Torn?

I apologize beforehand for the use of a not-very-nice metaphor, but…

Does anyone else ever feel like a spider with each leg being pulled in a seperate direction?

As an MK (Missionary Kid), there’s already a resignation to the idea of a scattered life, but this is different.

This is when each foot is on a different skateboard and you’re doing 100 km/hour downhill and the one skateboard starts going to the right and one starts going to the left and –

There are so many passions and dreams and desires cooking away in the cauldron of my heart – good things, sweet things, that I believe God has given me.

I have commitments to my family, my friends, and Congo. I want to study ethnomusicology, to make music! And yet I feel torn….

I love Congo and so I want to pray for Congo and study Congo’s history and prepare for Congo and speak to people about Congo and save money for Congo and plan a trip to Congo in September and…..

I love my family and I want to love them and I want to create memories and I want to forge bonds that will hold into eternity and I want to somehow inspire my little sisters to love the things that capture my heart and….

I love my friends and I want to have more friends and I want to be there for them and I want to spend time making them gifts and cards and going on walks and making music and…..

I love music like crazy and I want to study it well and then go to Congo….but I need to audition, and I need a new flute for that and I want a cello SO bad but both are expensive and how can I spend money that I don’t technically have and I know there are so many other needs? Where will the money come from for university and travels and ?

I love the personality Jesus has given me. I love it that HE loves it when I get excited about His ideas, when His beauty brings me to tears. This mind that wants to know everything yet has a hard time concentrating on anything….! I want to learn life skills and baking and cooking and gardening and I want to play sports and I want to learn to paint with pastels and do calligraphy and to counsel and to listen and a hundred and one other things (like, slowing down would be one of them!).

There are times when I get the feeling that with all these forces tugging at me from different pieces, I’m going to be pulled to bits.

To nothing.

So my prayer for this roller-coaster time of my life is that I will not be pulled to bits by conflicting ambitions and desires. By God’s grace, I want all these pieces of life, all these good and beautiful gifts and passions He has given me, to merge together into a unified life of worship. By God’s grace, I want to find the one who is All in All in everything and everyone and everyplace. I want to dance the steps He’s planned for me, and I want to live for eternity, right where I am today.

So desire and discipline need to meet in my life.

Faith can make me fly and sometimes I wonder why I bother to learn how to walk. But there’s a race to run, and I can’t always blow dandelions and count daisy petals.

So give me faith that moves me to love.

I need stability. I need the Rock. I need my family. There are days I feel like life’s a cage and there are days I feel like life’s an open sky to soar through. Days I feel like I’m getting a taste of hell, and days I feel like I could really be at the end of that elusive rainbow.

Feelings shouldn’t alter faith. Faith needs to keep on leading to love.

So I ask humbly for prayer – that I will be God-led, Christ-filled, motivated by the Spirit, following HIM, not my own deceptive heart. Pray that all in my life can become worship to this one God? Thank you.

Blessings on each of you as you live the resurrected life – live Easter-lives.

Holding His Thoughts

“Look.” I run up behind her, holding out my hands full of sand.

Little Sister just gazes dolefully out over the sparkling blue waters of Lake Huron. I think I can guess her thoughts. I think I know the bitter disappointment of unrealized hopes that is swelling in her heart now. And what I have is just too amazing…

Under feet and all around lies the white sand, twinkling with burning sparks from the stars that dance in the heavens when all the world is asleep…the dust of angel feet. The sun laughs down at us. Wind ruffles the white-capped water, meddles capriciously with wisps of our hair, and blows streams of sand right out from in between my fingers.

She looks. I ask Little Sister how many grains of sand are there? She doesn’t know. What about the grains of sand on the whole beach? She doesn’t know that, either.

And I quote from memory the words of Psalm 139. That one Psalm that refuses to leave me alone but keeps re-inviting itself into my life.

