Ted and friend in Sudan

I just got back from Southern Sudan, to a people so remote that it takes an 8 hour hike to the nearest road, then a 9 hour drive to get to a town most westerners would call the end of the earth. There is an airstrip at our destination, and the wind conditions have to be just right in order for an AIM AIR plane to land, as they were the morning we flew in.
The place looked a lot like Gatab, where we lived for 5 years, with rolling green hills and the desert visible thousands of feet below. There is not the forest, having been replaced with cornfields on every hillside. This was an agricultural society, growing mostly corn, which mostly goes to a fermented beer called methi. There are no believers here, no church. No one has ever been here to tell them about Jesus Christ, at least until a few months ago.
The few missionaries there now are part of something pretty special that AIM has. It’s a 2 year missions training program called TIMO (Training in Ministry Outreach) that gives young people an opportunity to learn about missions academically, while living it physically and experientially. We were shooting a video for TIMO and using the team here in Sudan as a model.
It was a difficult shoot. We had a script in hand on which we had spent days, laboring over the perfect words to communicate such a powerful and complex idea as TIMO. But it didn’t take long before we realized that the script we had just didn’t work right, that we needed to start over. It’s hard to be that flexible, to scrap what you’ve sweated hours to build when you honestly realize it’s not good enough. Tim, a short termer on his last trip with us, and I stayed up late most nights, sometimes into the morning, squeezing every last creative idea from our minds, writing on the backs of scrap paper by candle light and kerosene lantern in a small mud hut, surrounded by the sounds, both human and animal, of village Africa. Then we had it- something better, something that makes the transition from the mind to the heart, the difference between understanding and action.
Then we had to shoot it. It was different- a presenter style video geared for the college age, with humor and life-altering seriousness mixed together.
The shooting went remarkably well. One scene had our presenter asking some local guys, in their language, if they wanted some coffee. Of course, we shot several takes trying out different ways of saying it. At each successive take, the local guys started getting confused as to why they were being asked repeatedly when they had already given their answer. So they started adding to it. The last response to a request for coffee was, “Yes! And a shirt, and a broom, and some food, and some pants! And why do you keep asking us!?”
The tricky winds weren’t so kind to us on the way out, however. The airplane could not land. So we waited to the next day, loaded up ourselves and some young helpers with all our gear and hiked 9 miles through the hills to the next airstrip to catch a plane there. Tim, Kate, and I -our team- were asking each other what we’d do when we got home. My response was that I would probably try to stay on my feet as all my kids would tackle me after 8 days away. When the moment arrived, I wasn’t even able to get out of the car as the kids piled in on top of me. It was so good to be home. So grateful for my family. I held my youngest’s face close to mine and said, “I love you, Timmy.” He gave his 2 year old wisdom in his response, “So much.”

May your roots go down deep into the soil of God’s marvelous love. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide how long, how high, and how deep his love really is.
Ephesians 3:17-18 (NLT)

Just back from almost a week away, I sit at this cluttered office desk knowing it has potential for serenity too, but can I reach out and get my hands on it?  The cabin in Eldama Ravine was a peaceful getaway for my birthday.  4 cabins on a quiet farm, a baby calf born while we stayed there, a big water tank to swim in when it got too hot, and children cooperating with each other in work and play, wow -Our stay was located not far from Utopia.  Insightful and loving, my husband made the kitchen off limits for me for most of Saturday, all of Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.

I was not allowed to cook or clean.  I stumbled through worship songs on my flute as I sat “poolside” enjoying the occasional icy splash from the youngsters swimming in the tank.  I read It’s My Turn by Ruth Belle Graham, in its entirety, and ministered to my family with short mealtime readings-aloud, both serious and funny, from the life of the Billy Graham family.

The area was drier than I had ever seen it.  When we drove to Lake Bogoria, we saw the expected water’s edge dusting of salmon-colored flamingos.  We also saw a burnt orange sky with dust storms and whirling dervishes off in several directions.  That last night we were there, a beautiful rain storm blew in and soaked the area.  Next morning, we drove off toward home through a cloud of freshly-hatched termites seeming to emanate from the dampened earth like the steam from Bogoria’s springs.  Ted didn’t smear the windshield by attempting to use the wipers and wash until we had gone completely through- you almost couldn’t see through the windshield at all they were so thick.

I was a little reluctant to come home.  There is something less simple about here than there, I guess.  More obligations, more to do on the to-do-lists, and a very cluttered office that is supposed to be Grand Central for managing homeschooling but ends up being the room I avoid.  However, the rest cleansed my palate so I could taste again and discern the flavor of the important amidst the starches of the urgent.

Teah’s been calling me “Mrs. Noodles” lately and the tone in which she says it signifies it as a term of endearment.  I had played “Noodle’s Nail Salon” with her and one of her little friends, cleaning, shaping, and polishing their nails, for a price. One shilling for cleaning.  Two for buffing.  Three for polishing.  But I gave a discount for artists.  They were both artists.  And I gave a discount for 6 year olds.  And somehow that spoke love to her.  That time.  That game.  Mrs. Noodles was graced with the flavor of the important, at least for that meal.  One meal at a time, sweet Jesus.   One step at a time.  One day at a time.
-Liisa

These are rough days in Kenya.  Water is scarce.  Food supply is dropping with prices rising.  Last night I was up at 3 am pumping water from one tank into another just because that’s when the water came and we’re down to 12 hours a week rationing.  We’re not suffering though, and we know that we’re not suffering because we know those who are.
The Swanepoels, our dear friends and mentors here, mentioned to us that they were concerned about the starving they see endured by pastors and evangelists up in Northern Kenya.  Take for example this one evangelist and his family in a tiny desert town, not much more than some wooden shacks in the sand.  The Swanepoels pass by that town on their way home -to their own place in the desert.  They stop in when they can and try to support the evangelist.
Swanepoels described him as an enduring determined man, and his wife and small daughter as resourceful and caring.  But thin.  So thin, gathering wild berries and leaves for a meal.  Poverty is hard to ignore when it speaks through sunken cheeks and loose clothing.  Liisa listened to the Swanepoel’s story, not sure if we have met this evangelist or not, and felt the Chance.
A chance to taste giving, for those of us on a constant diet of receiving, can taste uniquely spicy. But giving only has this sort of flavor when it has been stirred up by Him -maybe because every good gift comes from Him as the Father in Heaven.  But simply giving wasn’t enough-  Liisa wanted the kids to do it.  She was burdened for the children to get a share in the joy that came with the Chance to help.  To care.  To pray.  To wait and be ready to see…
So Liisa told the kids the story and gave them just a little time to go through their toys and pick out ones to sell at the next missionary sale that was coming up.  They collected a few things and off they went.  Two of our four had in their instruments in tow -Jon a trumpet and Collin a trombone- and their music scores, and their friend Drew -another 6th grader with a trumpet.  Not for sale.
Liisa manned a cardtable with old toys for sale.  It was so little she couldn’t help remembering the boy with the 5 loaves and 2 fish.  It was so little she wondered if she’d end up with ten dollars to send to the evangelist.
Those three boys played all the songs they could think of behind a basket growing full with money and a sign saying that the proceeds would go to a starving pastor in the North.  Between being willing to let go of toys and offer up their music, the children collected half a months’ salary for that evangelist plus a whole lot of food.  We sent it up with the next airplane headed that direction. The kids, having taken that chance, are all the richer.
-Ted