Tag: missionaries

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Behind The Scenes

“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous”. Einstein’s quip leaves me wondering whether the renowned Physicist had some family of returning missionaries in mind.

With us no longer living and serving overseas, Ann and I found the Twilight Zone our new address. We talked, we dreamed some rather feeble dreams, we pondered. . . And prayed.  “Guidance”, Loren Cunningham wisely noted, “is first of all a relationship with the Guide”.

A question surfaced in my thoughts over and over as I again strolled the lovely Tulsa campus, What if I requested and was given approval by the University to register as an international student volunteer organization? What then about a ministry ‘covering’?

Elim Fellowship of Lima, NY had through all our Africa years served as our sponsoring organization. Deep friendships and spiritual camaraderie had been forged between us and fellow Elim team members through our many ups and downs of Christian service.

I am not a brilliant man, but I’ve been given the sense to suspect it is almost always a bad idea to strike out in the Lord’s work as a lone ranger.

Enter an Einstein coincidence.

To my utter surprise word came that our mission agency (Elim) had just elected to create a new department. Its central focus being to extend Christian friendship and service to college students – but not just any college students. Elim Fellowship was right now poised to launch its first-ever international-student-ministry department. Christening the arm as All Nations USA. A seasoned servant-leader, David Spencer, would be tending the helm at the NY office.

The timely development of such an unlikely script indicated, it seemed, the handwriting of divine providence. Signed, Anonymous.

©2023 Jerry Lout

 

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Choctaw Landing

Rumors were buzzing of a tech revolution set to break across the planet. A history-shaping phenomenon spanning nations, sporting a lackluster brand – www.

While the World Wide Web was poised to take the universe by storm, sizable bands of missionaries scattered about remote regions of earth remained for the time being pretty much in the dark. No surprise. Through all of mission history new and curious cutting-edge advances – from transistor radios to laundry softener sheets (this one triggered puzzlement and wonder for Ann at our first furlough) – usually left the developing world sprinting to catch up.

Thus, a snail-mail missive bearing my signature made its leisurely way from Moshi Tanzania to the Colorado offices of International Students, Inc. In it I asked if there might be a place for me to offer some cross-cultural services during our temporary time in the U.S. (I smile now at the qualifying term ‘temporary’). Surprisingly, the response came swiftly.

“Mr. Lout, if you are able, please come by for a visit. . . (furthermore) We have a staff member serving on a university campus in Tulsa, OK. You should be hearing from James Tracy.”

Lord, is this you working?

D-Day for leaving Africa sped our way, a list of priorities getting checked off every few hours:

  • Ministry task handoffs
  • Miscellaneous paperwork
  • Eight-year-old Amy’s hard goodbyes to friends, and to Africa – the only              home she knew
  • A border crossing northward to Kenya.
  • Also, Ann fashioning a full wedding garment. Our firstborn, Julie, would marry not long after our arrival stateside. She and her mother hoped the dress would fit nicely. It did.
  • Receiving sporadic updates on our parent’s health (Ann’s mother, my Father)
  • Graduation Day. An exciting time, watching Scott all capped and gowned make his way across the Rift Valley Academy stage. Mere hours before our plane’s lift-off from Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta.

The coming season would usher in a flurry of emotions, all tethered to precious events and people. The receiving of a new son-in-law. The passing of a parent. The reorienting to life in a familiar yet strange land.

For Ann and me, the job of tackling and navigating our larger future would be met in due course. We drew comfort in the assurance of God’s presence and care over us and of our loved ones. He had gone ahead before us in times past and would somehow show his faithfulness yet again.

Taking our assigned seats in the big plane we buckled up, catching the excited buzz of our fellow passengers – home-bound tourists for the most part. I took in a few long breaths. My taut shoulders relaxed. Choctaw, Oklahoma, here we come.

A line in the dictionary offers up a succinct definition: “Either end of an airport runway, critical points of takeoffs and landings”. The word being defined –Threshold.

©2023 Jerry Lout

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Sensibilities

Green – Naïve – Novice – Ignorant. String them together and you had my name tag.

The rambling house that my wife, myself and our bundle of Julie settled into had been built by missionaries who pioneered the work three decades ahead of our coming. The pioneers had fashioned the dwelling from local soil – rust-tinted bricks fired in a home-built kiln.