How precious are Your thoughts toward me, O Lord, how many are the number of them! If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand…

Water breaks over our feet, recedes back into the lake, erases our footprints from the wet sand. A gull screams overhead. I open my hands and the sand tumbles down to where it belongs. Holding my skirt up, I wink at Little Sister. Together, we dance and laugh and jump and splash our way up the white beach….

—

It is a few weeks later. I’m hugging my knees, hiding in the least-used room of the house, hoping no one hears my stifled sobs. It’s the eve of my birthday. Tomorrow I’ll step into the eighteen that our culture has made almost magical. Overnight, my rights and responsibilities will change.

But all I feel tonight is pain. How can I leave childhood behind when I’m still so much child inside? The girl in me is crying for home. I’m homesick. Homesick.

I close my eyes. Please, please God! I know I prayed for brokenness, and thank you for answering, and I know all these things are for my good with my head and I believe, oh yes I do, but God, God, my heart is breaking and right now I only feel the pain.

Suddenly I remember the sand….I remember the hand held high, the sun making it dance with star-twinkles. I remember His thoughts. And -

I wish His thoughts weren’t so…so elusive. I wish, somewhere in my heart, that I could have held on. The sand just streamed right through my human fingers and the number of those grains? It can’t blow my mind because I can’t even wrap my mind around it. And His thoughts…well, where are they now? I know they’re innumerable, but that doesn’t help me now.

My hand rests momentarily on my Bible. That hunk of leather and pages with all the gold-lining wearing off. A thrill runs through me and I reverently pick it up, the tears flowing again. Because these, these are His thoughts for me! I do hold them, and they do not fly away!

I hug my Bible to my chest, mind repeating the phrases, the promises that are inside. The sand escaped my fingers, but this, this word I clutch over my heart and the Word lives in my heart.

Jesus, be the one thing that I know, that I hold to, that I breathe, that I live by. All of my days. No matter how much it hurts.

Grace for a Mopengwi

I gently apply my brakes and hop off the bike. It’s safest to walk this last bit of path that runs straight through the ditch. That’s when I hear it. A timid voice calling my name. I turn and see M coming towards me, covering her face with both hands.
The evening air swells with silence. There is no one else in the neatly swept compound. She steps over a little patch of green grass and I greet her enthusiastically. “M! I haven’t seen you for so long!”
“No…” she squirms, shaking the very loose, baggy dress she’s wearing. “I’m so ashamed and so afraid….did Anna tell you?”
“Yes.” Yes, I have known for months now that she is pregnant. I’ve tried to find ways to talk with her, but it never worked out…and now, there is no more hiding the truth.
“I’m just trying to hide,” it startles me to hear the echo of my thoughts in her next comment, “just trying to hide at home. I’m scared….ashamed for people to see me like…like this.” Again, a vague wave of her hand that tries to cover and at the same time display her bulky dress and the baby underneath.
“You can’t hide, M.” We both know that news travels fast, but I mean more than that. I mean that she can’t hide herself from facing the truth herself, and she can’t hide from God. “Look, come and talk soon, please? You are right to be ashamed, but you don’t have to be afraid.”
She’s already retracing her steps back to the house, back to her cooking, back to her old life and her burden of shame. She pauses, and I pray.
From behind her hands, she murmurs it loud, “But, Maaike, I am a mopengwi.” (a loser)
The awkward metal frame of my bike and a few hundred meters of hard packed dirt separate us, and I try to find words quickly before someone comes and the chance is gone.
“M, God loves bamopengwi (loosers). He loves them more than anyone else. He came to die for them, He rose for them, He lives for them.”
Silence behind the hands covering her face, trying to cover her embarrassment, her dirtiness, her sin.
“But you have to understand, M, that if you give Jesus your life He will take it all. You must make the choice. His grace is there.”
She looks up, and in the growing dusk I can’t tell if there is a change in her countenance. She slowly lowers her hands.
“Well, maybe we can talk,” she says, taking another step further away, “maybe someday I’ll find time to come talk.”
“Yes, do!” I watch her disappear around the mud hut.
Pray that she knows God’s grace? Pray that she is transformed? She has asked me to pray with her for Jesus to change her life for years now…and even when she stops asking me to pray with her I still will pray for her.
This is the story of so many girls. Shame and fear. Hiding and bitterness. Terror and guilt. Pray for those making the stand for Christ and purity to have strength to be an example. And pray for those who have fallen, that they might know their Saviour.

