Once upon a time, there were three brothers: Heigleg, Bentiu, and Yida.  Bentiu was the eldest – full of fire and an exaggerated ego.  He took his role as eldest brother seriously.  Every day he would head into the back yard and run laps, do push ups, and practice talking smack to the acacia trees.  Yida, a small and petit little man, would visit from his nearby village and feel a sense of pride knowing if an enemy dare approach, Bentiu’s biceps were plenty big enough to keep him safe.

One day their 3rd brother, and the wealthiest of the boys, Heigleg, sent a messenger to his two brothers.  He spoke of the deep richness of his oil fields and the peace that he enjoyed.  He encouraged the brothers to stop wasting their time preparing for war when all they really needed was to submit to his intelligence and allow him to lead them into abundant wealth.

“Please don’t make the uncles get angry,” he warned in his letter, “they just want us all to be together.  If you don’t concede, who can predict the future?”

But Bentiu, Yida, and the rest of their extended family knew the dangers of such dialogue.  For years the uncles had been fighting; including their father, Juba – one of the patriarchs.   They never could quite see eye to eye on how to provide for their family and their religious arguments just enflamed the issue.  So finally, during a year of famine and drought, Juba and his brother Karthoum agreed (to use the word very loosely) to part ways.  They argued every member according to wealth, might, and beauty until a timid line had been drawn between the family.  Bentiu and Yida became part of their father’s SoSu clan while Heigleg joined their uncle Karthoum as an icon of power to the NoSu.

After the division of the family the SoSu clan decided to make a name for themselves in the arena of hospitality.  They contacted many of their powerful acquaintances from a vast demographic and invited them to come and consult SoSu on their newfound independence.  Bentiu immediately increased his workout routine to ensure an impressive display of muscle for whatever guests may come to call.  His father convinced him that he needed to be bulging through his t-shirt if he was to convince anyone he was a credible player in world affairs.

While his brother and father worked on beefing up their image (and simultaneously their wallets) Yida had encountered a bit of a dilemma.  After the segregation of the family, many of those designated NoSu began to arrive at Yida’s door.  “We don’t want to be NoSu,” they complained.  “Karthoum refuses to feed us and demands that we work ourselves blind ‘for the love of the clan’ and yet never allows us freedom or peace”.

At first Yida welcomed them and prepared meals for his malnourished relatives.  But in just a few days time, his tiny little stone house was bulging with kinfolk.  They were sleeping on his lawn, in his pastures, in his kitchen and for at least a mile in every direction.  After a few short weeks Yida tried to ask his cousins to move on; find more relatives further south to help with their needs.  But the guests refused.  “Once Karthoum is removed,” they said with tenacity, “we’ll move back home.  We’re not going one more meter.”

Yida ran the 60 miles to Bentiu’s house.  “What am I supposed to do with all these people?  I can’t feed them and the water is running out.”  Bentiu calmed his little brother with a patronizing pat on the head.  “Don’t worry,” he

From Brian's cockpit it looks like dry chicken scratches - the thousands of refugees looking for shade appear invisible.

said with heroic pentameter, “our new foreign friends will help us”.  And he was right.

In a matter of two days, help arrived.  Sam, an American do-gooder, started dropping food from the sky – literally.  Yida rallied his relatives, now numbering more than 15,000, and built an airstrip in his back yard so Sam’s planes could deliver food and other life-saving supplies.  For 4 months Sam sent small planes, piloted by sweaty white men in dirty white shirts, stuffed to the gills with food, tarps, equipment and people; people who could help organize the distributions.  “Where did Sam get all these planes?” Yida asked one of the pilots.  “He’s borrowing ours,” Brian explained as he tossed bags of rice and beans down the familiar assembly line, wiping his salty brow on his striped shoulder.  “We work for AIM Air.  We help Sam get the work done by flying these planes out here”.    Yida wondered to himself, Why would this fair-skinned stranger care about me and my cousins?

