Seminary, and have some leads of possibly doing some work with youth in that area. Later that same day visited with the Archbishop of Nigeria Ben Kwashi (a good friend of my former next door neighbor in San Antonio and his pastor) and have the opportunity to teach at St. John's College, a secondary school for Nigerian kids here in Jos. And earlier a great lunch meeting with lots of fellowship. Plus got in a good three mile walk. That evening, a terrific meeting with Jay and Phil, my accountability partners, with whom I meet each Tuesday.
And the day before, I heard from a good friend from SMU days with whom I visited MOMA in NYC this past summer. She recently visited Israel and while there, accepted Christ and was baptized in the Jordan River! Very cool stuff. Yea, Amy!
A rough day yesterday:
A host of personal setbacks, big and small. Broken bedroom ceiling fan. No water at the compound. Malfunctioning apartment door locks. Lots of smoke from cooking fires in the city. Heavy pollution. Electricity...sometimes. Literally tons of dust blowing in from the Sahara. Stomach problems. Nausea. No food. And a host of other little hassles and aggravations, most based upon my sheer ignorance, that have a cumulative effect of wearing one down and dredging up:
Doubts. Insecurities. Personal embarrasments. Past failures.
But our Lord is there. And everything here forces you back to Him...again and again.
Please keep praying for wisdom and discernment in knowing what I should and should not do with my time and abilites...and even after only two weeks, pray for my endurance!
Still not sure how long I will be here--at rate I am going, it could be a month. But it might be three months or maybe even a little longer, depending on some issues going on with my visa...and of course my ability, by His grace, to cope with life here and see if I can help.
Currently reading Psalms, if you are interested or want to join along. (From back to front this time, for reasons not entirely clear to me. :) Read 108-110 this AM. And doing lots of praying, of course!
Thanks so much to all of you who have written. Very encouraging--more than you know. Sorry I can't write all of you back individually.
Gave my first dryland workout to the senior boys at Transition House, which is part of City Ministries, the group with which I am working. Doing some training with these boys once a week while they are on holiday from school. Later visited the Univ. of Jos and may have a chance to do a little teaching there. Also visited JETS, Jos Evangelical Theo. Seminary, and have some leads of possibly doing some work with youth in that area. Later that same day visited with the Archbishop of Nigeria Ben Kwashi (a good friend of my former next door neighbor in San Antonio and his pastor) and have the opportunity to teach at St. John's College, a secondary school for Nigerian kids here in Jos. And earlier a great lunch meeting with lots of fellowship. Plus got in a good three mile walk. That evening, a terrific meeting with Jay and Phil, my accountability partners, with whom I meet each Tuesday.
And the day before, I heard from a good friend from SMU days with whom I visited MOMA in NYC this past summer. She recently visited Israel and while there, accepted Christ and was baptized in the Jordan River! Very cool stuff. Yea, Amy!
A rough day yesterday:
A host of personal setbacks, big and small. Broken bedroom ceiling fan. No water at the compound. Malfunctioning apartment door locks. Lots of smoke from cooking fires in the city. Heavy pollution. Electricity...sometimes. Literally tons of dust blowing in from the Sahara. Stomach problems. Nausea. No food. And a host of other little hassles and aggravations, most based upon my sheer ignorance, that have a cumulative effect of wearing one down and dredging up:
Doubts. Insecurities. Personal embarrasments. Past failures.
But our Lord is there. And everything here forces you back to Him...again and again.
Please keep praying for wisdom and discernment in knowing what I should and should not do with my time and abilites...and even after only two weeks, pray for my endurance!
Still not sure how long I will be here--at rate I am going, it could be a month. But it might be three months or maybe even a little longer, depending on some issues going on with my visa...and of course my ability, by His grace, to cope with life here and see if I can help.
Currently reading Psalms, if you are interested or want to join along. (From back to front this time, for reasons not entirely clear to me. :) Read 108-110 this AM. And doing lots of praying, of course!
Thanks so much to all of you who have written. Very encouraging--more than you know. Sorry I can't write all of you back individually.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)