Can your Bible prevent Malaria?

My suitcase still smells of bug repellent, and the front cover of my Bible is not just stained, but exudes a noxious reek. I amuse myself by wondering if I have inadvertently invented a Bible that protects the user from Malaria.

One evening, we are all sitting in the gazebo, and one of the team members suddenly shrieks and starts flailing about. A bug had flown into her shirt. She swatted ineffectively, and we finally decide it must have flown away. But then I suddenly have a brainstorm and hand her my Bible. Sure enough, she suddenly shrieks again as the bug desparately exits from her blouse, as if it is fleeing a burning building. Yup, I think that anti-malaria thing might work!

In a 3rd world country, it is we, the visitors, who are incompetent

I keep thinking about what the villagers must think of us. They were pleasant and patient with us, but I can't help wondering if they think we are amazingly ignorant and incompetent. Away from our own environment and resources, we lack even the rudimentary skills of survival. We rely on our own bottled water, and the food (not to mention the cook) that we brought with us. We bring tents and sleeping bags, and hand sanitizer and bug repellent. Without our own supplies, and the help of the staff that has brought us here, we would literally not survive.

Different memories from our village outreach keep popping up in my mind. When 'N' gave us our briefing the day before the trip, he asked us to not complain about the food, and to not make a face if we didn't like something. He said "I have noticed with you Americans that if you do not like something, I see it in your face. Me, if I do not like something my face stays the same. You will never know."

Inadvertently, I had a chance to refute that general assumption. I had brought some children's gummy vitamins, and chewable anti-oxidants to Mozambique, figuring that I would use them on my trip, and donate the surplus to the orphanage when I left. I decided to bring the antioxidants on the outreach, figuring that they would be a tasty snack to share - I actually think they taste better than gummy bear candy, since they are a little more flavorful. Anyway, I started handing them out while we were riding on the truck. We had been asked to always remember to share with the local Mozambican pastors and Bible students who were accompanying us, so I passed the bottle first to the front-end of the truck, asking 'T' (the American group leader) to translate to the Mozambicans. I hear him trying to explain in Portuguese: "would you like some children's vitamins?" Anyway, I'm not sure if one of the guys didn't hear him, or didn't speak Portuguese, but when it came to his turn, his face looked like he was being poisoned. My tent-mate couldn't stop laughing -- so much for the impassive African face!

Then again, I probably had a distressed look on my own face when we stopped on the road and some of my fellow travelers bought fried-egg sandwiches from men in the street, holding up trays of food for us to purchase. The idea of eggs sitting in the sun possibly for hours didn't sound like a good idea to me.

While I don't think anyone got sick from the eggs, a couple of people were suffering from motion sickness, so I shared my pills with them (having brought a lovely assortment of first aide in my fanny pack.) That didn't help the guy who ended up with some kind of stomach bug, and huddled miserably in his tent for the next day. We tried to pray for him and were disappointed that the only result was a mad dash into the corn field to throw up. He kept insisting that he felt a little better, but I wasn't quite convinced.

The truck stops again and we are surrounded by guys trying to sell us soda. There is no diet soda. In a country where people die of starvation, there is no market for diet foods. High class hotels and restaurants offer diet coke in order to placate the tourists, but they charge a premium for it -- literally 2 or 3 times the price of regular soda.

I'm not the only one who was taken by surprise in the church service when they took the collection. I'm not sure why I was surprised. After all, we have a collection at home, so why wouldn't a village church also do so? I felt awkward trying to make my way through the packed congregation to the donation basket, but even more awkward at the idea of sitting passively, so I dug into the famous fanny pack to get some local currency to place in the basket, and tried to manuever my way through the crowd without stepping on anyone. I'm wearing hiking shoes and the locals all have bare feet, so it is even more important not to step on anyone!

When we woke up in the morning, and I started getting dressed in the tent, I managed to put on my shirt and capris, but couldn't figure out how to put on my kapulana -- there is something about a long wrap-around skirt and a short tent that just don't work together. I snuck out of the tent and tried to quickly wrap it around as soon as possible. We are guests here, and women are supposed to wear long skirts, but I really needed a 20 second grace period!

We start making jokes about our own incompetency, and we fantasize that the villagers are making mental notes about these peculiar light colored visitors who were grownups but didn't know how to do anything. Although they are unfailingly gracious to us, we imagine them making up songs in Makua that will be handed down for generations:

They did not know how wear a skirt
Sometimes it trailed in the dirt.
Their skin was funny, almost white
It really was an odd, odd sight.
Instead of proper huts of mud
Their homes were tiny, quit a dud.
Some of them were very tall,
And yet they are not strong at all.
They were not even able to talk
Instead they made a funny squawk.
But it was nice they came such a long way
To worship with us, and to pray

While waiting for the water to boil for the morning tea in the village, I heard a guitar, and wandered around the other side of our camp. 'J' was there worshipping. I believe that she actually was raised in the orphanage, and was on our trip as a helper. I listened and it took a few seconds to realize why it sounded familiar. She was singing 'How great is our God' in Portuguese. We tried to join in, but could only catch the key words. Here was our version:
Bla grand bla bla Senhor, bla bla bla bla
Grand bla bla Senhor, bla bla bla bla bla
Grand bla grand, bla bla Senhor.
Pretty soon she had mercy on us, and switched to English. But now that I'm home, I find myself crying when I hear the song, because it carries me back to that remote village. And I sing along in broken Portuguese once again.

There is always enough in the Father's heart

I have so much to learn here. In the middle of the dirt and the confusion and the poverty, the staff stride around with smiles on their faces, expressing love to the children in their words and actions, and seemingly undeterred by the practical difficulties. I watch them and wonder whether they are some special kind of person, or whether God's call to come here somehow changed and equipped them.

I want to make sure I don't miss whatever God is trying to teach me, so after breakfast I spend some time in the prayer gazebo. 'T' asked for volunteer to go on a prayer walk in the village right outside the compound, where [the ministry] is building some homes for local widows. The walk was another example of the spirit of confusion that seems to be the only discordant note here. The children are always dressed and fed, but the other activities seem unnecessarily chaotic.

We don't know whether there will be a hospital outreach, much less when it would be, what it would entail or how many people could go. We don't know whether there is a horse ministry. We don't know if the garbage we collect should go into the garbage drum, or be locked into the visitors' center. We don't know if there is a prison ministry (and if there is, is it for men or women). We don't know when the next bush outreach is, or how many days it would be if, or whether 'H' will go with us, or how far the trip will be. We don't know if there is an evening meeting to go to. We don't know if we have to re-confirm our flights individually or if someone will do it for us. We don't know if we are invited to the morning meeting with the guest speaker.We don't know if they will supply us with more drinking water as a group, or if we have to individually go into town. We don't know how we are supposed to flush the toilets when the water supply runs out (don't ask). We don't know if there is a widow's ministry. We don't know what hours the sewing shop is open. We don't know what time the outreach is, or where to carry our backpacks and tents to. We don't know that if we miss lunch due to helping at the village feeding, that we can go in the kitchen behind the dining room and get a plate. We don't know how to tell which kids actually belong to the orphanage, or which young men are the Bible students.

However, while the staff may be without answers, they are never without a smile. Some of the confusion is due to the legitimate goal of empowering the local Mozambican leadership, so projects outside the walls of the orphanage need to be arranged and approved in 'Africa time' rather than according to a Western schedule. Some of the confusion was on the part of the team I was with, rather than the orphanage. And sometimes it seemed as if confusion was a contagious virus that spread to everything it touched. The amazing thing was the unceasing love and patience that the staff consistently showed amidst the confusion.