A day or two after our Bukuria arrival, a chorus of male voices took us by surprise. Not a musical chorus but a mix of busy voices growing loud, fading back, then loud again.

Are they angry. . . enthused. . . something other. . .which? Their language was neither English nor Swahili. Kikuria, no doubt. Unsure of their disposition and ignorant of who they were, I touched the screen door. And moved to the open veranda where the dozen or so African men had assembled.

I was twenty-seven, my wife twenty-three. It was clear most of the men out-seasoned me – their skin weathered from years beneath an equatorial sun.

The group of strangers – all male – coming unannounced, still left me uneasy.

Do we invite them in? If so, what do we do next?

Are these gents all friendly to the Mission. . . We have a six-month-old girl.

Whatever else Ann and I knew, one thing was certain. We were out of our element. These were waters we’d never swum.

One of the older men – their spokesman? – moved closer. His English was broken, his accent challenging but I could make it out easily enough.

“We come to greet. We come to welcome you here to this place.”

I drew near.

“Hello”, nodding. “Hello”, smiling. “Hello”, I greeted, shaking each extended hand one by one. Though I felt more at ease and was touched by their welcoming us to Kuria-land, I was still conflicted how to respond. Only to offer repeatedly. “Thank you, Thank you, sir. Thank you . .”

I searched awkwardly for some cultural bridge to temper the situation. Answers eluded me. The visitors glanced toward one another, voiced some quiet, mysterious words. And eventually, slowly, went their way.

It was months before I learned I had made a marked impression that awkward day. By then word had got around. It took a while to redeem our name. . . “They did not even welcome us in for tea.”

The new resident-missionary – come to live and serve among the Wakuria people – successfully offended a welcoming delegation of church elders.

Like the snaking road leading past the Mission, another bend in the way lay clearly ahead – our Taranganya learning curve.

©2017 Jerry Lout

 

 

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A Matter of Taste

I never grew a warm place in my heart for serpents. Never acquired the taste.

“Good morning, Bwana.” The man labored up the slope, evidently with merchandise.

Not that snakes were uncommon on the farm where I grew up. Water Moccasins (Cottonmouths) and a few non-poisonous varieties often found their way to our pastures and watering ponds. A pleasant summer past-time of mine, in fact, was picking off the occasional slithering intruder, using my dad’s .22 rifle. But there was a difference between then and now, this place and that place.  The snakes on the Oklahoma farm tended to be shorter. . . by ten feet or more.

The Kuria tribesman was calling to me as he pushed his aging bicycle up our grassy driveway inside the mission compound. The bike’s rear tire seemed low, probably due to the load – whatever it was – concealed in a well-worn burlap bag atop the bicycle’s carrier rack.

I greeted the stranger and soon learned he was a near neighbor – his family occupying two thatch-roofed huts. A boma (homemade corral) sandwiched between.

I eyed the bag with increased curiosity. It was anchored down by strips of discarded inner tube.

The African’s smile stayed happily in place under his floppy brown hat.

“We Kuria find that missionaries like the skins. The white people coming before you – they pay us for what we bring.”

My new-discovered neighbor began unfastening the rubber strips. Heaving the coarse bag to the ground he untied a thin strand of fresh tree bark used to bind the sack. Slowly he drew out the contents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few minutes of back and forth discussion followed.

Pocketing the shillings I handed him – roughly a dollar’s worth – he turned his bicycle and rode off.

I stared at the python spread lengthwise before me, its patchwork pattern and sheer size a thing of wonder.

How do they skin these things?

My mind rehearsed the Kuria man’s account.

He had wakened in the night to the screams of one of his goats. It was being seized and encircled by the great serpent. Two gashes in the snake’s body revealed where the rescuer’s spear struck. More drama followed until the snake finally lay dead (I never learned the final state of the goat).

Shortly after the skirmish the man walked his bicycle onto our property.

Once I skinned the snake I spread it full-length on the longest, flattest board I could find. With small nails I secured it, the inside stretched open to the sunny sky. I powdered it generously with table salt. It can dry there and hopefully cure. 

Reaching to my tool box I found a measuring tape.  Nose to tail the reptile stretched 17 feet.