The Wheel is Where I Am.

The last bicycle passes me and I take a big, deep breath.

Finally, I’m alone.

The path stretches ambitiously out from under my feet, skirting a soccer field and disappearing into high grass. But I linger, slow to pursue its welcoming curves, because for a precious few minutes, it’s all mine. I want to enjoy it. I raise my face to the sun, close my eyes and smile. The heat of this Sunday afternoon is pulsing around me like a live thing, and the sun’s rays are fierce. But I love it.

As I walk, the tangled thoughts from the last weeks slowly sort themselves out.

Everything is so deadly still today, so breathlessly suppressed under the scorching heat. My world, however, is one wild whirl.

People, things, ideas, concepts are being torn from my hands, my heart, my life, and I know that in a few weeks I will be drowning in a flood of new people, new things, new ideas, new concepts. My heart is being bruised now and soon it will be mercilessly forced into a new mold.

It’s happened before.

So I linger on this deserted strip of trodden dirt, trying to find words for the prayer that burns in my heart. That is when it comes to me: it is not the world I leave or the world I am entering that’s spinning crazy: it’s me. I am the moving factor.

The sky above is a watery blue, and the clouds look like they’ve been pasted on permanently. Not a breath of wind. I suddenly realize where I am:

my world’s a whirl because I’m waiting willing on the Potter’s wheel.

His wheel is spinning and that is where I am. He gives, and He takes, blessed be the name of God today, because I don’t care what spins out of my life or what spins in as long as I know the hand that keeps me, that molds me.

I know it like I know the solidness of the ground under my feet, like I know the reality of those palm trees stretching tall to whisper secrets to the still clouds.

I know this: That there is no place in heaven or on earth that I would rather be than on the Potter’s wheel.

This is where He will mold me.

And there is the magazine I picked up, this allusion to the miracle of tree growth: “Trees experience fire and times of no water…the growth rings show us the good times and the bad times.”

This has happened to me before.

I know that these next few months will leave their marks on me forever. This is one form of fire, one form of want, and yet it is all just a part of the growth.

I will wait on the wild whirling wheel because He is molding me, and when I have want of water, it is a time for maturing.

The marks could measure maturity.

And when everything’s spinning? If you don’t want to get motion sick, if you don’t want to fall down flat, you need to keep your eyes on what doesn’t move.

God is my goal.

He is the one thing that never changes, never moves, never leaves me or forsakes me……

….so what is there to fear?

(We have around two and a half weeks left here in Congo.)

DAY FOUR

I locked my bike and slipped onto a pew in between my friends. Day four of the conference. It seemed almost routine now to get up early, translate and print out the day’s resources, scramble to get everyone out of the house somewhat on time, set up at the church, and begin the program of prayer, summary from the last day, a several hour long lesson, and then small groups before lunch time.

I bowed my head as a pastor stood up to pray. The words of his prayer filled me with excitement and joy! I was so excited, I even took notes of it! This is some of it; “We were in confusion, far from God. We thought that we should put the work of God before our family, and that God would bless that. Now we have heard that we are responsible. God, forgive us! When we are right with You, we will be faithful fathers and husbands. There will be change in our families. Give us love!”

He spoke those words into the microphone as everyone sat hushed, heads bowed, hands clasped in their laps. And when he finished, we all said Amen. Let it be. Let it be!