In any event, the confusion finding the building site seems like deja vue, bizarrely colored by the fact that as we wander around trying to find the house, 'T' acts as tour guide, mentioning that the village we are walking through is considered especially dangerous, and that the police have to visit there frequently, to handle the violence. I wonder if it is really a good location for a widow's house, but have to simply write off the question as one of the many cultural things that I cannot control. The area is also filled with witch doctors -- I wonder if they are the ones who have been treating us to the 3am 'concerts'.

Finally 'T' finds the building site. It will be a cluster of 3 houses. So far they are mainly bamboo frames. We walk in and around the houses and pray, blessing the workers as well as the widows who will be moving in. In the middle of the dirt and the confusion, I find myself absurdly happy to be part of something where prayer is considered an essential part of anything that goes on, rather than an option that is tacked on the top. We ask what the criteria is for a widow to receive a house. T. has to think for a minute, and then she explains that they start with Biblical criteria, in other words, young widows are expected to re-marry, so they concentrate their attention on the ones that are too old to marry or to support themselves. But what is the procedure for choosing among the ones that are eligible? T's response was classic:
We don't have a procedure. We pray and ask God and do what He says.

On our way back into the orphanage, we go directly to the worship center, because we have been invited to the 11am service, and 'H' is speaking. She told us of the crises going on -- 130 construction workers out on strike. 41 children homeless because their children's center was taken away, (probably the government was paid off). She doesn't even bring up the fact that her husband is in the hospital. And to top it off, the sound system is still not grounded, she she keeps being shocked by the mike. People keep suggesting thing like wearing rubber shoes, and holding the mike with a kerchief, but every time she tries to sit down she gets zapped. And yet in the middle of these problems the focus is still on the presence of God, stirring us to love. Nothing distracts from the core values. She is not naive, and she is not in denial, but she knows that her Father in heaven is capable of supplying all things.

She says "when I talk about missions, I'm not talking about you finishing a project, I'm talking about your becoming incarnational lovers. All the results you see have flowed from the secret place."

We are listening eagerly, and suddenly there is a huge crash. I think the roof has fallen in, but then we realize it is just the metal gate to the worship center that has fallen off the tracks and crashed to the ground. 'H.' doesn't miss a beat.

"If you see something broken here, go fix it! Don't wait for permission! " Then she continues with her sermon. "I have plenty of victory stories, but today I'm sharing from emptiness, preaching from the beatitudes:"
Blessed are the poor in spirit
And blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.

For 18 years, her life was about making friends with the poor. It's not about projects, it's about relationship. Jesus had friends, and demonstratedby spending time with them.

H tells a story about finding a child in the street, in a mound of garbage in Maputo. she had been raped so many times she had 4 STDs. Her hair was faded brown from malnutrition. She was angry, and demonized, with a bloated belly from malnutrition. This is a picture of mourning. But Jesus said blessed are those who mourn.

"Jesus understood what it was like to be hungry, thirsty, lonely, misunderstood, and abused. He gave his life away for love' sake. This is the kind of missionary life I'm talking about. Look at this book as a picture of Jesus. Follow in his victory and follow in his suffering. Walk in his bloody footsteps."

"What does it look like to comfort one who is mourning? What does missions look like? It looks like:

"You being needy for the Father, for shelter, for each other. Because we need to stay poor (not necessarily physically). Poor in spirit is an attitude of heart. Will you die if He does not show up? Are you desparate for the presence? If you know what it is to be poor in spirit, you can embrace a starving child as if it is Jesus hugging them.

"Jesus is searching not only for the bride, but for the brother and sister too.
Jesus is looking for those he can possess, for those he can put on like a glove, so he can touch others through you.
For they shall be comforted... through you, as the hands and mouth of Jesus.
"Focus on the treasures, not on the holes in the net. Keep your eyes on the prize. Be poor in spirit as a little child, but remember that there is always enough in my father's heart.

Mozambique: back at the orphanage

Being back at the orphanage is a new exercise in perspective. The orphanage seems like an oasis of civilization after the bush. I treat myself to a shower, and luxuriate in the little trickle of cold water -- how my standards have changed! I even keep it running for a few minutes rather than scrupulously turning it off while I soap up. I decide to really live it up by putting on clean clothes -- not just the semi-clean ones I washed here, but the last clean ones I brought from home. I find myself walking with a peculiar gait, sort of like a chicken, trying to not scuff up the dirt and wreck my nice clean feet.

Some of the outreach team had made plans to go to dinner at 4:30, but we didn't realize that most of them were going at 6:30 instead. We walk left to Club Navale, only to find that they don't serve until 7, so we walk back. We take a cab to the other restaurant, since it will be dark by the time we get there, and we are supposed to be in a larger group if we want to walk outside at night.

I ordered squid. I never see the point of ordering American food in foreign countries. I think the quality is liable to be better if you order something authentic, so I high hopes for the squid, and I was not disappointed. It was excellent. With a soda, it came to around $8. It seemed like a feast. This was my first 'off-campus' meal other than the bush food, and it was a real treat.

And it was another treat to go to bed, on a mattress, evn though it was just a little mattress on a bunk bed.

The next morning, I really need to do laundry. I had a few days clothes backed up before the outreach, and now I have almost nothing clean left, other htan the long pants and shirts I haven't needed to wear. I could definitely have packed fewer pants and long sleeves, but if the mosquitos were bad I would have needed them after all, so I'm not complaining.

I used the new laundry area -- cement tubs with running water. I was ecstatic to find that the sun heated water was almost room temperature. But the clothes were sooooo dirty. I soaked them in soapy water, then washed them and rinsed them, but the rinse water was still murky. Other people were waiting, however, and I didn't feel like I could take a longer turn, so I settled for semi-clean. My goal from the beginning was simply to not smell worse than anybody else.

Clothes pins are at a premium. I borrow some, but still don't have enough. Some people's clothes fall off the line, land in the red powdery dirt, and end up dirtier than before. I literally tie my clothes onto the lines, figuring that they'll come out wrinkled, but at least they won't fall. And I try to finish early enough in the day that they have time to dry before dark, since we can't leave them out overnight -- people climb over the fence and steal them, in spite of the fact that the compound is guarded.

At the 11am meeting, the mission students, the Mozambican Bible students, and the children prayed for us. Most prayed silently, or gave words that didn't really connect with me:
-dancing before the Lord waving a kapulana (I'm NOT a dancer)
-working with orphans (I'm not especially good with kids)
-serving the poor (I work for multi-millionaires)

I'm so hungry for impartation of gifts of healing, for signs and wonders and miracles, and I seem to be just as far away as ever. I'm more and more aware that I cannot do anything without the power of God flowing through me. This may actually be what God wanted me to learn from this trip, but I feel broken and empty. On my way out of the worship center, some of the guys are trying to sell me jewelry. I just can't deal with this now. They finally give up, but I feel harassed and at the end of my rope.

I stayed so late in prayer that I missed lunch again, but that's ok, I've got plenty of nutrition bars with me. After having done my research on the optimal bars, and filling out my excell spreadsheet with the results, it would be a waste if I weren't eating some of them. So it is time for a Zone blueberry bar.

By the time I finish eating my bar and washing my face the afternoon is half gone. I go down to the babies' dorm and play with a little girl who says she is six. her hands are covered with scabs and open sores, and her arms have odd little bumps. I hope it is not scabies. She also insists on trying on my hat, and I instantly start getting a psychosomatic itchy scalp.

We invent a little game together. She sits on my lap facing me and I lower her backwards until she is arched with her head down by my feet. I say 'down, down, down' in English, and then lift her saying 'up, up, up'. She catches on to the English and wants to say it herself, pitching her voice down and then up the way I did.