Yida called his father.  “Dad,” he questioned, “why are these white men bringing our family food?”.  Juba chuckled.  “Who cares why, Yida.  All that matters is that they are doing it and paying our family a fortune to help make it happen!  These people are our oil fields!” Juba laughed as he delighted in his scheming.  “By the time we charge them landing fees, fuel fees, visa visas and standing-in-our-shade fees, Karthoum will be calling me for a loan!  He won’t even let the white-ies touch a toe on his soil!”

“Aren’t you worried that they’ll quit if we don’t make it cheaper for them to help us?” Yida questioned.  “They won’t quit,” Juba assured him.  “They say they are here in the name of Jesus.  I’ve met folks like them before – they don’t quit unless you kill ‘em”.

*********************************************

“Hel…hello?” Yida whispered into the phone as he reached for his watch.

“Yida – its Heigleg”.

“Heigleg?  It’s three o’clock in the morning?  What’s a matter with you?”  Yida’s heart began to race as the panic in his brother’s voice sunk in to the front of his mind.

“It’s Bentiu, you fool.  That meat-head crashed into my house last night and has me locked in the latrine.  He says they’ve come to ‘rescue’ me, that arrogant redneck”.  Heigleg was grunting as if trying to climb a wall of cockroaches.  “He says their headed to our sister Kadugli’s next and then all the way to Karthoum, the imbecile!” 

Yida’s mind raced.  It wasn’t a complete surprise to hear that Bentiu and his boys had crossed the NoSu border to ‘rescue’ Heigleg.  For the past few weeks the NoSu had been sending Antinovs over Cousin Doro’s village, dropping bombs with the accuracy of a blind geriatric.  It’s war their after, Yida thought, it was never about rescuing anyone.  It’s revenge their looking for, and whatever spoils they can get along with it.

When it does rain, flight plans get messy.

Yida lit a candle and sat on the edge of his cot.  All those years he watched his brother sweating and training in the name of defense and here he was waving his fist practically inviting Karthoum to a dual.  He thought of his family.  He thought of himself; his tiny bit of property unfortunately located directly between Heigleg’s and Bentiu’s agendas.  He thought of his friend, Brian, and the other pilots keeping this swollen village on the right side of starvation.  “They don’t quit unless you kill ‘em” his father had said.  While they would never be the target, the chance of his white friends being caught in the catastrophic crossfire seemed inevitable.

“May your Jesus save you,” he whispered, “and us.”

*********************

I suppose this is the only way I’d get myself  to sit down and actually write this story; to do it in a way that makes it sound new to me.  Every day we get new word of what’s happening between North and South Sudan.  It’s not at all “boring” – but it has become common.  So common that it’s hard to remember Westerners may not have a full understanding of what’s going on over here and how Brian plays a part through the work of AIM Air.  The story is an analogy.  The brothers represent two key towns in South Sudan where Brian flies almost weekly and one across the border in North Sudan where NGO’s and missionaries are forbidden.  Sam, the American “do-gooder” (as folks like us are sometimes seen), is Samaritan’s Purse, whose tireless efforts to feed those refugees fleeing the North is becoming difficult with war standing on their shoelaces.  The issues in the story are quite real.  It’s, as is so often the case, a story of greed, dismissal of the innocent, and stubborn leaders.  We ask you to pray for us – especially Brian and his colleagues as they fly, quite literally, into a war zone.  For those refugees, every airplane delivers what may be their last meal and last chance to “see” Jesus.

What if, in the time it took you to read this blog, you took at least the same amount of time to pray for North and South Sudan and the thousands of Lost who are dying at the neglect of their flippant leaders?  

“I tell you the truth, if anyone says to this mountain ‘Go, throw yourself into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart but believes that what he says will happen, it will be done for him.”   – Mark 11:23

Is my friendship too dangerous? Is it worth it?

She didn’t say that out loud, but I could read it in her eyes.  “Yes, of course I’ll come” I said. “Good”, she smiled in spite of herself.  “Then we weel eat cahmel and I can show you some beautifool dresses”.  I nodded as if eager, but inside I already felt her pain.  The excuse won’t matter – if I didn’t  follow through, she would be crushed. And I may never be able to change her mind: I wasn’t worth it.

