The Leashed of These

“First thing we do, dear, we get that child into a harness!” The mandate erupted from my sister. Sis had just learned from my wife of our young daughter’s momentary disappearance in the heart of a bustling international airport. It was the 1980s, decade of Dipsticks (Dukes of Hazard) and of Yuppies. Of child harnesses.

In the moments following our frightful ordeal at London’s Heathrow International our young family labored to orient ourselves back to normalcy. Our departure gate was nearby and the call to board was still some way off.

“Ámy. Hey, come with daddy. Let’s find a donut.”

She sat opposite me at a simple booth, a warm glazed donut secure in her grasp. I took in her unassuming, cherub-like features.

Amy’s chin barely cleared the table top as she sank her teeth into the pastry – quickly modifying it to a new look. A flake of icing clung at the edge of her mouth, bobbing up and down as she chewed. The movement inspired the tip of my tongue to pursue an imaginary morsel from my own now-moistening lips.

“Angel girl”. Her attention left the donut for a second.

“Amy”, I went on, “daddy wants to talk to you a minute, OK?” I continued without pausing while she returned to her snack after studying it a moment.

“You know”. I was seeking language to connect a really young mind to the concept of vulnerability, of hidden hazards. But without instilling anxiety or fear into her wide-open emotions. How do I do this? The unspoken question was half-prayer, half-bewilderment. I had offered such cautionary messages before – in earlier times to each of our other two children. Had tried anyway. I proceeded.

A few minutes in I was winding down my second monologue to my two-year-old – a drill far too common among young parents anymore – i.e. be cautious when near strangers. . stick close to mommy and daddy, and so forth. Amy seemed to sense I was about to launch into round three. Her look into my eyes was direct. Not scowling, not smiling. I began my third introduction when a soft, polite voice inserted reprovingly. “Daddy, I already heard you the other times.”

My shoulders dropped to relax mode. I chuckled toward my precocious angel.

In America, Amy and her mother’s alliance with the security harness lasted all of three weeks. We are not sure what became of it. . . a canine’s residence, perhaps.
©2017 Jerry Lout

World of Spirits

Spirits. Good. Evil.

What is this thing, this world of spirits? How real is the unseen world? Do invisible personalities carry influence, power with people – sometimes over them?

I pondered the questions off-and-on. Growing up in the Pentecostal tradition, I had heard things about the spirit-world referenced plenty of times. Demon-oppression – Spiritual warfare – Deliverance ministry, and the like. My understanding was limited but the idea seemed reasonably simple.

Those good, powerfully strong beings of the angel variety represented God’s good presence at work in the world. By contrast, dark, evil, destructive forces issued from the kingdom of Satan, God’s biggest adversary. These dark beings were real and to be taken as seriously as angels. Teachers of scripture and the bible itself had shined light on the subject. That, though God himself is supreme, having no rival, no equal, much of humanity suffers in some measure under the deceiver, the accuser. This view, with plenty of Bible to commend, had informed much of my belief on the issue of spirit beings.

For me, it was also personal. I had sometimes sensed a a thing that felt like a dark, eerie presence. Not often but enough to trouble me, leaving me unsettled and sometimes fearful.

Living now in deep Africa, I discovered something I had long heard. The world at large – outside North American, European and other Western cultures – needed no persuading whether the spirit world existed. They required no convincing if spirit beings might play a role in living, breathing human beings.

First-hand encounters with witchcraft jarred me out of any guesswork about the matter.

I was enjoying lunch at the home of a missionary friend – another Jerry – in Southwestern Kenya. Jerry taught in a vocational school. The tribal people of the region had generations-long histories featuring spirit powers they knew to be evil. Placing curses on people was as common in some areas as the presence of moisture was common to a rainy season. Divination, witchcraft and the like, saw  powerful spirit influences, fueled by fear.

A youth on a bicycle sped toward the house where we were.  He came from the school’s direction a mile away.

“Mr. Jerry, Mr. Jerry!”

My friend set his tea cup down and moved outside.

After a brief visit with the boy, my host called up, “A student at the school is in trouble. Want to come with me?”

We set off on the ragged road – hardly more than a foot path. Less than five minutes the car jostled to a stop.

A tall, robust-looking youth sat on an outcropping of rock – one common to the area, rising about four feet out of the ground. In every way the student looked like, from a distance, a fine specimen of health. Except, that is, for his demeanor. And the trembling hands. His eyes shifted repeatedly away from direct contact. They seemed dark, fearful. He held his head as in a vice – sandwiched in a tight grip between the palms of his two large hands.

Missionary Jerry gently questioned the boy and one or two friends. He summarized the problem as best he could. The boy suffered an overpowering head-throb. It pulsed with searing pain. Indeed, he looked tortured.

But the pain’s source was not biological. Not really.

©2017 Jerry Lout                                                                                        Image credit. AMAS-Quay Snyder, MD

 

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