Then we practice making faces together. She isn't quite satisfied with my fish face, so I challenge her to raise ONE eyebrow. She can't do it, but she loves calling out 'one' or 'two' in Portuguese to see what I'll do. A little boy comes over to join our play and she pushes him away, then runs off and sulks when I try to include him. She is so eager for attention that it is hard for her to share, but eventually she relents and I take them both over to the climbing giraffes. They both want to climb high, but I'm nervous about this. They seem so little, and the giraffe is so tall, and the ground is so hard.

Then the two of them challenge me to a muscle contest. I flex my arms and they point to my little bicept and laugh. Shown up by a 5 and 6 year old! I think they are used to women with arms of steel.

Dinner is rice and beans again. It is fine, but I decide to add some of the seasoning I brought with me, for a little variety.

After dinner we were expecting a group meeting at 8pm, but it turns out there was a missions school evening meeting, so we go to that instead. Pamela taught on how a child simly expects to get what he needs and wants from his parent, he doesn't have to beg, yet we act as if we have to beg our heavenly father. Then there was a powerful time of prayer especially for people with distant or abusive parents.

Some of the more mature men and women prayed on behalf of those parents, and repented for the bad parenting. It was an amazingly rich time. People were being blessed all over the room.

I get back to our dorms and am too confused to realize that the reason I'm having trouble finding my way is that the power is off again. I have my tiny lttle keychain flashlight to guide my feet, but I don't have any landmarks. My stolen headlamp would have helped tonight! Some of the guys explain that the blackout is due to the fact that the circuit box actually caught fire where something had been jury rigged. Fortunately they noticed it before it was out of control, and were able to throw dirt on it to put it out. But in the meanwhile, there is no power.

I decide to give up on my shower, since it is hard enough negotiating that bathroom when there is some light. But we are all warned to be careful if we get up to go to the bathroom at night, since the guards saw some guys lurking around last night, and in the dark it will be harder for the guards to notice anything.

This is another lesson in what it is like to be a missionary. Most of the day is filled with practical concerns. Prayer and ministry are important, but keeping clean and fed and safe takes a lot of energy.

Mozambique: bush outreach day 3

We wake up after our second night in the bush, and get dressed. Amy and I huddle in the doorway of the tent with out legs sticking out, to apply our bug repellent. Apparently, this is the most fascinating I've ever been at 6am, because the feat attracts an audience of about 15 kids. They crowd in a semicircle around our feet, and watch, entranced, as we rub the lotion in. We wonder whether they are suspecting that the white lotion is the cause of our light skin tone.

Next we make our way to the bathroom. It shouldn't be hard to find again, but we are both directionally challenged. We walk through the village and notice two women sweeping in front of their hut. We think the hole is behind it, but we are not sure. Amy and I say hello in Portuguese. The women respond in Makua. We respond and then aren't sure what to do. So far the conversation has gone like this:
Bon dia. Bon dia.
Salama.
Salama.
Salama.
Salama.
Now the conversation has stalled out. The women pause, waiting for us to do something. Finally we walk behind the hut, and there it is, the famous hole. Amy holds up the kapulana for me, and I do the same for her. On the bright side, my knee has mysteriously gotten better. I think God has healed it, maybe just for this moment. Perhaps not something I can stand up in church and testify too, but I'm very grateful nevertheless.

Later in the morning, we are ecstatic to find that the exposed hole in the ground is not our only option. There is another hole with a bamboo wall. I find myself looking at it with a silly grin on my face, and realize that 30 hours has been enough to alter my perspective. Yesterday I thought a hole was a challenge. Today I'm happy if it has a wall around it.

We join the congregation for church, in Portuguese and Makua of course. Testimonies, songs and preaching. This time there are no wicker chairs. We find an empty patch of dirt only to be told we are on the men's side. This is the kind of thing I wish they told us before. We move to the other side, where we see another empty patch of dirt. After 10-15 minutes the woman on the left stands up and squeezes her way out the door. We fill in the empty space, and 10 minutes later the next woman gets up. I figure that it is just too hot and stuffy for them. Eventually we realize they are sitting on an ant hill. Now we REALLY wish they had told us before. I'm feeling more and more that I need to learn some Makua before my next outreach!

Finally we hear a children's choir, and then an adult choir, and suddenly the translator says in English, "and now they would like to hear the visitors sing". We look at each other in a panic -- we don't even know each others' names yet, much less what kind of music we all sing. I whisper to Travis "what about victory chant? It's just an echo so everyone can join in."

The next thing I know, I'm standing in front of a Makuan congregation, leading Victory chant. The Americans joined in, but we didn't get much participation by the Makuans. After the eager kids in the first village, I hoped that an echo song would work, but this village is more reserved. Victory chant ends, and Travis is looking for another song. I suggest 'Alleluia', since I've heard them saying this word in both Portuguese and Makua. And it works! Suddenly the entire congregation is singing along. I can't believe I'm standing in a mud hut in an African village, leading congregational worship.

After a few verses of 'Alleluia', Travis jumps in with a verse of 'Obrigado' (thank you in Portuguese)and 'kihoshukuroo' (thank you in Makua). We come from different continents and different languages and different denominations, but we are all worshipping together. This was truly the outreach highlight for me.

Video of church service.

After church we loaded up the trucks and set off for 'home'. In addition to the tents and backpacks we also have a box with some live chickens. I'm not sure what they are for, but I suspect they will not come to a good end. Suddenly we stop by the side of the road, near a row of yellow plastic containers. Apparently, we are almost out of gas, and this is the gas station. First the driver has to do some sort of chemical experiment, to make sure the fuel is not adulterated. Finally they start pouring it in the tank. But then we are informed that the driver has no gas money, and we need to come up with the cash. 43 liters times 700 meticais. Some people take out their calculators, and others take out their wallets. Meanwhile, I'm doing a rough currency conversion in my head, and I stop them.
"Wait a minute you guys, this number is wrong, it is off by at least a factor of 10."
"No, it has to be right, we multiplied it on the calculator."
"Something is still wrong -- this converts to over $1000 dollars!"

Finally I convinced the missionary leader to talk to the Mozambican leader who talked to the driver who talked to the fuel guy, who finally admitted that the real price was 75 mets per litre, rather than 700. And after that announcement, the price went down again. Finally the cost ended up at around $90, rather than the $1200 that he originally quoted. I'm not surprised that he tried to con us, but I am surprised that none of the Mozambicans caught it. Looking on the bright side, this was the one time on the trip that I workplace skill ended up relevant! Who would have known that the ability to do a sanity check on a currency conversion would save us over a thousand dollars?

Mozambique: bush outreach day 2

Morning dawns, and it's time to get up. I feel like a contortionist trying to get dressed inside the tent, and realize there is no way I'm going to be able to put on a wrap-around skirt until I stand-up outside. Let's hope I don't scandalize any of the villagers by appearing briefly in pants.

We joke that our cooks will try another American meal today, maybe bacon and eggs, but it is not really a surprise when we get rolls again. As a special treat, however, there is also margarine and some kind of jelly. I have my doubts about the un-refrigerated margarine, so I skip it.

After breakfast, it is time for church. They load 6 wicker chairs into the truck and we all pile on for a short drive. The church is a hut built with a bamboo skeleton, filled with stones and then covered with mud. When they want a window they simply omit the stone and mud, but leave the horizontal bamboos, so the effect is as if the window has bars on it. We enter the church and are a bit embarrassed to find out that the wicker chairs are for us. It doesn't feel right to set ourselves apart from the people, but then I realize that they are trying to honor our visit, and trying to give us a gift. So I sit.

The service goes on and on, in Makua and Portuguese. First there is singing, then testimonies, then preaching and reading the word, then more singing and more testimonies. As usual when visiting a strange church, we don't know when to stand or sit. It seems that you stand during the singing and sit during the preaching. I think. Video of church service.