It’s not that I didn’t want to go.  I’d been on her side of town in a protected manner, and while it’s undoubtedly uncomfortable it is fascinating.  I wanted to see her life.  I wanted to understand who she is by where she comes from. I wanted to dispel myths and conjure new truths about her people.  I wanted solid proof that the horrors weren’t true.  But most of all, I wanted to show her that she’s not just my Work, she’s my friend.  And who she is warrants me being completely uncomfortable…and, in reality, not entirely safe.

****************************

“Mzungu” he hollered at me in his third language.  I could have pretended not to notice, but it would have been awkward, considering the only thing whiter than me in a one mile visual radius were the clouds.  I turned and looked at him with a fickle smile.  “Mzungu…you should cover your hair”.  Actually amused at his candor I gave him two thumbs up, a more genuine grin, and said “I’ll do that…thank you”.  My host was most annoyed with my reply.  “Khabla hubela goobela aayeen” she yelled at him (okay, so that’s what it sounded like – I have no idea what words she actually used).  And I do mean yelled – which is unnervingly normal in their culture.  Her hands were waving around and she punctuated her opinion with a quick chin jerk.  I grabbed her arm, trying to diffuse her embarrassment.  That’s what it was.  Her fierce reaction was not actual anger.  She was embarrassed that her culture appeared closed minded.  “What did you say?”, I asked her, now completely entertained by the interaction.  “I telled heem ‘She weel cover her khair when you stop shewing qat!’”  I braced myself against our friend, Kael, afraid to walk while in hysterical laughter but aware that stopping in the middle of the street was suicide.  Chewing qat, a traditional tobacco-like hallucinogen, is considered a sin by their Book.  But only if you can find someone to judge you that doesn’t ALSO indulge…which is rare, even in the m0sque.  Stopping at yet another fabric stand, Ami was still annoyed.  “It’s okay,” I assured her still coughing for air. “I actually respect him for implying that what’s true for Mu$lims should be true for me too.  At least he believes in one truth”.

The incident was forgotten.  I think my nonchalant reaction was actually soothing to her.  I wasn’t painfully uncomfortable (though I’m not sure why – my eyes never saw a familiar sight all day).  I wasn’t slipping judgmental comments in between disgusted glances.  I was playing, and laughing, and joking…and it was leveling the playing field.

I didn’t have to lie about the food.  Camel was surprisingly tasty.  Atop a mountain of rice and surrounded by carrots, spinach, and potatoes, I didn’t gag on a thing.  Well, once I got past their…um…etiquette.  Sitting on the floor with our knees under our chins and using only our right hands to share the same plate (and occasionally the same bite) would make any Purell junky faint.  But it was exotic – so that made it okay.  The four of them asked me to bless the meal, knowing full well Whose Name closes all of my prayers.  A holier woman may have found it enchanting.  But I spoke quietly and kept my eyes open.  It wasn’t until the last grain of rice was snorted down that the commentary resumed.  Elated with my approval, they sat back on their cushions stretching their greasy hand out over their knee.  I could see they were impressed.  I ate in a way that would make a man proud of his son, and it pleased them greatly.

And we were friends.

No trip past the tracks would be complete without tea.  Ami took me to the bottom of an apartment building and announced we must have tea with her best friend, Sarai.  Kael “eh eh”’d his disappointment.  “Ami,” he snatched her arm, stopping her quick.  “Ami, don’t take her up there,” he said looking up 9 flights of stairs.  “She eez too sohft”.  Even as my hand set firmly on my hip I saw the tenderness in his face.  It wasn’t an editorial on my size or abilities.  In fact, it was a sign of respect.  No woman in any African country is preserved from work.  But I was their guest and he was not in favor of me breaking a sweat.  I let my face reassure him as I stepped down shoulder to shoulder, one foot poised for a race.  “What’s the matter, Kael? Afraid I’ll beat you to the top?”  Ami giggled which was all the distraction I needed to jump the gun – “GO”!  At the top, Ami was in cardiac arrest as she hugged me while laughing and wheezing hysterically.  She beat me good (even with an extra 10 pounds of clothing)…but Kael was always two steps behind me.

