Category: Running Life’s Race With A Limp

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Aidini

“I go to the Coast to mock him. And to beat him when he shows the lie.”

The big man was strong, menacing. Anyone having experience with Alexander Aidini knew his threat was not small talk.

“He is no man of God, this foreigner!” the angry African went on. “He comes to our land a trickster. Come, we shall beat him together, all of us. We go to Mombasa!”

The object of Aidini’s contempt was an American preacher. T. L. Osborn had come with his evangelistic team from Oklahoma to Kenya’s coastal city on the Indian Ocean, “to preach the gospel, to proclaim Jesus Christ in power. . . to heal and deliver and bring salvation.” He labeled the open-air meetings “crusades”.

Osborn’s preaching campaigns had been many and were known to draw thousands,  with large numbers of sick and suffering among them. Aidini was sure all was a hoax to exploit the masses. He would show it up for what it was.

Among the half dozen toughs accompanying Aidini was a man whose mother was blind.

“Bring your mother with us, bring Mama Zaila. When the white man makes prayer for healing in the meeting, we will put her there. When her eyes remain dark and she is not well this will show the lie. And there we will move, we will break the mzungu just there!”  Three days travel brought them to their destination.

Leaving their Land Rover beneath a gnarled tree next to a kiosk, the group entered the stream of tribal people making their way by foot toward the blaring loudspeaker. Mombasa’s port-city-atmosphere with its salty aroma was heavy, humid.

“Take care, Mama Zaila, do not rush. Hold tight to my arm.” The woman clung to her son’s forearm, her useless eyes staring into blackness.

Africa is a vast place with pockets of equally dense populations swarming across sprawling cities. Still, the crowd flooding Mombasa’s big outdoor field, was bigger than any the Congolese visitors had known. It was clear the name Osborn evoked interest.

The band of half-dozen strangers from a thousand miles westward pushed their way deeper into the crowd, their goal the big wooden stage where the mzungu preacher and his wife, Daisy sat. At either side of the American couple were invited local dignitaries along with a number of Africa church and mission heads.

Poised at last before the stage, the Congolese gang – their sightless companion in tow – awaited their moment. For Aidini it could not come soon enough.

©2018 Jerry Lout

 

 

 

 

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Undone

Preacher Osborn’s voice rang strong, echoing across the mass of gathered humanity. On the deceitfulness of sin, its destructive fruit in a life. Then of the power of forgiveness, of the cross of Jesus, of hope in him.

The evangelist paused, then turned to a different emphasis.

“Do we have anyone troubled in their body tonight?”

As the air hung quiet above the throng, heads began nodding. Calls of “Ndiyo” sounded from the Mombasa crowd.

“If you are lame, cannot move about well or cannot see through your eyes. . . if your body has stopped working in some way. And if you believe Jesus came to free you, to heal you both soul and body, this is your time to believe him. Do we believe Jesus?”

A ringing chorus rose, “Yes!”

“Well, now we’re going to pray. Remember it is Jesus who heals. I cannot heal anyone. Jesus. He is the deliverer. As the book of Hebrews tells us, ‘Jesus is the same yesterday and today and forever!’ Tell me now, is he the same for your life? Can you trust his love, trust his power? (pause) Believe him! He wants you well.”

The evangelistic with the soft Oklahoma drawl held firmly to his mic. His voice was passionate, marked with sincerity. “Now, let me pray with you. The resurrected Jesus is here. And he will heal. . . will deliver in these moments just now.”

  1. L. Osborn prayed and the words came simple, clear, strong, with evident conviction. Not a lengthy prayer.

“Now friends, if anyone brought a deaf friend here today, you check with that friend. Look them in the face. Ask them, can you hear?”

As the minister went on with prayer, brief words of guidance and of referencing the Bible, a shout erupted a few feet from where he stood, “Ayeee! Ayeee!”

The shouting voice was Zaila’s. She had willed her eyes open the moment the preacher had called out a phrase, “In Jesus’ name, be healed!” A momentary lull had followed, then. . .

“Ayeee, Ayeee, Ayeee!!”

Wide-eyed with vision, Zaila’s shout of triumph startled Alexander Aidini who stood inches away facing her. Her outburst continued. “I see! I see! . . . I see your face, Mzee Aidini! I see you, I see!!”