Amy and I are disconcerted to find out that we will be moving to another village today. We had thought we would be here until tomorrow, and brought a box of water with that in mind, discarding the box last night as we tucked the bottles into the tent. Now we have no way to carry them. I fit a few into my knapsack, which now weighs a ton, and we prevail on one of the guys to take a few for us.

The kids in this village are so friendly and eager. They rush up to the truck as we are leaving and try to grab our hands. I reach over the side and have multitudes of children all trying to touch me. There is such a friendly innocence to it, although I have to admit that as soon as the truck starts up I pull out my bottle of hand sanitizer.

The next village has a different tone. It's harder to get the kids to engage in play, or even to hold hands, and the adults stand farther off, not unfriendly but definitely reserved. I inadvertently find one thing that absolutely entrances the kids -- taking photos. In fact, they are so eager to get into the picture that it makes it almost impossible to take any decent pictures at all, since as soon as they see a camera they come running and crowd around, blocking your view of whatever you were looking at in the first place. I thought that I could take discreet zoomed pictures of individual faces, but it is impossible.

The real appeal of the cameras is the display screen. The kids are desperate to see themselves. One of our group has a film camera, and the kids simply cant figure it out at all. What is the point of this useless gadget? I'm not sure they even realize that a camera takes pictures, they simply want to view the screen. I soon realize that it is hopeless to try to keep the dirty fingers off. They are getting too much pleasure out of this to worry about the dust on the camera. But eventually their interest gets out of control, and they get rough with the little ones, shoving them out of the way, so I put the camera away before anyone gets hurt.

Occasionally I try to wander off and discreetly take a zoom picture of one person a distance away, but I need about 40 seconds to take the camera out of the case, turn it on, compose my scene, zome and shoot, and that is about 25 seconds too long.

Fred has brought bubbles, which are a huge hit, the kids go wild to try to catch them (see the video here).

We are a little disconcerted to find out that the bathroom facilities in this village don't have a wall around them. The guys tell us that it's no problem, just hold up a kapulana. It's not a bad suggestion, but I don't notice any of them using it!

Dinner tonight was a fish stew, with skinny whole fish in it. I'm not a big fan of fish guts (or heads or bones, for that matter), so I tried my best to nibble something edible. The broth was actually delicious, but had a lot of grit. It seems a little funny to worry about washing the dishes when the food itself has dirt in it.

Tonight the movie is at a local schoolyard. It is incredibly dark. The women on the team are told to not even go to the bathroom alone (about 20 yards away). We need to go with a group that includes men. The guys are gracious when we ask them to escort us. After all, we don't want to miss the opportunity because the bathroom facilities are outhouses, which seem thrillingly sophisticated after the hole-in-the ground without walls.

The movie is 2 hours long, but seems endless. I'm grateful to find a ledge to sit on. I'm less grateful after I realize that something is crawling on me and biting me.

Finally it is ministry time, but the chaos is overwhelming. We didn't even know what phase of the service it was. Is it salvation? Is it healing? We didn't know why people were coming forward. I tried asking people in Portuguese but they are unresponsive. I started just going ahead and laying hands on people, and they physically recoil and try to escape. I'm feeling ineffective and frustrated. It takes a few days before I realize what was going on. A teammate explained to me that this was actually a power encounter -- the people were probably under the influence of a witch doctor, and were afraid of the power of God. That makes total sense now, but at the time was frustrating and confusing. I was looking for signs and wonders, and people wouldn't even let me pray!

I had better luck with the kids. Between the ones that apparently had malaria and the ones that looked like they had parasites, and the ones that were coughing, you could have filled a hospital. I held them and prayed for them and felt a desperate need for God's power to move. But I felt his compassion flowing and I know that they got touched in some way.

Mozambique: First bush outreach, day 1

When I said I wanted to go on the outreach, I didn't know that I was going to be mugged for my flashlight. But that comes later. (Don't worry Dad, I'm fine!)

Just like everything else in Mozambique, the plans for the outreach were chaotic. First we thought everyone could go. Then we found out that 10 of us could go. Then we found out that 10 actually meant 5 on the medical trip and 5 on the regular outreach. Then we found out that 5 was actually 2. Then it turned into 4. Those of us who wanted to go submitted our names and they drew lots. I was informed that I was not chosen. And then the evening before the trip I was told that someone had cancelled, and I was going after all.

Amy and I decided to share a tent. We used hers, since it was freestanding, and the tent I had borrowed needed stakes. We practiced putting it up in the dirt of the visitors' compound.

Friday morning we had a 7:30 team meeting with Fred to prepare for the trip, but the other guys didn't wander out until 8:30, and it trns outthat the trip itself was moved back to 10, and ended up not leaving until 11:30. I continue to wonder if this much confusion is really necessary.

The ride itself is uncomfortable, because we are squashed like sardines and when we hit a pothole there is no good way to brace yourself. I'm trying to sit on my mini-sleeping bag, to provie some padding for the bumps, but I keep sliding off. The driver is actually doing a great job of avoiding 90% of the potholes, but occasionally we crash into a bone-jarring crater. I'm not surprised to find out that it literally hurts to sit down for days afterwards. The truck makes a few unexplained stops. The driver decides when and where to go. We are never sure whether it's safe to get out or whether he'll suddenly start up without us. Sitting in a crowded heap in the back, its hard to tell if someone is missing. On one occasion we start up without someone. It takes the whole group of us yelling and pounding on the cab roof to finally get the truck to stop.

We finally arrive at the village. We don't know what it is called, or where we are, but we are here. We climb stiffly out of the truck, hobbled in our long skirts, and start settup up our tents in the middle of the village, surrounded by a curious crowd of villagers. It is as if the circus has come to town, and we are it!
I fantasize that they are comparing their mud huts with our state-of-the-art camping gear, and wondering why we have these silly dwellings that are too short to stand up in. I'm so glad I practiced putting the tent up!

Once the tents are up, we play with the kids until it is time for the movie. Some of the women on the team are incredible -- within 5 minutes they have the children playing 'duck duck goose'. Others are teaching the kids an elaborate clapping game. Still others are the center of attention simply for being blond. I can't think of any games to play, but the children seem happy to just come hold my hand. They are fascinated at being able to see the blue veins through my light colored skin. They rub my freckles to see if they are dirt that will come off, and then look at my face to make sure it is ok.

One of the guys is like the pied piper. He has gathered a crowd of kids around him and is shouting out praises to God in Portuguese. "Gloria a Deos!" The kids eagerly shout it back. Then he runs out of Portuguese and switches to English, and the kids echo it back: "God is Good!" "God is Good!" "All the time!" "All the time!". Finally he runs out of things to say in English, and tries to wrap it up by saying 'right on!', but the kids echo this too. He calls out to me "say something" and the kids repeat that too. He is beginning to look desperate, so I suggest victory chant, since it is an echo song anyway. He eagerly gestures me to begin, and I start singing:

"Hail Jesus, you're my king". The kids do an almost perfect echo, so I try the next line: "Your life frees me to sing". They repeat that too, and we're off and running. We did the entire song together, with a boisterous but accurate echo.

Meanwhile, the Mozambican leaders on our team are preparing dinner for us. I'm faked out by the exotic setting, and when I see the beige soupy stuff bubbling in the pot I think it is brains or worms. I'm not sure which is worse, but the truth is more prosaic -- they've attempted an American meal for us, of spaghetti mixed with a tuna sauce. It tastes fine, but I can't get over the brain scare!

One of our team scopes out the 'bathroom', a rectangular hole in the ground, surrounded by a bamboo privacy fence. We won't be back in the land of running water for another two days. Most of the women on the team are wearing kapulanas (long wrap-around skirts) over capris. This combination works well for climbing modestly into the truck, but it does not work as well squatting in a latrine.