Then the President of CECCA 16, the Protestant church we work with, stood up as usual to give his summary of the past days and answer questions. He restated many of the things the pastor had prayed, saying; “We thought that if we were Pastors and ignored our children, we’d still be angels. We need to take responsibility for our children…..Men will be able to be responsible ONLY in Jesus. A responsible man is one who loves God with all his heart, soul, mind, and strength, loves his wife and children, being their spiritual leader, and THEN doing his ministry whole-heartedly. We keep flipping this order and putting the ministry first. Fathers, we must remember that we can help others, but we are only responsible for our own families.”

At this point, he brought up the question from the girls, What can we do to make our fathers show us affection so that we can have unity with them? Again, a murmur filled the church. The pastor called a young lady to stand up. Putting his arm around her shoulder, he asked; “If this is my daughter, would walking with her like this be a good thing?”

After some discussion, everyone said it would.

“Do our fathers do it?” No.

“According to our cultures, should we do this?” No.

“According to God’s Word, should we do this?” Yes.

“So who are we going to listen to?” God’s Word.

He read the summary of the under-twelve-year-olds’ discussion; “We don’t have our fathers affection….We don’t even have the desire to become friends with them….”

“So, fathers,” he said, “what are we going to do?”

Again, I was amazed at the response. Amazed, and grateful to our God who works miracles.

Their answer was this: We are going to CHANGE!

We are going to humble ourselves and ask their forgiveness.

Change, change, change! After courage, change is the most important word this week.

And I listen to the girl who is a Pastor’s daughter tell me that she has struggled with harsh words her father spoke to her since she was eight, the girl who’s struggled with being envious of the Jehovah Witness daughter who has a loving relationship with her father…..

And I listen to the Mamas with their marriage woes…..

And I listen and I praise God that there is a breath of transformation, that His people are asking for change!!!

Amen.

Let it be!

 

Walking Waves. We Come.

The days left till we leave Africa are being counted down now.

Our German friends have left Isiro, and it is now our turn to begin sorting through our house. We are plagued with the same questions that my parents were asking when I was still toddling around; what do we take? what do we store? what do we give away? how do we leave this? who do we entrust this to?

And the biggest question of all: how do I live these last days to the fullest?

There is pain in separation. There is pain in the anticipation of separation.

I sit by the old grandma brooding over her cooking bananas, chickens pecking by her feet, and she reminds me that the peanuts are almost ready to be harvested now, and we will leave during the harvest….

I greet my friend pounding manioc leaves to make pondu for supper and she wipes her hands and shakes her head and tells me that we’ll be gone all too soon….

I race pell-mell down the rutted, cracked Congo roads in the dusk, little Congo boy clinging desperately to the back of my bike, and I rejoice in the evening air rushing into my face, trying to ignore that nagging thought that soon it will be over…..

I watch our friends say good-bye, and tears are shed. Hearts are heavy and they all turn to us now to say mournfully, ‘next is your family’….

I wander along meandering paths, sun beating reproachfully on me, wind sighing to me, palm trees rattling out that I am leaving, leaving, leaving….

There is pain in going.

We have two more Saturdays left with Bana Basi ya Kopela, and then the conference. There is pain in looking back on over two years of this and wondering where, oh where, oh where are the transformed lives, the radiant girls? Where are the new leaders standing strong? Where are the girls who courageously obey and joyfully serve? Where are the girls who love Jesus?

Have I seen any girl really come to love Jesus?

I learned many things the hard way. One is that the longer we do this program, the more I realize what we are doing wrong. How many times have we totally revised the lessons, the meeting time, the meeting place, the songs, the oral methods, the puppet plays giving ways to skits which gave way to composing songs? And are we any closer to a good discipleship method now? How can we expect anyone to continue this crazy maze of ideas in our stead?

These are the questions that press hard on my heart. I said so often that the one thing I really feared was to one day stand before God and realize that I had been all wrong. That all my work had been for the wrong reason, or in the wrong way, and I was so proud thinking I was serving Jesus when in the end everything turned out to be ashes, not lasting gold.