The hardened Aidini had tasted little personal fear over the years. If fear was found near him, it was usually him bringing it to others. Fear had not come his way. But now.

Alexander’s inner self trembled. The big man quaked, coming undone in the presence of a force unlike anything he had known.

A shouting, crying Zaila went on, caught up in astonished delight. “Mzee! Mzee Aidini! Nakuona (I am seeing you)! Mzee, hii ni Yesu! – It is Jesus. Jesus!”

At last, Aidini, overcome by conviction, drew himself together. He found his voice.

“I want to get saved. Tell me. How do I get saved?”

©2018 Jerry Lout

 

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Tarzan Country

When noting the kinds of things God often does through ordinary people, Philosopher Dallas Willard was fond of citing the term “divine conspiracy”. Such deeds – often a little mind-boggling – are probably not as rare as many of us assume.

“This is what the kingdom of God is like. A man scatters seed on the ground.  Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how.”   – Jesus (Mark 4:26-27)

***

The term Belgian Congo would never have crossed my mind as a child separate from images of Tarzan trapezing lofty vines, crying his trademark jungle yodel. Nor would I have seen myself ever addressing a crowd in that place deep in the heart of Africa.

Especially at one particular place.

Moving to the pulpit of the capital city’s downtown church I was greeted by the pastor, a man I’d been told was a former anti-Christian militant.

Alexander Aidini.

The throng of Congolese worshippers acknowledged me, their out-of-country guest, with happy shouts of welcome as my friend, Ben Dodzweit, introduced me in their native Lingala.

Pastor Aidini’s journey from gospel foe to disciple-of-Jesus was by now thirty years in the making and the accounts of his pilgrimage had left me nothing less than awed.

Not long after his dramatic conversion in Mombasa, Aidini answered a call to Christian service. Art Dodzweit, Ben’s uncle, had taken the rough-around-the-edges disciple into his mentoring care. Following a stint in Uganda, Aidini returned to his Congo home and its capital, Kinshasa. In time forces opposed to colonial rule overthrew the Congo and assigned it the name Zaire.

Along the way, Aidini’s fiery devotion to Jesus grew. And unusual things followed.

©2018 Jerry Lout

 

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A New Name

A police officer’s wife had fallen ill. Aidini was summoned to pray over her. He did but with no results.

“Bring your witchcraft charms and symbols”, the preacher challenged the woman. “Burn them in Jesus’ name! Turn from these dark things and get God’s freedom.” She agreed. With the sorcery items destroyed, more prayer followed. The woman recovered.

Claiming a preaching spot near a traffic round-about the evangelist showed up at 4 p.m. each day.

Little seemed to come of the meetings until one day Mary, a deranged woman passing by naked, came in earshot of his preaching. Aidini directed his words to her, rebuking evil spirits tormenting the woman. A calm came over her. Ladies came forward with garments and covered her.

Brought to freedom from that day, the joyful woman testified often at Aidini’s round-about gathering. Many people of the neighborhood long aware of her miserable past came to listen. New believers were added.

***

“I will play you my machine!”, he shouted, hoisting an old typewriter over his head.

This second possessed person – a bare-bottomed man named Ronald – happened by Evangelist Aidini’s location. Again, evil spirits were called out. His vigorous testimony spoke of wandering the city streets tormented, ever parading the beat-up typewriter, and of finally getting freed here at the roadway intersection. Week by week the crowd swelled, eventually numbering hundreds.

With the help of sympathetic followers the preacher rented the Congo Bar Sunday mornings for meetings. But area prostitutes began losing business as more people converted and a municipal governor was summoned to confront Aidini.

“You must stop your meetings in the bar.”

The preacher turned to the official. His reply came with a boldness the onlookers had grown accustomed to.

“In three days you, sir, will no longer be governor”.

Shortly afterward the official’s servant accidently spilled boiling water on him. Badly injured, he was forced to vacate his post.

As the work expanded, funds came available through a visiting Swissman stirred by things he had witnessed. Soon afterward the gathered band of believers took ownership of the longstanding beer joint.

As a tribute to the transforming nature of the gospel, the place was renamed – The Congo Bar Church.

©2018 Jerry Lout

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Deja Vu

Delivering a sermon at Congo Bar Church in 1986 came about through a yearning. Not a hunger to preach in a large city gathering but a stirring in my wife and me. That we were to launch from Kenya, enter another African nation, and serve there. The question was – given the continent is home to more than fifty countries – which one?