And we were friends.

******************************

In my position, risk is an elusive term. My company made it clear that crossing the tracks meant I knowingly put myself in harms way.  But how much harm?  Well, that’s debatable.  According to Ami, Kael and the others, no one there would just let Terror escort me out without a fight.  They hate being known as ‘dangerous’.  But major news channels make that a bit hard to believe.  My husband understands the issues and he agrees with me: that which is to gain is greater than that which is a “maybe”.  I’m not sure my extended family would concur.  And I know my home country would wag their finger…after the fact.  But my real dilemma doesn’t concern any of them.

I have two little boys who are not yet past the age of needing me.  IF something were to happen…if….they are too young to understand…maybe they never would.  And maybe they’d be right.  What kind of mother does that make me?

An “eternal” thinker?

A neglectful parent?

A martyr?

A masochist?

Risk is something that’s assessed moment by moment in this lifestyle.  “Is it worth it?” might as well inscribe itself on tip of my tongue.  And there are never easy answers.  It ranges from small choices: do I take public transportation vs. my gas guzzling Subaru?  To larger ones: will my friend trust me to show her The Truth if I refuse to cross 1st street?  It’s one thing to sit abroad and imagine the situation from behind a newspaper.  But from where I’m sitting, risk is complicated.  It hinges on someone’s heart, and ends with her soul.  A soul I’m not responsible for, but would gladly die for.

Today I won.  I came out alive, yes.  But the transformation of the relationship was monumental.  She wanted to know if I was the real deal or just interested in adding a notch to my Blble Belt.  She showed me beautiful fabric, traditional food, authentic tea, and even a scruffy side of her culture.

And we were friends.

Yeah – it’s over.  The honeymoon has certainly worn off and now I’ve got my nose nestled up in the hairy armpit of Africa.  I’m not sure what to make of this new phase, theologically speaking.  Did God just really cover our eyes for the first year here so we wouldn’t turn and run?  And is He removing His hand of mercy now because He knows we won’t?  Is He whispering those dreaded words: “have you considered my servant, Job”?  Am I a spoiled rotten brat? (Don’t answer that, Teri)

I don’t remember the traffic being so bad.  I don’t remember feeling so annoyed with people throwing trash everywhere.  I can’t recall feeling so irritated at the entire culture just for failing to exhibit customer service.  Their struggle to reason used to be compassionately nestled in my “needed ministries” file drawer.  Now it bugs the crap out of me: “If his mobile is switched off, just walk the two flights of stairs up to his office!!”  I wish people would STOP ASKING ME FOR MONEY!!!  I’m tired of wearing mosquito repellant in my living room.  Why….why can I buy Heinz ketchup last week and yet not be entitled to believe it will be imported here next week?  You know, people, you can buy both soap and deodorant here!!  C’mon dude…just find a toilet. What exactly is the purpose of shutting the power off when it rains?  Why can’t you just open your own gate instead of honking at 2am?

None of this is a big deal.  I know.  It’s me just getting tired of being uncomfortable.  But here’s what’s toxic: as soon as Nairobi took her make-up off, I started believing that her heart was ugly.  You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to start thinking people are just stupid.  Or lazy.  Or irresponsible.  Or vindictive toward whites.  The slippery slope to judgement and condemnation is lathered in lard.  “If you’d discipline your kids maybe they would grow up to be responsible adults.”  “How about you pay your 12 year old’s school tuition and pass up the weekly trip to the salon.”  “Yes, the UN will send food, but at some point you’re gonna need to get a job”.  “Hire some REAL nurses and people wouldn’t have to die from a high fever”.