The thought still chokes me. I know He loves me, I know He would let me enter His rest, but I cannot imagine looking Him in the face after that. He gave so much for me.

So I struggle and I fight and I get disappointed ’cause things just won’t work right.

We trained seven girls to be leaders. Two are pregnant – they are still teenagers – and have been chased to go stay with their boyfriends’ families. I don’t see them anymore. One is dealing with a crisis in her life and admits that she never was really committed. She did it to look good. Another I never hear from. I go visit her, but she seems indifferent. I had such hopes for her.

There are times when I feel like I am in the boat and the boat is sinking. The waves are towering, the waves are threatening, and I try to trust. Then I catch a glimpse of Him. Walking on the waves. I hear Him say Come to Me. And I realize that instead of calming this storm, He’s asking me to get out of what little remnants of control and strongholds of self that I have left, and He’s asking me to walk the waves with Him, to step into the storm. It’s going to get more crazy and more dangerous and I want to gather my courage first. I want to take a breath before I plunge. I’m not ready to meet my Jesus as I am. I’m dirty, a jangled mess of selfish desires, arrogant pride, and cold-hearted obstinacy. Give me a moment to pull myself together. To make something worthy of offering out of this mess.

But He just stands there and says Come.

The waves slap hard and I’m going down. I can’t make myself any better and trying just makes it worse.

That is when I remember the song, those words that I sing so often….

Just as I am, without one plea. But that Thy blood was shed for me. And that Thou biddest me come to Thee. O Lamb of God I come. I come! Just as I am, though tossed about by many a sorrow, many a doubt. Fightings and fears within, without, O Lamb of God I come. I come!

That is my prayer. May it be my life! I want to dare the waves and defy reason. I want to be radically His. I want to come to the One who promises rest and meekness of heart. I want to always, always come. Messy and dirty I am. But in coming I will be cleansed.

Planning packing, leaving Bana Basi ya Kopela for yet-unknown leaders, saying good-byes, finishing school, fighting my sinful self – the waves keep coming without ceasing. Pray that we will go to Him who is calling.

And if you hear people say that we’re crazy….

it’s because we’d rather be on the waves with Jesus than in the boat alone.

** please note, there are answers to prayer and good news too. The other three leaders we trained have had changed lives, and Anna and I have really grown through this. This is the pain of blogging – you have to wait for the next post to hear the good news.

Impossible Revisited

He leaned forward, the wooden chair creaking mournfully.

Carefully he opened his mouth, fixing us all with his stern glare. Everyone stilled in anticipation of his weighty words.

“God is doing something here.”

I squeezed my hands together tight in my lap.

“We have prayed for this. We have areas in our lives that we have not changed, and now is time for transformation.”

Silence still fills the room, but heads are nodding. The curtain separating the Biblical view of the family and the current practice of the family in Isiro has been flung back in the last few months, and we are amazed at the gap in between.

“This is God’s time for our families. This is God’s time for transformation.”

He keeps speaking, but I’m just overwhelmed.

The fact that I. am. right. here.

All around me sit choir leaders, and we have come to discuss the “Summer 2012 Event”. This “event” has been one long string of miracles and unexpected revelations, of God working in hearts, and of people standing up with a revolutionary message.

It’s occupied a lot of our thoughts lately, with my parents especially sacrificing much time and effort to carefully think through all the issues and plans. It’s taken up our supper time conversations and our family prayers. I haven’t blogged about it yet because the plans were changing so crazy fast that Mom thought it wise to wait for everyone to be of one mind before I posted about it.

But now, in a few weeks, “it” will happen, and we’re excited….and we’re coveting prayers.

The (very) basic idea is as follows: during the morning we have a conference, during the afternoon, a music festival.

The overarching theme is this: CALLING MEN OF COURAGE!