“In their hearts humans plan their course,
but the Lord establishes their steps.”    – Proverbs 16:9

***

From a disarming “so you’re the man with the black heart” greeting by the silver-haired gent in San Antonio, Ann and I had grown fond of Carlton Spencer in the years following. That early connection had factored in to our maiden assignment to East Africa. Now finding ourselves at another missions crossroads, his remarks carried a hint of déjà vu.

Elim President Spencer stood relaxed before a company of missionaries at our annual general meeting outside Nairobi.

“Several of you have served in this beautiful land for some years. I sense the Lord’s nudge that some are perhaps to set yourselves praying about other regions, other fields on the continent. Places little-served by kingdom laborers – some more challenging to live in than here.”

Both of us, my Ann and I, felt a stir. Following conversations and times in prayer the conviction grew that we were to venture toward a new field.

“Well, we know the mission serves regions westward from here,” I mused. “And to the south as well.”

And so it happened I flew the fifteen hundred miles to Kinshasa, and found myself days later before a crowd in a renovated bar.

Aidini’s ministry had dramatically multiplied the past three decades and church congregations now numbered more than 3,000 across Zaire’s enormous landscape. The leadership-training workforce certainly needed more people.

After two weeks poising as best I could the spiritual antenna of my heart, I boarded a Nairobi flight home with no new sense of clarity. None.

Not discounting Zaire just yet, we turned our attention to Kenya’s big neighbor to the south – land of famed explorer-missionary, Dr. David Livingstone. This time I wouldn’t go alone. We crossed into Tanzania at Namanga border.

What a surprise lay ahead.

©2018 Jerry Lout

 

 

 

 

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A Word In Season

“I keep returning to it, hon. This verse.” Ann leafed through her Bible to its grand, beloved “hymnal”, the Book of Psalms.

“ ‘I will lead you in the path that you should go, I will guide you with my eye’, Psalm 32:8”. For a while now the words keep coming back to mind.”

Days later, passing through Namanga Village with minimal drama as Africa border crossings go, I slid again into the Peugeot driver’s seat. Passing our fresh-stamped U.S. passports across to Ann, I engaged the clutch and nudged the gear lever forward. Turning to my bride of nearly twenty years, I grinned, “Well, here’s a first for me, sweetheart. I’ve never driven Tanzania’s roads.”

Tonight we would lodge at the home of friends whose surname brought a smile, given their missionary vocation. The Angels.

Granger and Beverly’s Arusha home sat a short distance from Tengeru Village and the church they pioneered and now co-led with Tanzanian Pastor Charles Nkya.

As we breezed along the scenic, well-paved highway, taking in the ever-enlarging image of fourteen-thousand-foot Mount Meru ahead, I silently reviewed bits of a sermon that had been forming. I was to preach tomorrow’s Sunday service.

Sharing scripture and illustrations, encouragements and challenges next morning I wrapped up the sermon inviting Tengeru believers to further yield their lives to God’s guidance and care. As sermons go I was pleased, thankful for his presence and aware nothing noteworthy seemed afoot. At least to my knowledge. The service dismissed. A number of folks lingered.

And up walked Zubida, a lady Elder in the church.

Zubida, small but poised – an instructor in the local college of agriculture – carried herself with quiet grace. Back when she had first opened her life to Christ, converting from Islam, her Muslim husband angrily threw her and her infant from the home. He kept the older children with him and forbade Mama Zubida to visit them. Through the deep pain, she pressed ahead in love and zeal for her Savior, keenly devoted through the years in the companionship of fellow believers and the strength found in Scripture.

Zubida’s Bible now lay open in one hand as she approached Pastor Angel. Pointing to a passage, she began.

“Pastor, this verse. . . I feel God has this scripture for our guests from Kenya. Can you share it with them?”

Granger responded with a smile, “No, Zubida. He seems to have given this to you. You share it with the Louts.”

Moving our direction humbly – her finger still planted on a Bible page – Mama Zubida rallied her voice.

“Brother and Sister, I feel that God has something in this verse for you. It came to me during the preaching today.”

I noted the reference and read the Swahili words.

I turned to Ann with a chuckle and asked pointedly, “Does this resonate in any way?”