So today, for the first time in many many weeks, I’m sitting in my house alone.  I’ve got the curtains drawn, my pre-recorded American TV program playing, and a rare twelve ounces of $1.85 Dr. Pepper chillin my left palm.  And suddenly I think to myself, “If I never have to go out that door again it will be too soon”.

CHOP!!

The sound of the guillotine severing my flesh from my Spirit almost made me spit my soda.  Covering my mouth with my free hand I think to myself, “did I really just say that? How in the world did I get here?”

****************************

This boy was shot in the stomach last year. AIM Air picked him up and delivered him to a hospital, saving his life. Brian had the privilege of meeting this victory story personally!

“Isaac,” I hear in my own voice, “why must you always focus on the bad stuff?”  My own words taste like cod liver dissolving on my tongue.  “God has given you so much to be thankful for – focus on those things”.  Hmmmmm…where to begin….

Just before Christmas my Somali friend honored me with a purple and silver shimmering plastic bracelet.  A token of respect – and a sign of her willingness to let me share His Word.  My house helper, Grace, prays with me and for me every time she comes to work.  A much needed friendship was solidified yesterday with sincere confessions.  My brave friend is seeing her Mu$lim family come…to…her…and for the first time, willing to hear The Word.  Thirty thousand refugees had a Christmas meal and a Coke thanks to the gift of one of our teammates.  A woman, whose left eye was literally protruding from her head, felt the touch of a Western doctor

- hope, dropped from the sky,  by my competent husband and his airplane.  My son is reading “tricky words”, after a heart wrenching first year of school.  My stories have been published in 4 countries.  I heard the song of Somali refugee women in Garissa singing, “let the [missionaries] come”.  We eat…every week, despite obnoxious inflation.  A passel of American kids from our home church Skyped with us; some learning of global missions for the first time.  Terrorist threats are thwarted in our city almost daily.  I have witnessed two come to faith and heard personal testimonies of so many more!  Monkeys entertain us twice a week on garbage day.  The neighbor dog’s barking has subsided some.  Our clothes are

This woman's left eye is literally protruding from her face. The 8 doctors Brian delivered to this village gave hope to her, and 250+ others in just 5 short days.

holding up to harsh washings and line drying.  Some dear soul keeps sending me Twizzlers and Starbucks.  My boys memorized Psalm 23.  We have a great church.  We have access to Western medicine.  High speed internet.  And so on…and so on…and ………..

These Sudanese refugees act out The Nativity (those are the shepherds) after a Christmas meal provided in part by one of our very own Envoy Group team members.

“I lift my eyes up to the hills.  Where does my help come from?  My help comes from the Lord, 

the Maker of heaven and earth.  He will not let your foot slip…” -  Psalm 121

BUSINESS SIDENOTE:

Learning to focus on the positive will be imperative for us in the coming months.  Earlier this week we learned that AIM Air and Samaritan’s Purse are dissolving their partnership.  Each will become their own independent aviation program.  While Brian and I agree this is a wise decision, (the relationship had outgrown its original intentions) it will have a HUGE effect on families from both companies.  We don’t yet know the implications for us, but there is talk of moving some pilot families to more remote bush locations so as to serve our “fringe” missionaries more effectively; and also to entice others to serve those places.  Will you please pray with us for God’s divine discernment as choices and changes are put before us? Pray that we will continue to prioritize the welfare of our boys and family unit while being completely available to His leading; putting comfort on the back burner.  We will keep you posted as things unfold over the next 9 months.

Brain Boogers

click above to play

Actual Size

This UN official was just checking to see if his vehicle was amphibious! It's more common than you think!

Right now exchange is 89 Kenyan shillings to the dollar. You do the math!

Barefoot: the sand is scorching, scorpions are everywhere, and 3 inch thorns litter the ground. I'll keep my Keens!

I could swish, but I couldn’t spit.  Staring at my bulging cheeks in the mirror I replayed the inner monologue I’ve been scripting since coming to Africa.

“You can’t vindicate someone else’s suffering by inflicting your own, Jami”.

“That’s true, Jami, but you can be more responsible.”