Isn’t that great?? We all believe that this is what Congo needs. One courageous Congolese man who has totally caught fire with the vision of transformed families is showing the film Courageous almost every night all over town in different churches.  And as people hear about it, others want to see it.  That’s our publicity.

Other inspired, courageous men are taking the initiative to stand up and call others to hear the message, to answer the challenge, to accept the call.

It’s just awesome.

And best of all, it’s going to be combined with music. Sitting there in that church, listening to the words of welcoming change roll around me, I watched the faces of the people around me carefully and prayed hard that they would hear and understand.

Because I was sitting in the middle of a group of choir leaders – the people who, in my opinion, wield one of the most powerful weapons in Congolese culture – music. Many church choirs will compose songs to sing for the week long event (July 3 – 8, 2012). The songs of each afternoon will correspond to the teaching of the morning.

The teaching of the mornings will be as follows:

• Tuesday: Supreme Power, the Authority of the Bible, and Salvation through Jesus Christ
• Wednesday and Thursday: CALLING MEN OF COURAGE
• Friday and Saturday: Sex and Relationships, Family
• Sunday: A Call to Repentance

You see what I mean? This is great stuff.

The primary speaker will be my Mom’s brother, our Uncle Rich. This is the message of his heart, and the message we in Congo really need to hear. It is mind-boggling to think of how many years of preparation God planned before this conference/festival could happen! For years Uncle Rich has been developing this message and wanting to come to Congo.  For over a year pastors in Isiro have been praying that this subject would be addressed but their plans to organize a conference were always blocked, and for two years I’ve had this wacky idea of Impossible. I’ve posted about it. Well, God took that impossible and the prayers and….and now it’s a LOT bigger and a LOT more impossible!!

Which means?

I’m really looking forward to seeing this miracle!

There are so many unknowns. How are we going to feed two thousand people for a week? How are we going to sort out all the logistics, make sure people’s questions are answered, provide leadership, technical support, etc.?

My Dad had this awesome idea of recording all the teaching sessions and the music and putting it onto memory cards that the youth and others can buy to play on their cell phones.

We’re working with some Congolese pastors, trying to organize a team of small group leaders from different denominations who can lead discussions after Uncle Rich speaks.

We’re just praying that those choir leaders are inspired by God as they write songs on ideas and concepts that are still so new to them.

You see?

Impossible.

The meeting draws to a close after a long discussion of logistics. We stand, and the pastor at front who had triumphantly proclaimed the message of transformation is now singing low and soft….

Nkombo na yo, nkombo na yo….nkombo ya Yesu..

We pick it up after him, and I thrill through and through to the beautiful singing, the rounded words flowing gently around me, the strength of the melody, the gentle drumming drawing it all out. Your name, Your name Jesus…Your name is my hope, Your name is my success, Your name is my beauty…..

His name fills the church, His praises vibrate the brick walls. In His name we claim the impossible. In His name we will do valiantly. In His name the hearts of the fathers will be turned to their children, and the hearts of the children will be turned to their fathers. In His name, we will be transformed…and the curse will be lifted from this land.

- Malachi 4:6

Squeezing Life Into a Blog Post

Sometimes, I don’t even want to write on this blog.

I’m sure and certain that no matter what I say, it won’t be enough. That it can never be enough.

This life is so full of both beautiful and ugly, of good and evil, of ups and downs, that it is impossible to give the whole picture.

How do I explain the warmth of the afternoon sun, the long shadows chasing each other, the pebbly roads, the stately palms?

How do I explain the face of my friend as she tells me that a young boy in her family was struck by lightening and died on the spot? His father was standing close by and saw his healthy son one moment, heard him scream, and saw the charred body on the ground the next. How do I explain their firm conviction that this was no ordinary lightning, but “sent” by someone? How can I convey the difficulty this family has in forgiving the person who murdered their young boy in such an appallingly cruel way?