Her face lit up as she took in the English translation,

“I will lead you in the path that you should go. I will guide you with my eye”

©2018 Jerry Lout

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Sweet Expansion

Sunday church service in the shade of a fruit tree brings its perks.

When a high-up branch at our quaint meeting place let go its grip on a ripened mango – thumping a half-sleeping listener on his head – my Bible class came alive. For the moment at least.

***

Mzee Kunda (my Tanzania co-worker) and I had scouted Moshi town in hopes of marking out a preaching point and eventually establishing a church. The spot of land with a mango tree caught our eye.

Kunda, an aging, never-wed Chaga tribesman of Kilimanjaro, had endeared himself to great numbers of people as a travelling evangelist. His one-on-one chats had brought many across the region – town and country dwellers alike – to a vital faith. From Moshi to Arusha and back, village after village had engaged the winsome personality which was Mzee Kunda. He knew his calling and trekked hundreds of miles through the years, facing hard opposition at times, but pressing on, sharing a compelling message of love.

“Mzee Kunda,” I posed one day, “could you check an area over near the Muslim sector – you know, where the city has no church at all. . .”

The property he found was the right size but lacked electricity and water. A small river (all but dry but for the rainy season) snaked nearby.  Visits with the land owner brought a meeting of the minds.  Prayers went up. Funds came in. We were underway.

Fencing the acreage with the aid of our son Scott during his Rift Valley school break, secured the area for construction. Scott and his big sis, Julie, drew water from the river to aid the cement-mixing venture while little sis, Amy, scurried about entertaining neighborhood kids.

It was a special day when Dan and Nancy Larkin came our way. Hailing from New York, the Larkins answered a call to missions. . . and to Moshi. Grandma Nancy promptly endeared herself to 7-year-old Amy.

Excitement stirred in the Kili region when Dan launched a training center project on our two-acre grounds. Decades later we would journey again to Moshi and celebrate Kilimanjaro Christian College opening her doors twenty five years before. Lazaro Kiriama of Maasai-land had nurtured the school into a thriving training center for church leaders, equipping them for service throughout the region.

Meanwhile a familiar old tree like a quiet, loyal friend, moved from thumping Sunday worshippers with mango missiles to seasonally treating a parade of ministry trainees her juicy delights.

©2018 Jerry Lout

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Past the Bougainvillea Vine

Skirting the red and orange and purple array of bougainvillea vine, the visitor stepping to Steve and Anne’s veranda catches the sing-song call of her hostess.

“Kah-reee-bu!” Anne Street’s cheery voice trills the Swahili welcome like a free-spirited vocalist in full operetta form. The scene in some form repeats multiple times each week as a parade of visitors drop in, some randomly, others by arrangement.

They’ve come for a ‘hot cuppa’ or for a listening ear or a compassionate prayer. Or all the above. And – often enough – a personal care presented by an impromptu guest carries a tangible element. . . needed bus fare to Kibosho or Boma Ng’ombe. . . school fees to cover (just this once) a high schooler about to forfeit his education because pounding hail and rain just wrecked the family’s maize harvest, their only viable revenue source.

This Moshi home takes wageni (visitor arrivals) in stride. And the sons, Benji, Peter and Philip, like their father – bright, industrious, mischievous – have exhibited the family ‘hospitality gene’ almost since their early days in nappies.

Anne, born and raised in Africa of British parents, grew up in farming country where her father helped manage estates for Kenya’s pre-independence baron, Lord Delamere. Meeting Steve in his native England during her college years ensured that her future husband’s heart would be captured – not only by her – but by ‘all things Africa’.

Year after year the Street’s mentoring of students (elementary-age and high-schoolers alike) in the knowledge of their faith, never grew wearisome. Steve had accepted a chemistry teaching spot with Moshi’s international academy. His and Anne’s after-school Bible Clubs came to life with spirited discussions. Wisdom was shared. And students cheered at the mention of an outing – “How about a view of Amboseli Game Park from Mount Kili!”

After some years, when the teaching position for Steve ran its course, the couple took a step back, weighed their motives and inner impressions. And drew a conclusion. . .  “Why not!” Launching as full-time missionaries (roles they’d arguably been filling a long while already) came naturally. Laboring alongside their beloved pastor and friend, Wilbard.

