mission station – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

November 7, 2017November 7, 2017

Sandbox Showdown

Before, this afternoon I had never laid eyes on a spitting cobra. Not up close, not uncaged out in the wild. And clearly, not mere steps from my children’s sand box where they often played.

The serpent measured seven feet.

“Mpiga, Mpiga (stone it, stone it)!” Twenty children’s excited voices shattered the mission station’s quiet. They had come upon the snake as they were heading home, taking a short cut across our unfenced property.

Swinging the back screen door open, I took in the spectacle from our veranda.

“Looks like the school kids got an enemy in their sights, hon.”

At this point the serpent hadn’t moved into my view. On the other hand, the eyes of the clamorous nine-to-twelve-year olds, had stayed fixed, tracing the cobra’s every fleeting move before them. The snake raced slithering through foot-high grass, barely ahead of the children’s hail of ammo – sticks and stones – raining down.

The moment the cobra enter our grounds, I shouted, “Rafel!” The muscular young day-laborer rushed toward my voice. Seeing the danger – to the children, to all of us – he raced with his panga to a nearby tree. In seconds a limb plopped to the ground. Rafel alighted. Slashing swiftly again and again, he soon displayed an impressive club – long enough to go after the snake while, hopefully, staying short of its notorious venom shower.

Although our own children were safely indoors with their mother, a chill went over me as I witnessed one of Africa’s most feared slithering creatures swing about to face Rafel and me. I shivered at the knowledge that Julie and Scott’s sandbox lay two meters away in the shade of our backyard Flame Tree.

The forebody of the snake rose thirty inches from the ground’s surface, spread wide its menacing hood and shot a toxic stream of spray, thankfully short of its targets – the workman and me. It then turned and, spotting a fractured entrance-way into an abandoned chicken coop, slithered inside.

With more anxiety than either Rafael or I cared to claim, we heaved the door aside. The cobra’s head once again swung our direction. The snake moved from the far end of the little coop directly toward us, its speed fueled by the panic that drives any creature feeling trapped. We dare not block its exit. . . that would be nuts, for sure.

On our back lawn once again – and once again by the sand box – the cobra struck a motionless pose. It was the split second Rafel needed to take aim. The thicker end of the African’s club crashed to the reptile’s head. The aim was exact and the snake lay still but for its long body writhing some seconds.

The cheering primary school kids quieted, gradually dispersed, moving the direction of their thatched and tin-roofed homes.

I took little interest in Cobras or their skins for now. My lengthy, salt-crusted curing plank would lie undisturbed this day. It was enough for me that our two-year-old and four-year-old were each well. That the four of us would dine together tonight. Safe and undisturbed.

November 11, 2017

On A Hot Tin Roof

Clueless as to its structural soundness, we crouched low and crawled on – upward, higher – atop the old church roof. Then came the loud crack of splintering wood.

Bukuria Mission Station rested near the top of a long sloping hill. Well before my wife and daughter and I moved there a student dormitory fashioned of sun-baked earth had got converted into a house of worship. After years of use and aging, the church roof’s mabati (corrugated iron sheets original to the structure) needed replacing.

Phil Harmon, my Canadian friend from Suna Mission 25 miles away, offered help. Phil was a gifted craftsman on many fronts. We donned our carpentry aprons and I followed his lead.

“How about we start here at this end and work our way to the front, eh?”

Armed with a claw hammer, I fell in behind him. Up the ladder we went. We began wresting old nails from the rafters, taking care then to pass the rusting metal sheets to workers waiting below.

“I guess this wood under us is OK – you know, sturdy enough, not too termite-eaten.”

Now and then throughout the morning we felt movement, first my friend, then myself – a slight tremble along the old trusses – our only support preventing us plummeting downwards. The roof would creak. We would freeze in place, sometimes with a hammer just-poised to extract the next nail. Then cautiously proceed with our task.

Finally, the roof’s surface was uncovered, it’s purlins denuded, leaving no trace of tin sheets anywhere.

Phil and I maneuvered to the building’s wall-plate at its west end. Standing on it, he reached down. With a gloved hand my friend casually flipped free a stubby piece of loosely-braced two-by-four. I will never forget what followed.

The whole network of roofing, hundreds and hundreds feet of rafter and truss, instantly gave way. At the frightful splintering sound of lumber suddenly breaking apart, our two African helpers below lurched to the side for safety. The crash unleashed a rumbling boom. Dust came billowing all around. My Canadian bud and I breathed relief seeing the workers yet standing – their bodies hugged to the walls – clearly shaken, but intact.

Powderpost beetles, we later discovered, had been dining on the church’s canopy a good while, devouring the lumber, riddling it throughout with tiny pinholes.