How can I at the same time write about how that very day I was sitting with a Congo-sister, laughing silly with her, encouraging her in Christ, and praying with her? That when I walked home and the storm was gathering and lightning splintering every which way in the sky, I danced along the deserted roads? That there was beauty even in the terror of that day?

How can words breathe the ticklish whisper of a child asking questions, or the warm pressure of the hand of a friend?

How do I speak of the increasing murders and theft in this town and of young men buying the “medicine” of witchdoctors and becoming lunatics? And how do I add that the last news I heard of this came from the mouth of a sweet old lady? She had come to bless us with soap she had made herself and other small gifts. She spoke of how whenever it rained she was afraid that her house would collapse. Her face glowed when I turned the topic to children. She has been working with children for many years, probably since before I was born, and now she wonders who will take over her work at the church when her time in the world is over.

When every day brings new tidings and plans and frustrations and dead-ends and grace and the crazy music of life – how on earth am I supposed to compress it into a few neat paragraphs for a largely unknown audience?

Yet despite the awareness that I do not know all that is happening here, all the factors, the history, the deeper things below the surface, I write because I trust that God can use even these imperfect posts to guide you to pray for Congo. Courage to all of you as you continue to pray!

What Does It Mean To Serve God?

I’ve heard it over and over and over and over again…..

Last week, I sat under a mango tree with a nineteen year old girl. Her baby had died right after being born. People aren’t sure who the father was. I wish I could say that she appeared sad over the death, but she didn’t.

Trying to understand where her heart is now, I asked what her plans were for life.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to serve God.”

I was taken aback. I asked her what she meant by “serving God” but her answer was evasive. She kept avoiding the question, but finally said that serving God was singing in the choir and going to church.

??

Go to church as a full time job? She had just mentioned to me that she had dropped out of the choir a year ago!

The day before I had this conversation, I was visiting another Congolese girl who just turned eighteen. Of course, she wants to serve God in her new year. But she doesn’t know how beyond singing and helping in church.

Yesterday I asked another young single mother what she thought serving God looked like. Her answer was more detailed, in that you had to become an evangelist and preach.

This thinking is so common. It has awful consequences – youth who go to church and sing are “serving God” to their best ability, no matter what they do the rest of the days. If you can’t become an evangelist or a pastor, or you don’t cram your days full with church activities, you may as well give up on “serving God”.

Please pray for a change in this mentality! We want to see the youth here transformed to the point where their whole lives are an expression of the goodness of God. In the spirit of Romans 12, we want to offer ourselves as whole burnt offerings to God. Nothing is left out. Everything goes through the purifying fire….

Stage-Fright, Microphones, and Speeches

I wrote this Monday but I’m only getting it out today! I know it is longer than usual, but please take time to read it and pray for us.

This last week has been breath-taking.

Literally.

On Monday, we went to visit a very kind Pastor (see last post) who invited us to the monthly meeting of local pastors. At the meeting the pastors suggested that we visit their churches on Sunday so that the girls and their parents could see us and hear our program.

The Very Kind Pastor offered to arrange which churches we could start with on the coming Sunday, and we very gratefully accepted. Following is the story of our Sunday morning at the four churches that he chose:

First church:

They led us single file right over the pulpit’s platform. I had the unnerving awareness that instead of watching the preacher, over three hundred pairs of eyes were staring at us. Chairs were indicated, and I began to carefully observe the preacher who hadn’t paused more than a split second despite our arrival. He seemed to have large lungs, for he was waxing eloquent and loud into an old, battered, hand-held microphone of a relic that once was, I do believe, a brand-new megaphone. Suddenly I realized – we were going to have to speak in that! Chills of frightening anticipation washed over me. As the sermon wound to a close and we were introduced, I was desperately trying to control my nerves. We stepped up to the megaphone and Anna began to speak. If we hadn’t been so seized with stage-fright it would have been almost funny, the way everyone emphatically agreed on the fact that teenage girls are trouble. As it was, it was simply grace that we survived. We knew we were doing this because we wanted to respect and obey the pastors of the churches, not because it was our idea, and somehow that thought was reassuring.