Now, decades in, the Street’s dew-drenched lawn boasts a path worn thin  by flip-flops, dress shoes and bare feet alike. Guests of African, Asian, European, American, islander origins, and elsewhere – none kept at arm’s length from Anne’s infectious “Ka-reee-bu!” welcome.

Home-away-from-home travelers have gotten lodged, prayed over, teased, affirmed. And roundly blessed when the visit is ended and they move toward the screened door and out again. Beyond the bougainvillea vine.

©2018 Jerry Lout

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Making It Happen

The grand company of heroes in foreign missionary work features a long list of people who never walked the church aisle surrendering to God’s work abroad. They never enrolled in a college Missions course, never boarded a plane or ship venturing off to lands and to peoples hungrily awaiting their arrival and the good news they bear.

These are the child-rearing, husband-supporting homemakers.They’re the carpenters, accountants, physicians and farmers, high-schooler babysitters, retirees making it on fixed incomes. And a trainload of other skilled and not-so-skilled, educated and hardly-literate folks, all of a common stripe. They make up the interceding, resource-sharing, passion-fueled army known simply as missions supporters.

Many are anonymous, praying and giving – passing their support on through the coffers of a partnering church. Faithful, continued, selfless giving, without which the missionary enterprise would cease to carry forward.

“It’s not as much as I wish it could be.” 

How often throughout our Africa years did we take in this and similar tender expressions, sincerely offered. 

For years Sister S regularly mailed to our East Africa PO Box a one-dollar bill. Her monthly “widow’s mite” meant as much to us as any amount from any additional source, an outflow of a big generous heart.

Africa’s enormous land mass lies a good long way from America’s shores and visitors flying out to see us through those years were few. The lone pastoral visit we received from the U.S. in our two decades on the field happened in 1989.

Billy Shoffner’s southern drawl – which usually rolled out in easy, unhurried tones – betrayed a faint trace of urgency at one point during a game park visit. We had taken a break from church ministry for a day or two of sight-seeing.

I eased the diesel pickup toward  a slow-moving herd of elephants. . . a little too near for Bro Billy’s liking.

The company of mammals had moved our direction. One especially large beast now lumbered within nearly arm’s reach to the pastor’s rolled-up window. The elephant paused there. A second or two passed. My old friend stirred in his seat before speaking.

“Ya know, Brother Jerry. . . you think it might be time now we kindly moved on past our friends here?”

Through all our years in the Lord’s service, there remain a handful of memories which when recalled, very specially warm our hearts. The faithful prayers and giving of supporting friends and family are included. Numbered among them, two shepherds paying a visit from from East Texas – half the world away – Billy Shoffner and James Walker. 

Thank you.

©2018 Jerry Lout

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Tired Pain

I nudged the clinic door. Inside I inched toward a desk. The dark-haired receptionist looked up just as another sharp pain shot across my back at the waist line. Knees buckling, I caught myself, barely dodging a crash to the hardwood floor.

“Óh, sir!” the lady quickly called out while indicating a chair. “Here, right over here. That’s right, slowly there. . .” Contorting my limbs and back in a couple odd maneuvers my bottom found a resting place.

 “The doctor will see you in just a minute. Here, I’ll get your paperwork” 

Another slow turn in the chair and fresh beads of sweat sprang to my forehead. I nodded a silent thank you and took the ‘first-time-visit’ patient form and ballpoint the receptionist offered. After a couple entriesI paused a moment and recounted the happenings of past hours and the tire-shop mishap that brought me here.

If Francis could see me now. I managed a twisted grin. 

Before our Texas move, my co-worker at the Tulsa Aviation plant had pressed me about the job he figured surely awaited me on arrival to the Alamo City. Between winces now, I could almost hear his “I-told-you-so” if Francis should see me today, here in this bone-cruncher clinic. . .

“Well, Francis, it’s like this, I landed a job down at the corner of Caldera and Bandera, at this Phillips 66 station. . .”

Why did I have to get in such a hurry?

 Twenty hours ago I had grabbed two car tires still encircling their heavy rims. Swiveling around while taking a step another direction was a move that shot a serious stab through my lower back. I reflected further.

Well, I started out lame – a polio baby, back in California. Then the limping picked up again when the same virus came to our Oklahoma hills. I should probably, here in Texas, be used to these kinds of hobblings by now. . .

“Alright, sir, the doctor can see you now. Just this way. Careful there, move slowly.”

Lessons on limping followed.

©2018 Jerry Lout