rift valley academy – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

“When the simba came at me I brought up my shield but then he knocked me back.” The young African opened his palm, extending it my way. I surveyed the seasoned lion-claw scar running near his thumb and forefinger. “My brothers then speared him.”

My chat was with a tall lean Maasai named Gaddiel, recounting his lion-hunting venture – an initiation rite demanded to get labeled a warrior. His voice was calm, undramatic, as if he were recounting details of a routine walk to the local market.

Gaddiel Nkarrabali had become a warmly-regarded Christian pastor among his nomadic, cattle-tending kin. His gospel work came about largely because of Eva.

Eva, a single missionary mother – her two kids schooling at Rift Valley Academy – had come to Kenya in the 60s, settling down eventually in a dusty remote outpost called Mashuru. Her first house, put up in less than two days, was a home-made tin structure covering just 209 square feet. Once erected, she and a local co-worker lady settled down for the night. In her memoir, In The Shadow of Kilimanjaro, Eva describes her next-morning surprise.

“All around the (parked) car were large pad tracks where a lion had inspected it. Well, what you don’t see doesn’t hurt you. It excited us but we weren’t really troubled. We knew what country we were in so went on fixing our little house.”

Along the way the gutsy pioneer missionary came across a young tribal warrior. Gaddiel.

“I had asked some young Morani (warriors) if any would like to go for more schooling.” The school in Eva’s thinking was Kaimosi Bible School off to the north and west. None of the youth were Christ followers.

“Up went a hand and one said, “Nanu” (I wish to). His name was Gaddiel, the chief of his manyatta.”

Years later the cattle-herder turned Christian shepherd, recounted his first days at the Bible school.

“I saw many miracles that God showed me. One night I prayed so much asking Jesus that I wanted to see his face. That very night there came a man in my dream in a great light. I woke up shaking. A song came into my heart. I am sure Jesus was doing something to (in) me. . .”

Eva Butler’s “Welcome kiddos!” greeting on our first airport arrival to Africa gave my wife and I no hint we were encountering face to face an authentic hero in frontier missions.

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.

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