Second church:

My sister Joanna, in trying to describe our wonderful Land Rover named Bluenose III, came up with an adequately good metaphor. It’s like being inside an empty jerry can that someone is shaking. As we rattled away in the dusty interior of our car, watching palm trees, red roads, and church-goers through the smudgy blackened windows of the back of the car, Anna and I had a short de-briefing session. To our great surprise and consternation we found out that we were going to the church of Tuluba next. (a huge church that the Belgiums built.) This time I estimated at least six hundred people, and as the white-collared pastor behind an enormous wooden pulpit invited us to come speak, I gulped. Anna and I climbed the steps to the platform, and upon arriving at that huge varnished pulpit, we discovered that the microphone had just died. We would have to shout. I must have looked totally incapable of uttering a whisper, let alone a shout, for the pastor told Anna that she would have to repeat what I said in a loud voice. As I waited for Anna to introduce us, I gazed at the faces of the audience. One teenage girl sitting in front caught my eye. She was crammed into the corner of a full pew, and her eyes seemed to blaze sullen rebellion. My heart went straight out to her and I suddenly realized why I was standing there, taking a deep breath before I shouted our mission to the silent hundreds. It was for her.

(This church promised to pray for us daily in their intercession group. At each church, we asked the pastor to pray for us and it was an awesome experience to be lifted up and carried and so thoroughly blessed through those prayers. We were so aware of our weaknesses – two young girls, still learning for themselves, in front of all those people. But we were also aware of God’s greatness. How can mere words every tell what a privilege it is to be God’s messengers and to glorify Him??)

Third church:

I was surprised when the third church held only a handful of people, but also a bit relieved. The crinkled slip of paper torn out of my notebook with a rough outline of our “presentation” scribbled on it was now taking on a permanent dusty brown colour, and as I turned it over and over in my hand, I realized that I knew it by heart. This time the pastor had all the girls sit together: I counted around fifteen. My Mom, who was sitting near them, said that their faces brightened as they listened. The parents there, though very few, responded in the same way that all the other parents had: when we explained how we wanted to encourage good relationships with parents, they broke out into loud murmurs of approval. It was encouraging to be prayed for again. As we exited that church, I whispered to Anna, “Only one more left!”

Fourth church:

This time there was no adrenaline rush as I gazed at the large audience of over six or seven hundred from my seat in the front of the church. Anna and I were exhausted from the sheer roller-coaster that our stage-fright had taken us on, and there were no burning hot and freezing cold sensations. It was certainly not by our own strength that we got up in front of those people, but somehow we said everything and answered the questions. One man asked if they could be sure that their daughters were really at the lessons; would we have a tracking system? Questions like those – that we had never even considered before! – were difficult to answer, but the words were always there. We had witnessed first hand the awesome power of God through our church-trotting, and we were exhilarated. And tired, too!

Surprise!

Did you think we were finished? So did I! But when we exited the fourth church, there was a man dressed neatly in a suit, voice recording device in hand, asking us if we would step aside for an interview. The tall tower of the radio we would air on towered in the distance as we stood in the dusty shade of an avocado tree. The mud hut right beside us was falling apart and through the kinks I spied an old woman hunched beside a smoky fire. Behind us, the church erupted into song. The man asked us many questions, and we were excited to know that more girls would here through his radio!

–

So, the word is spreading through many ways. NEXT SATURDAY is the big day – the first lesson of a revised program in a new location with new crowds! YIPEE!! It is for girls age 12 -20! This is such an exciting group to deal with, but it’s going to be tough. Please do not stop praying! Your prayers are precious to us as we are totally ignorant of what the future holds for us in Bana Basi ya Kopela. Next Sunday we go to five different churches.