Back at the tents, my tentmate provides a moment of quality entertainment for the village women, who try valiantly not to laugh as her wrap-around-skirt tries to unwrap. Finally they cannot help themselves, and they laugh out loud. They aren't being mean about it, but they clearly have trouble with the concept that a grown woman is not competent at dressing herself. The fact that she has pants underneath and is still fully covered is merely a trivial detail. We have images of this moment being passed along in the oral tradition of the village.

When darkness falls, it is time for the movie! We have come with the Jesus film, in the local language, Makua. Before the movie, we play a DVD of African choirs singing. The crowd grows and grows until there are hundreds, but it is hard to tell how many because the spotlight is broken, and the area is pitch black, with the only light being that reflected from the screen. The people stand for hours. We can't tell if they are absorbed in the story of the film, or if they are merely fascinated by encountering what is probably the first movie most of them have ever seen.

When the movie ends the preaching begins, in Portuguese and Makua. We are asked to point our flashlights on the speaker. Finally we pray for people, making sure to not stray too far into the crowd. I've been careful to stand with others from the team, but I'm suddenly startled by a hand that reaches over my head, grabs me, and rips off my headlamp. I couldn't figure out what had happened at first -- my glasses had been knocked askew and my kerchief dislodged, so I couldn't see and was disoriented. But it was only the flashlight after all. Even though he whacked me on the head I don't think he was really trying to hurt me. But it was scary. My teammates see the guy, but he is too fast to try to do anything about it.

Before bed we take turns using the latrine. This is when I really miss that hands-free flashlight. Finally it is time for bed. The tent is much smaller inside than it looked like from the outside! It's not even long enough for me to lie flat once I've tucked my pack into the foot. But that's ok, I usually sleep scrunched up anyway. The biggest problem is that the ground is harder than you can believe. A nearby rooster crows on all the odd hours: 1am, 3am, 5am, and it's time to start the day. I'm surprised he hasn't been turned into soup by now.

Video of the first bush village.

Mozambique: an evening outreach

Tonight, the scent of sweat and dirt is overwhelming. We are on a local outreach just a few miles away from the orphanage. We get lost on the way there, which is disconcerting because we don't know where we are going, don't speak the same language as the driver, and can't communicate with him anyway, since we are in the back of the camion. The first time we made a U-turn, I suspected there was a problem. The second time we made a U-turn, I was sure of it. We did the only thing we could -- pray for direction. And suddenly we were there.

The other camion had already arrived, with the sound system, and people were already dancing in the backyard of the local church. There is a big spotlight on the truck, which is blinding, and makes the dark corners of the yard seem even darker. It is hard to describe how dark it is (although you can get a little bit of the flavor in the dim video below). I try to dance along, but I'm hopeless at it, which isn't surprising. I don't dance at home, so why would I suddenly be good at it just because I'm in Africa? One of the dances has a complicated step, but that isn't as bad as the one with all the arm motions. I flail my arms about, half a beat behind everyone else, and realize that there is a reason I never managed the Macarena. Finally I copy one of my team-mates who has taken the hands of a child and is simply swaying to the beat together. I can do that!

The smell of sweat and dirt becomes stronger and stronger as people dance and stir up the dust. In the spotlight we can see dirt literally hanging in the air -- millions of tiny specks dancing into our lungs as we dance underneath.

There is a short drama, which I don't follow, since it is not translated, but the locals clearly enjoy it. Then H. preaches briefly, and calls people up for prayer. I try to get near the truck so I can participate in prayer. Heidi prays for one man who had an infection in his eye. The scene is chaotic but finally we get the story. He was healed of his infection, but was still blind in the other eye. He was thrilled however, because he was afraid he was going to go blind in both eyes, and now he has one good eye back again. In the middle of what seems like chaos to me, God is touching people and healing them.

Click here for video from the outreach.

Mozambique: What does Good News look like?

Today H [Name suppressed by request] preached on Matthew 4.

What does Good News look like for you? What does it look like to the poor? What does it look like if you have no food? If you have no water? if you are living in a hut, shaking with malaria? What does Good News look like if you have cancer? if you cannot walk? What does Good News look like for a nation in famine? to people in the middle of a flood? in the inner city where everyone around is shooting up or burning buildings? What does Good News loook like when a child is selling himself on the street?

How will God put his love in you, as an incarnational lover? I want to provoke you to ask the question of what the good news will look like.

Good news is never just words. Maybe good news looks like a life poured out. Maybe it looks like you holding a child (and getting their ringworm and scabies). I want to provoke you to what Good News looks like, not just sounds like. The Good News of the Kingdom of god -- what does it look like to carry Good news among the poor?

My description of poverty has changed over 28 years of full time ministry with R. Poverty can be someone in a suit who is poor and broken. Someone driving a Lexus who is unable to communicate to their children.

Jesus said the Good News belongs to those who are poor in Spirit. How d o we get our arms around this?

Jesus not only preached it, he lived it. If you're sick, Good News is to be healed. If you are homeless, it is to get a home.

As a little jar of clay, I am unable to hold each one. So as a preacher, I want to have some sort of impartation of the love of god. But if each of us called ones sees ourself as compelled by love, embraced by love, broken by love, then no one will lack.

Jesus poured into his disciples not just so they would know intimacy themselves, but so they would multiply love on the earth.

What does Good News look like to a paralyzed man?

What if you pray and they don't get up? Is there any Good News for themn? Is it possible for there to be Good News while you are stilll suffering? What if you are still blind? Maybe the blind man is seeing something you can't see.

What does it look like to share good news? What does healing look like? What does it look like for the Kingdom to be released so that everyone is healed, that all are fed, that none is homeless? The kingdome of heaven on earth: I'm pressing in for that. How do we contend for that?

Jesus showed us in the sermon on the mount, the beatitudes.

Every one of us could be overwhelmed because the need is so big. I've come to this place probably mroe now than ever before in my life -- poverty of spirit. I'm so in need of the presence. I'm so in need of intimacy with my bridegroomking that I need to sit and dwell and rest and press in, in the secret place and say 'I am just here for you, and I cannot do one hour of ministry unless you fill me.' Unless I am full of the presence of God I cannot go out. I don't start any meeting before 11am, except Sunday [because I spend the time with God]. So even though God taught me to stop for the one, I can't do that before 11am, because I am poor in spirit.

Jesus saw the crowds and he went up to the mountainside. He saw the multitude. and now Jesus, the son of god, who emptied himself on this planet, went up to the mountain. What was he thinking?

If Jesus had not emptied himself, if he was just supernatural in the flesh, how could we relate to that? We are just jars of clay. Jesus demonstrated what it is like to be a 'sent out' one. What did he do? He knew, as a jar of clay filled with the Holy Spirit, he understands his need to pull away. After ministeirng to the crowds he went up to that place to commune with his father, and teach those who were close to him.

He said: Blessed are the poor for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Poverty of spirit is a gift. We would like to prosper (we think we'd like it) but God takes me to a place of desperation. I'm so in need: money, schools, so many things. But if I can stay poor in spirit, God can entrust me with more of his kingdom.

I got married when I was 20, and R and I went to the mission field with a one-way ticket and $30. In my 20s I still had ambition. I thought it was cool to get invited to preach to 10,000 people.

But one day God said "stop". I thought it was the enemy and I said:
"I rebuke you in the name of Jesus!"
"Stop"
"I rebuke you in the name of Jesus!"
"Stop"
"Oh, it's you, God. Why are you telling me to stop? I'm preaching the Gospel."
I was extremely confused, and he said, "you don't know anything about the kingdom. " I tried to argue with him and explain that I did.
"I want you to sit with the poor" He said.

So we found the worst slum, nine floors up. One time 16 poilice came to try to rescue our daughter, who they assumed was sold into prostitution [because why else would we be there?]. I sat on the street corner and learned from the poor. I learned Cantonese and Indonesian. I wanted to feed them, but he said I needed to sit and be a learner, because I had no place to understand.