In the crash’s aftermath, standing poised atop the wall, we silently took in the splintered crisscross of rubbish scattered before us ten feet below. Essentially a pile of sawdust lay there, material upon which we had entrusted our weight most all morning. At last Phil turned my way, releasing a low chuckle.

“Looks like we’re spared taking apart the frame.”

“Yeah, and seems a guardian angel or two got in some overtime today.”

March 28, 2018

The Door Please

“I need to what?”

“No, Jer, you need to get proactive. You must tell him. It’s what you do.”

Moving from Bukuria to Suna brought new discoveries, new challenges. Tensions. A lot of things differed between these two tribes, the Kuria and Luo. Traditions. Customs. Worldview.

Rally the courage, Jerry. . . and just do it.

Our colleagues, the Harmans, were off to Canada for a time and it fell to Ann and me to oversee Suna Mission Station in their absence. The Mission sat a stone’s throw from Tanzania, 45 kilometers east of Lake Victoria.

My disquiet was prompted by a visit to our home by a nearby pastor to discuss church affairs. . . Nothing weighty – a simple interchange to do with common matters of mission work.

By the time our second and then third visits rolled around I struggled with a dilemma. Four simple words could sum it up. . . how to part ways. I was stumped over how and when a visitor simply leaves for home once a visit is finished.

I had noted a pattern. . .

***

“Welcome, Brother Tom,” I smiled, “Come in.” We settled into a pair of living room chairs. Ann appeared, greeted the visitor, then moved toward the kitchen. Soon a kettle was whistling. Mugs of hot chai would soon rest on a serving tray before us. So far so good.

The pastor brought up a point. I introduced another. We covered one item, then a second. Cup of chai number two had arrived and gotten drained. Nothing odd here. . . the Locals like their tea.

By the time our third mug of spicy-sweet chai was drained, our discussion matters had wrapped up. The pastor’s visit was finished.

So I thought.

Tom didn’t move. Nor did I.

The pastor glanced at his watch about the time I snuck a peek at a wall clock. Snatches of small talk came and went, broken by moments of awkward silence.

Ann’s tea pot weighed considerably lighter since the first servings. Finally, in a series of awkward back-and-forths, my visitor arose. I did the same. Tom was gone.

***

“Here’s the thing, Jerry”, my Luo-savvy friend privately responded when asked about the dilemma.

“The thing is – once you’re done with business or whatever, the visit is done. It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to tell him to go home.”

My eyebrows crinkled. “Say that again, please.”

“Sure, it’s like this. In this culture, see, it’s really rude of a visitor just to get up and – like us westerners would – just head for the door. We’re used to the, ‘Gotta go now, see ya later’ thing. No, where you live now you must invite your guest to leave.”

“Hmm.”

July 3, 2018July 2, 2018

Prized Care

The mission pastor once asked my wife to preach for an upcoming Sunday service. But only once.

William Moseti, a man of little schooling, yet displaying qualities people admire in a leader. Kindness, humility, wisdom, a warm-hearted chuckle behind a ready smile. Pastor Moseti had assigned our firstborn child a nickname.

Two-year-old Julie, abounding in energy, woke up each morning with a zest for life. In her often-excited moments, she could get loud and, to Pastor William, the label, “Duka-la-kelele” (the noise store) fit perfectly. Some weeks went by.

“Mama Julie”, Pastor William greeted Ann as they crossed paths on the mission station, “you must give the sermon this Sunday at the church.”

Most of us remember times when we wished we had thought of the just-right response to a remark.

“Sure, Pastor”, Ann smiled. “I’ll be glad to. . . but only if you will watch Duka-la-kelele for me while I speak.” When service time came, William happily took up his preaching spot at the mission pulpit.

Tending to the cares of little ones under their charge, young mothers across the globe rival the world’s strongest endurance athletes. In addition to making do with rationed bathing water during dry seasons while attending to cloth-diapered babies, Ann rushed to the aid of each child wherever a crisis, big or small, broke out.

When toddler Scott got suddenly run over by a motorcycle steered by a Biker-wannabe. . . her teenaged boyfriend the self-appointed driving coach.
When five-year-old Amy careened to the gravelly playground face-first from a towering sliding board’s highest perch, leaving her poor face battered and momentarily rearranged.
Through a long night vigil at Julie’s bedside during an especially painful ear infection.

Our family’s bouts with everything from food poisoning to parasites to malaria – and any number of other afflictions – were regularly met with Ann’s prompt, skilled, and prayerful action. A pithy verse from a book of poetry beckons a response we gratefully offer,

“Honor her for all that her hands have done,
let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”

Proverbs 31.31