“So rinsing the toothpaste out of your mouth and spitting it into the sink is irresponsible, simply because you have seen people without water?  They were without water last week when you brushed your teeth.”

Ultimately, the fear of fluoride poisoning compelled me to spit, but I didn’t feel good about it.  As I watched the white water slither down the drain I tried to shake the lead blanket from my heart.  I needed to change my attitude so pity would not be my motive for the days endeavor.  These people were running out of  food and had been without rain for two years.  Their days were numbered, and opportunities to experience the Gospel were limited.  My sympathy would be of little use to them.  I needed to leave more than a just pity-full bag of beans and maize.  I wanted to leave a crack.

Statistically, Muslims who come to know Jesus do so without ever having a theological discussion.  In fact, most of them have already experienced God before a Christian ever enters their life.  They typically find Him through a dream or vision.  That dream promotes a personal journey that propels them to search for more, sometimes leading them right to the front door of a Believer.  The initial openness, however, the ability to even hear from Him, comes from something or someone putting a crack in their worldview; a question, that opens their mind just enough for God to get a toe in.Without speaking the language I couldn’t imagine what His chisel would look like in these circumstances.  Granted, they were starving and our team brought them food.  But other Aid groups and Humanitarians have done that as well.  What would be unique about our encounter?  Having been raised to fear and hate Christians, it was going to take more than a bag of rice, I was sure.

**********************

Of course as I snapped the picture they all moved! Then swarmed me to see themselves on the tiny little camera screen!

Most of us moseyed among acacia trees, trying to infuse good will in the hearts of the women and children hiding in the shade.  The men, of course, were together elsewhere while our leaders met with theirs inside a small thatch hut.  I tried sign-language and embarrassing attempts at Kiswahili, but dialogue of any kind was futile since most spoke Somali.  The children were petrified of my long fingernails and hid behind their mother’s vibrant sarongs.  It was tempting to go find one of my friends and dissect our differences.  But the music coming from a distant bush summoned my curiosity.  I was amazed to see a group of Mama’s (which included grand-Mama’s) dancing and singing to the crude rhythm of a stick on a cooking oil container.  Enamored with their impromptu display in the 104⁰heat, I watched from a safe distance, not wanting to thwart their jubilation.  I had no translator, but the enthusiasm made me assume they were eager for us to open our truck.

Seeing the clouds, the naive white folks hoped for rain. In the end, the Somalis were right....again.

A nearby group of teenage girls offered a synapse of understanding when they began asking me questions in English.  “Where did you learn English?”, I asked.  “From the school just there,” they smiled shyly, pointing in the direction of our host’s village.

I asked the girls to sing for my camera what their mothers had been singing moments before. As their tribal tune repeated itself several times, I thought to myself about the subliminal ministry of that little school.  Daniel, the Kenyan missionary who brought his wife and grandson to this forbidden field 6 years prior, designed the perfect “crack” in a free mission school.  While adhering to the country’s education regulations, sweet Teacher Mary infuses each lesson with Scripture.  Together, Daniel’s family and Mary have  crafted a view of Christians unlike anything the villagers have ever seen.  It occurred to me that my presence that day was a ministry in reinforcement.  My job was to uphold the image of a Christ follower; one that Daniel dared them to believe could ever be real.

I clapped as the girls concluded their song and asked them to tell me what the words meant.  They volleyed for the honor and finally a girl named Habeeba offered this translation:

“We could not hahv edu-kayshun.

We want owa cheeldren to lahn.

Let da wazungu (white people) come.”

 [youtube]KytxkXBcT4U[/youtube]

Certain their smiling eyes would have no idea what to do with my tears, I fought them furiously.  All I could say  was “thank you”.  I searched for Daniel later and expressed to him my deep gratitude for doing the work that opened this door for us – and all he had done to create a crack in the minds of these otherwise hostile people.

Did it take 32 people to pass out little green bags? No - but not a one of us was willing to miss the opportunity to bless each green bundle!