Mid-afternoon I was startled by a sudden cry from my wife outside – not of terror but of alarm. She was racing toward our first-born. “No, Julie! No, No, don’t touch!”

Our 30 month old daughter had by this age been introduced to the tangy flavor of salt. Spotting the seasoning sprinkled atop a curious thing on a length of wood, she had begun taking in direct samples on her happily extended tongue. Interrupted, thankfully, before acquiring a taste.

©2017 Jerry Lout

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A Day of Thanksgiving

“Somebody from his home village sent it to him. Someone with a grudge. The envelope with that stuff inside came hand-delivered yesterday and he’s been like this since.”

I thought of the things that led up to this moment. ‘Curse updates’ don’t often happen in Oklahoma. But this thing seems really serious. 

My friend, Jerry, had summoned the unusual parcel. We noticed the opened envelope bulged a bit. In it was a strange assortment – random, spooky things not fit for having around.

“Elements of a curse. It’s what this is. Whoever sent it to Omondi wasn’t playing games. They planned real physical and mental harm for him. Even death. Take a look at these bone fragments, the ashes mixed in, these bits of rock.”

We eyed the elements warily. Something became clear in those moments. The recipient of this “gift”, the young vocational student, knew he had been cursed. His fear was real. Omondi knew he could die at the hand of a power behind these items. Invisible but real, a terribly dark force – too strong to withstand.

Jerry and I stood silently, each in our own thoughts. Both of us anxious. Each of us sensed the other was praying, groping for guidance. How do you contend with this kind of thing? In another setting one could shrug it off as a game of foolish superstition. But we sensed this to be a full-on display of an evil presence, dispatched somehow to render harm. What could we do?

A thought had begun stirring in me. Pushing past a temptation to just ignore it, I turned to my friend.

“Jerry, would you mind if we try something?” He waited for me to go on. “Can someone bring matches? I think we need to urge this young man to resist, that he fight this thing in the power of Christ.”

Only partly-sure of my instinct, I continued. My confidence grew.

“I believe he needs to break this curse and we can be there, through it with him. We can pray. But I do think he needs to set these things on fire and destroy them. It will be his statement of God’s claim on his life. If he’s willing to, that is.” Jerry nodded.

As I had been speaking the words I knew I was out of my depth. I felt I may be trembling on the inside as much as Omondi was on the outside.

Matches were brought. We moved to an enclosure and sat on the floor, Jerry and I at either side of him.

After sharing Scripture with Omondi, affirming the goodness and the truth of Jesus and the power of his name, we asked him if he agreed with Jesus’ words. “Do you believe that God has power above all?”. He nodded slightly and we pressed ahead, inviting him to offer himself fully to Jesus Christ. Slowly, deliberately he voiced a prayer of surrender to God. My friend, Jerry and I, never let up calling on the Lord from our hearts. After a moment I looked into the young man’s eyes.

“Good. OK, now Omondi, do you renounce all witchcraft, any kind of it? Do you reject all spirit forces that oppose the Lord Jesus? Can you say that you do?” In a weak response he whispered yes. When asked one more time, he came back with an assertive “Yes”.

“OK”. I raised the envelope with its contents before him. Some apprehension seemed to play at his eyes. But his fear had lessened and my friend and I sensed Omondi was choosing freedom. We kept praying, “Help him, Lord Jesus. Be near.”

“Alright now, let’s light the match.”

At first his hand trembled with such intensity that I took his hand in mine and we gripped the match together. Thankful for his clear resolve to continue, we struck the match and lit the envelope and contents, Jerry and I voicing thanksgivings to Jesus the whole time. And a beautiful thing followed.

Witnessing the flame take over the elements, we felt a release of joy. The three of us came to our feet. Jerry and I called out in joy and conviction, praising the name of our Lord. Fear had left. Had left us all. Omondi’s head pain went away. Deliverance had come.

Afterwards, as we prepared to leave, the name of a pastor I knew from Omondi’s home area came to my mind. I sent a message to him. The two connected in coming days.

At the end of the day we were at peace. Wow.

The power of Christ had prevailed over raw evil. And two young – less-than-fearless – missionaries had been invited to take part. No wonder it’s called Good News.

We had witnessed the display on this day the authority of Christ’s name. A power greater than witchcraft, greater than fear and even death. The power of love.

It was a day of thanksgiving.

©2017 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