They [the poor] taught me dependence and need. Unless they taught me, I would not learn to communicate. Unless they protected me, I would not be safe. They would pour out themselves for hours a day, because they were poor [and had time to spend with me].

What does good news look like? What will it take for our minds and spirits to understand that unless we eat the bread of heaven we have no life in us?

Could we become as poor as a dying child in Jesus? Can we understand that unless we ive in the secret place we have no life in us? We have nothing to feed the poor.

This is a poverty of spirit where you are desperate, and look at a dying world, and look into the eyes of Jesus and say 'you can take me and break me and pour me out and give me away.'
If I can become a resting place fo the Holy Spirit! I long to be possessed by you Holy Spirit! Every day the children come to eat. Every day we drink. Every day we understand our need.

Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of God.

Mozambique: 'M' village outreach

What a ministry! I didn't hear the whole orientation because I was sitting a little too far away, but I was surrounded by children and didn't want to disrupt or disappoint them by moving away. They are so eager to be with us, they crowd up on each side. The shy ones leave an inch or two between us. The bolder ones climb into our laps and play with our hair.

This is a multi-faceted ministry. They were able to arrange to get a water pipe into the village, with two faucets. The women still have to collect their water in buckets, but they don't have to spend hours carrying it. There is also education help, and food supplementation, and medical care. When they started working there, the child mortality (death rate under the age of 5) was 50%. Now it is 15%, and the children's bellies are no longer distended with parasites, and their skin is no longer alligator-cracked with chronic dehydration.

I find my way to the medical clinic and join the prayer team. This is great -- prayer is considered a legitimate and essential part of the medical team. The visiting American doctor did an initial evaluation, the nurse (trained in African diseases) confirmed and dispensed medicine, and then sent the patients to us for prayer.

We prayed for a man who had headaches but tested negative for Malaria, so the nurse thought it was eyestrain because he needed glasses. After we prayed, the translator told us that his headache was improving, and that his eyesight was improving too.

Then an old lady came who had aches and pains in her bones. The nurse explained that this was due to her old age and her hard life, and that there was no medicine to fix it. We prayed for her old age symptoms and her pain, and she hobbled off, a bit less stiffly than before. One of the prayer team asked the translator to ask if she was feeling better.
"Her arms and legs are only a little bit better, but by the way, she can see now".
The doctor heard this and chimed in: "I noticed her cataract as soon as she came in. There is no way she was seeing out of that eye."
We were dumbfounded! We weren't even praying for her eyes! I was so excited that I wanted to go running out on the streets looking for blind people to pray for.

Video of the medical clinic.

Mozambique: Monday - village feeding

It turns out that Children's day lasts more than a day. As I get to experience the Africa sense of time, where everything gets elongated, this actually begins to make sense. In any event, today is Monday, but the kids don't have school because of the holiday, so the schedule is a little confusing, since no one seems to know which of the normal daily activities are still being held.

Today I finally made it to breakfast, but forgot that I needed to bring a mug for the tea. The roll was better than I expected, and I bring it back to my room to put my peanut butter and jelly on it. It seemed like a feast.

My team helped at the village feeding today. Every day the orphanage opens its doors to local children who come for lunch. They gather in a small 'classroom', an open-fronted structure crowded with eager children. The meal has not yet arrived, so the Mozambican leader asks our group if any of us want to preach. Deborah steps up to the challenge, and tells the children of God's love, while the leader translates her words into Portuguese. Finally we see the jeep rolling up, with a huge aluminum vat of rice, and a smaller container of beans.

I volunteer for the hand-washing station. It takes a while to understand the method. There are two buckets, one with soapy water, and one with clear water. We get not-quite-clean bowls to use as ladles, to scoop the water with, and pour it over the children's hands. The challenge is that there are lots of children, and not very much water. Eventually I learn that the best technique is to hold the bowl still and pour a trickle of water. The children automatically line up their hands underneath. Occasionally one child will get ahead, and then we have to say 'juntos' (or something like that) to remind them to cluster together.

Some of the kids have plastic bags with them. These are crumpled in their fists, and when they open them up we see the holes from hard use. We don't have any way to do a good job washing the bags, so we pour a little water in and hope for the best. The dirty, disintegrating bags are used to collect leftovers to bring home.

Often, a young girl will be caring for an even younger sibling. I'm touched to see how careful they are to ensure that the child's hands are washed clean. This is actually much more important than it is at home. For one thing, the children are constantly playing in the dirt. Secondly, parasites are rampant, and thirdly they eat with their fingers rther than using silverware. So we do the best we can to wash 200 pairs of hands with two buckets of water. Today we have extra children because of children's day so we actually end up feeding 400. Briana and I each get an extra half-bucket of water to cover the extra kids.

The mud puddle around the bucket grows larger. I'm amused to see that the boys walk right into the mud while the girls stand at the edge and try to reach the water without getting muddy. My long skirt is getting wetter and wetter, but at least it will dry in the sun.

I was so busy washing the hands that I didn't notice that the food was running out too. A deperate call went out to the kitchen, who sent down another vat. No scene of cavalry riding to the rescue was ever as welcome as the sight of that white jeep rushing up with more rice.

For a video of the village feeding, click here.

Mozambique: Children's Day - Sunday 6/1

Today is children's day - a national holiday. The orphanage opens its doors to literally thousands of local kids. They come from far and wide by bus and truck and on foot. Some are in their best clothes - little girls in frilly organza dresses, that get radically dirty as the day goes by.

We start with a church service. There are rows of narrow benches, with an open area in front, covered irregularly with rough mats. The children cluster around us, crowding on the benches, until they get bored and move away. At one point I make a new friend, Fran. Our conversation sounds exactly like a script from my Pimsleur Portuguese lessons. She says something incomprehensible, so I respond (in Portuguese):
I don't understand.
you don't understand? do you speak Portuguese?
No, I don't speak Portuguese.
Do you speak English?
Yes, I speak English.
She shook her head sadly, disappointed, as if she were saddened by a child who should know better, or maybe a toddler who should be toilet trained by now.

The service was chaotic. The sound bounced off of the metal roof, so even when soemthing was translated into English (not too often) it was pretty incomprehensible. Most of the service was translated from Portuguese into Makua, so it was hard to even guess which parts to try to decipher. I grasped a few 'espiritu santo' and 'gratia a Dios' and 'obrigado's.

As the service ended, the orphanage kids were dismissed first to go eat -- the highlight of the day. Children wait all year long for this day. In a country where so many are starving, it's all about food, and they are not disappointed -- the meal includes entire pieces of chicken, and bottles of coke. This is considered a feast, but as adult visitors, were were warned that we wouldn't get to eat until all the children had been fed (and as it turned out, not even then).

Our first job was crowd control, barricading the gates so that the other kids couldn't push through until it was their turn. I felt a little like the riot police. For the next set of kids, we were supposed to create a human aisle up to the dining room -- we kept running up the hill to wait in the sun, only to find out that it wa a false alarm, and it wasn't time yet. Next it was the turn of the children from M. -- a nearby village they have a special connection with. And finally the turn of the local village children, hundreds and hundreds, lined up by 20s. After lunch, the children run down the hill for games. It is hot and dirty, but they are still eager and energetic and surprisingly good tempered. We can still smell the aroma of the chicken on their fingers, and I realize this will probably be the only time I ever find myself jealous for the meal of a Mozambican child.

To end the day, we line up near the exit of the orphanage, creating a human aisle by the gate to make a 'fire tunnel' for the kids to walk through and receive prayer as they leave. The incentive for them to exit is that their goody bags are just outside the gate -- a huge motivation. We pray for each one as they leave. Some are crowded so tightly together it is literally hard to reach the little ones. Hundreds and hundreds of times, I pray in Portuguese "I bless you in the name of Jesus". They fed around 2400 children today, and we blessed around 1000 on their way out.

Click here for a short video of children's day.

Arrival in Mozambique

I finally decided to get my journal out of the freezer and start blogging. No, it's not a security measure, it's an anti-bug measure (the kind with legs, not the electronic kind). When I got home, I put my suitcase outside on the terrace, and immediately washed everything that was even potentially washable, including my knapsack and coin purse. But my passport and journal needed a different approach, so I put them in a ziplock baggie in the freezer, in the hopes that any Mozambican insects wouldn't be able to handle the cold.

As soon as my feet touched the ground, I noticed that the very air smells different here - a combination of sun-baked earth, and faint burning smell, mixed with a pervasive scent of body odor. I would soon learn that these three smells are ever-present, just in varying percentages.

The airport is tiny -- only part of our group can even fit into the terminal. We wait in line outside until we finally get in the door. There is a mysterious $3 fee at immigration, but I'm lucky, because other people seem to be charged other random amounts. The baggage area is even smaller. Once I locate my bags it is hard to get them out of the room, because the aisle is narrower than my suitcase is wide. I'm fortunate in that the customs officials are so busy talking to each other that they pay no attention, and I don't have to explain the donations I'm bringing, including an excessive amount of feminine hygiene products (I chose them because they are light, and because I figured the guys would probably not opt to bring any).

Outside the airport, we finally see the ministry representatives [name intentionally omitted at their request]. They help us load our bags into the back of the flat trucks (which we later learn are called camions). After the bags are loaded it is time for the people to pile in. After a 10 minute drive we are there. We pull in by the visitor compound, and the staff mentions that they will get some guys to help us get out bags up the short hill to the gate. I'm expecting teens or adults, and am taken aback to find out the helpers are kids, who pull the bags onto their heads, and improbably make it successfully up the hill, where they unceremoniously dump the bags in piles of red dirt. By the time we then wheel the bags on the dirt paths it is like driving through snow, with the wheels wearing deep grooves and the bottom of the suitcase pushing the dirt aside like a flawed snowplow. It is our first taste of African dirt, and we naively still think there is some way to avoid getting dirty. We will learn better soon.

Our room has 7 bunk beds with barely enough room to walk between them, and one chest of drawers for 14 women to share, but we are ecstatic to find out there is running water! Hurrah! It is only a trickle, and you can't drink it, and there is no hot water, but when you turn the tap something comes out! (at least most of the time).

My bug repellent has leaked. The entire bottle has disbursed through my suitcase. Fortunately it's the Repel,not the deet, and didn't destroy any clothes, but it saturated a notebook and a box of pepto bismol tablets (both of which I had to toss), and contaminated the other items, so my end of the dorm room has a peculiar herbal aroma. I comfort myself with the thought that we won't get malaria, and indeed I don't see a single mosquito in our room during the entire trip.

I'm excited to have arrived, but I'm also a little tentative. Why am I here? I hope that after getting over jet lag this will all start to make a little more sense. And I hope even more strongly that I'll find out that this whole thing was God's idea, not just my own.

P.S. If you would like to comment on my blog, please note that the ministry I was visiting has asked us to not use their name online. Please avoid using the name of the city, the name of the ministry, and the director of the ministry in your comments.

Radical, ceaseless, bottomless love.

Last week I had the privilege of hearing Heidi Baker speak at a conference. I had listened to her sermons online, and watched a DVD, but this time was the first I've seen her in person.

I wasn't disappointed, (far from it!), but it was sobering. She's not the kind of person you can take lightly. Her life is poured out for Jesus, to an extent that is scary. It reminded me of a conversation after mother Theresa died. The other person couldn't understand why people were much more upset that Princess Diana had died the previous week. I felt that the disproportionate reaction was because they somehow identified with the Princess, and they wanted to be her, while they admired and respected Mother Theresa, but they didn't want to actually be her. The woman I was speaking to protested this interpretation. "I do, I want to be like Mother Theresa!" she proclaimed. "OK, I said, then go take over her work, and be like her, and live in poverty, and care for the poorest of the poor." "Oh no," she said, "I can't do that."

Listening to Heidi Baker was sort of like that. I may say that I want to be like her, but I don't really want to change my life that much. I'm obsessed with planning for my Mozambique trip, where I will be taking on a 3rd world lifestyle for two weeks. But I know that after that time, I will return home. There is a big difference between a visit and a life. But it is not just a matter of geography, or even of money. It's more a question of priority and focus. That kind of poured out life is not just beyond my comfort zone, it's beyond my comprehension. But I can't get it out of my mind.

Anyway, here was her message:
----------------------------------------------
It's in your weakness that we are made strong. God doesn't look for the able or the intelligent (although he can use them) -- he uses the yielded.

God says "I'm not going to steal you, I'm going to woo you until you have no other desire than to lay your life on the altar."

In the eyes of the wise I choose to yield whatever it is, whether it is coherency or whatever, I choose to yield...

Say "take me, Jesus, like a little paintbrush. Take me and paint a picture for your glory."

I yield to you, God, and I say 'Lord, I choose you, and I choose to get rid of everything else, everything that stands in the way. Whatever is hindering, strip it out.'

Sometimes I'm tempted to apologize for being so undone. Papa says don't do that[apologize], it would dishonor him.

You know that God has put something inside of you that says go forth in love -- but it is the manner in which you go.

God chose Moses and he had a radical promise, and an angelic presence.
There is something about the promises of God. I saw a vision, those boots, and I saw God taking the laces and saying I am stripping something out.

But promise and riches and angels are not enough. Deliverance is not enough, prophecy is not enough. Moses knew it wasn't enough if the presence of God wasn't there. Exodus 33:15

Instead of calling you to radical missions tonight, I'm telling you not to go unless you have the presence of God. You need the presence of the almighty God.

God is stripping people bare, and whatever can be shaken he is shaking because he loves you and he wants a pure bride. He says "I am going to strip you of all t he things that do not bring me pleasure."

Hebrews 12 say "therefore...let us throw off everything that hinders."

You can't run the race wearing so many ornaments. Let's throw them off to run the race. Let us fix our eyes on the author and the perfecter of our faith.

He said "for the joy set before me..."he gave himself away for love. He gave himself away for the joy set before him.

consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men,so that you might not grow weary and lose heart.

The attacks have never been fiercer these past 18 months, but if you choose the joy of his presence you will not grow weary because you know that he who began a good work in you will complete it.

You are called to participate in the celestial realms, as brothers, therefore fix our eyes on Jesus.

Fix your eyes on Jesus and stand. Choose joy. And choose to get rid of everything that hinders you from the joy of his presence.

The Israelites stripped off their ornaments.

Heidi goes into the presence, but then Jesus sends her out to t he darkness to call in his bride.

Moses spoke to god face to face as a man speaks to his friend. Jesus wants intimacy with us.

Don't focus on the snake, focus on the one who has t he power. Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.

Moses craved the presence of God, and God said his presence would go with them, and he would give them rest.

All strength and anointing and fruitfulness flows out of intimacy. Choose to rest.

Exodus 33:15 shows Moses' understanding of the importance of the presence of God. If we go without God's presence they won't know that we are God's people. If the presence of God goes with us, darkness cannot resist.

What does intimacy look like? Radical, ceaseless, bottomless love in the face of hatred, and in the face of those who live in darkness. That's what we are called to carry.

Mozambique -- I'm going!

I can't believe I'm really going.
The flight itinerary looks horrendous -- 7-1/2 hours to Amsterdam, a 3 hour layover, 10-1/2 hours to Johannesburg, a 12 hour layover, and 3-1/2 hours to pemba. Over 10,000 miles.

They serve mainly bread and rice at the orphanage, so we are advised to bring peanut butter and tuna fish, if we want to supplement the protein. Considering the fact that I normally eat a relatively low carb diet, this will be a dramatic switch.

They have running water for an hour a day, so I've got bucket showers and non-flush toilets to look forward to.

They recommend bringing shampoo with tea-tree oil to try to discourage lice. Ugh.

We're supposed to start learning Portuguese, although it might not even help, depending on who we are ministering to. While it is the official language, many people only know their mother-tongue which might be any of a number of tribal languages instead. But the idea of trying to pray in a foreign language that I've spent just 2 months learning sounds problematic to me. What if I try to say "Demoniao saia agora em nome de Jesus" and I say something else by mistake? What if I mistakenly invite the demon to bring his friends, rather than commanding him to go?

And yet, in spite of all these factors that each sound discouraging, I'm hugely excited to go. I'm excited to see what God is doing in a land still recovering from years of war, with recent floods, and ongoing starvation. I'm eager to see what revival looks like. And I can't wait to see miracles.

Vem, espirito Santo.

Thinking about Mozambique

I've applied to go on a missions trip to Mozambique, a country I had barely heard of a couple of years ago. In any country, the street people are the poorest people there are. In Mozambique, an exceptionally poor country, the street people are even poorer. And the street children are the poorest of the poor.

The orphanage ministers to the street children in Mozambique. In the middle of poverty, the director sees God come through with not only love and presence, but also with miracles. I want to see that myself -- not just the miracles, but the whole mindset of ministering when there is no resource other than God himself.

So I want to go to Mozambique. I hope that this desire is actually a call from God, because if it is not inspired by God it is kind of irrational. It's a remarkably expensive way to be really uncomfortable. I bounce back and forth between really really wanting to go, and having a secret fear that this is just a strange symptom of mid-life crisis.

Anyway, I sent in my application (not to mention the non-refundable $500 deposit), and asked my boss for the time off. She was trying hard to be restrained, but clearly is afraid that lunacy has set in. She's worried about my returning home safely, so in the effort to problem-solve, she suggested that I tell Human Resources where I'm going. I'm not sure what she thinks they will do to help, but it was the only vaguely constructive solution she could think of.

Sometimes all it takes is one word

From the title, you're probably thinking that this post will be about a cool witnessing story, but unfortunately it's nothing so deep. Just another ESL story.

Tuesday night when the class was supposed to start, the teacher wasn't there. So I started teaching, so that the students wouldn't be just sitting around. Half an hour later the teacher showed up, then ran out for something, and by the time she came back it was actually 45 minutes into the class. I turned the class over to her and watched her lead an exercise asking the students to read ingredients in a stew from the textbook. All was fine until the book said to put the food in a saucepan. She started discussing whether a saucepan was really the right equipment for a stew. She was right from a culinary point of view, but from an English point of view it was way to subtle a distinction to bother with, for students at such a low level. The more different words she used, the more confused they became.

I sat there listening to her talk, and realizing that my students in the Food Pantry class had taught me a peculiarly pertinent word. Out of all the words in the world, they taught me how to say 'pot' in Chinese. So when the teacher finally paused, and looked at me for help, I couldn't help it:
guō I intoned tentatively (hoping that I was sounding the 4th tone properly)
The Mandarin speaking students started nodding, and gesturing, and then translated for the other students. Soon the entire class was nodding happily.

The power of one word.

Can you fry an airplane?

I've been volunteering at two ESL (English as a second language) classes.

The first class is part of an Americorps program. Even though they advertised for volunteers, I had to be really pushy to get involved, sending repeated emails and voicemails. I'm assisting a teacher with an advanced beginner class. Unfortunately, her teaching methods are not only quite different from what I learned, they simply don't seem to be very effective. The problem came to a head last week, when only two students showed up due to Chinese New Year.

The teacher was at a loss for what to do with them, and asked me for ideas:
Do you think I should tell them to go home?
No -- they came for class, and we should give them a class.
But what can we do? I don't want the other students to get behind.
Why don't we give them conversation practice?
No, they are already good at conversation.
We could still practice with them.
No, that won't work. Maybe I should just tell them to go.
I think we should teach them something, since they bothered to show up. Why don't we take the same topic that is in the book, but give them different vocabulary?
No.
Why don't we take the same topic but make up different exercises.
No, that's too hard.
I see that the book has a section on ordering in a fast food restaurant. Why don't we give them a few sentences on how to order in a regular restaurant.
No.
How about a dialog for how to make a reservation?
No, that's too hard.
How about a dialog for what you say when you enter a restaurant?
No, that's too hard.

So she ended up just giving them a review of the previous chapter (the same review she'll repeat next week), and dismissing them early. I kept wishing that I was the teacher instead of just the assistant.

Then on Saturday I went into NYC to help at an informal ESL class sponsored by 'The Father Loves You' food pantry. They feed 4-500 people at a time, and offer all sorts of support services, one of which is a free ESL class. Different people show up (or don't show up) every week, so they don't even have a syllabus. The teacher uses 'The Oxford Picture Dictionary' which has pages organized by theme, such as 'transportation', and has a bunch of pictures on each page, with English labels at the bottom. The teacher points to a picture, says the word, has the students repeat it, and then moves on.

Language learning needs much more repetition, and the course that I took taught us to give the students much more practice. But once again, I'm not the teacher, I'm just the assistant. However, this week the teacher didn't show up, so I got to teach by myself, and it was lots of fun! I had 5 Chinese women in the class, one of whom was 77 years old.

This time, I took much more time on each word, and acted it out, and gave them sentences, and other similar words. For example, when we got to the word 'can opener', I acted out how you open a can, and then also explained that a can opener can be electric. Blank faces, so I ran across the room to an electric fan, and lifted up the plug and said 'electric' and all of a sudden they got it. Then I focused on the verb 'open', and ran across the room to the door and shut it and opened it, while saying 'shut' and 'open'. Then I asked them what else you can open, and one of the ladies gestured to her bag on the table, and lifted the flap and said 'open?' -- I was so excited, because I knew she got it. And then she explained to the others in Chinese, to make sure they got it too.

Next came the word colander. I pointed to the picture, and said it was like a bowl with holes, and described how you put vegetables in it, and the water runs through. Vegetables was the magic word. Just as I was about to move on, someone gestured as if she was turning a page and said 'colander?...days?' I suddenly realized she was confusing colander with calendar, so I drew a picture of each, with the word underneath. They stared with interest and asked "same word?" So we drilled the pronunciation together: Colander -- Calendar, colander -- calendar.

Next came the frying pan. I tried to explain it, and then asked them what the would cook in a frying pan. One student suggested 'eggs'. So I found a picture of eggs, to make sure the other students were following too, and I did a whole charades exercise, starting with taking eggs out of the refrigerator (first I OPENED the door), then breaking the eggs into the pan and cooking them, and finally serving the imaginary eggs to the students. I could tell they were all following the mime because they all politely said 'thank you' when I delivered the imaginary eggs on their imaginary plates.

Just when I thought we were home free, the student on my right hazarded a question.
'Fry an airplane?'
I suddenly realized we had the quintessential Chinese exercise in front of us. I drew a picture of an airplane and of a frying pan with an egg, and labeled the pictures "fry an egg" and "fly an airplane", and spoke each sentence clearly while I gestured to the pictures. They nodded with interest, and then I asked them to repeat after me. We were flying eggs and frying airplanes (or airpranes). Finally I actually heard some distinguishable 'R's and 'L's. I was as excited as if I had won the lottery.

After class they all thanked me. Some of them thanked me in both English and Chinese. First in Mandarin, then Cantonese, and then another dialect. I was trying to listen to the Mandarin to learn the word for 'teacher', so Wei Fung considerately wrote it down for me. In Chinese of course.