Crowding around the back of the truck Daniel asked his “fellow Believers” to pray.  More families had come than we had food for, and he urged us to “ask the God of the 5 loaves and 2 fishes” to multiply our offering.  Two piles were made for the 130 families we had anticipated.  The elders of those two tribes called the name of each family and distributed a green poly-burlap bag.

The visitors whom we had not fully anticipated lined up in two rows about 20 feet from the back of the truck.  One by one my teammates inside pulled green bags from the 4×4 crates, passing it down the assembly line we created.  Long after our “extras” ran out, bags were still coming. Finally the recipients started looking familiar.  Amazed themselves at the bottomless bins, the Somali’s were trying to sneak seconds.  Certain it would provoke a tribal battle, we closed the green canvas over the truck , with 20 bags remaining inside.  These we took to the school.

Carefully inspecting for scorpions, I dug a ditch wide enough for my behind and sat down in the shade.  It was hot, but there was a little breeze that actually utilized my sweat quite nicely.  It wasn’t at all enough to refresh my parched skin, but each gentle gust was enough to get me through the next 60 seconds, at which point I would start praying for another gentle wind.  Like something from a movie, I watched the women leave with green bags on their heads, forming a line as far as the eye could see, some of them beginning their 7 kilometer journey home.   I wondered how long the contents of those bags would last.  A week?  Two?  We were just a breeze, I

thought.

With the gifts from some very special Envoy Group members, this pile of bags fed an entire village...for a week!

There will come a day when the rain returns to this land.  But for now, we have given these people a tiny breath.  And we have given Daniel and Mary an extension;  a little more time to offer these people hope in The Living Water.

So here’s one of the benefits of sending Cole to a Kenyan pre-school!

[youtube]jzlvCP8l5T0[/youtube]

He told me his name was Aaron.  So when I called my friend to tell her that some strange young man was at my gate asking for her by name, she didn’t recognize him`.  “That’s not what we call him,” she told me later.  “We call him by his African name.  I just didn’t follow the Lord’s train of thought on that”.

At the time, I had two things running through my mind:   On the one hand, here was a 20 year old strange man at the gate to my driveway speaking coherent confusion.  He could be very dangerous.  My front door is open and my boys are just inside.  On the other hand, when I asked him what he needed, he immediately answered “I need Jesus Christ”.

Now, how do I know God didn’t lead him to me for a very important reason?  How do I know which response is required?  Do I err on the side of caution and possibly miss the only opportunity this man may ever allow for the Gospel?  Or do I err on the side of faith and end up with a gun in my face and a horror show permanently implanted in the memory of my boys?

As if prompted by my silent plea, my husband came and stood behind me.  He introduced himself politely and reached out his hand.  It wasn’t until the next morning that I replayed that scene in my mind and realized Aaron never took a step toward either of us when we greeted him.  In fact, when he first arrived he literally bowed at the waist in order to keep his feet exactly where they were while shaking my hand.

I gave a brief recap for my husband:  Aaron was looking for a white woman whom he called his “spiritual mother”, but couldn’t seem to remember where she lived.  It wasn’t until my husband began asking questions that Aaron started muttering and released the first and last name of our colleagues in the neighborhood adjacent to ours.  I looked at my husband in amazement that after all the white names this confused stranger had tried to pin on me, (“are you sister Mary?  Susan? Stephanie?”) he finally landed on one that hit very close to home…literally.  I decided the best thing to do was call my friend and just see if the story had any merit.  “I have never led anyone to the Lord by that name,” she told me, “it’s got to be a scam.”  She suggested we politely send him away and for Pete’s sake do not tell him where they lived.

I could hear the two men’s small talk while I stood in the doorway and hushed my boys long enough to try and figure what to do next.  My husband turned and came to me and I told him our friend had assured me it was a hoax.  It was at that point that the two thoughts battling in my mind ended their duel with caution as the victor.  Now, how do we get this guy out of here without pushing some imaginary button that instigates bad news?

This is one of those moments when I am so grateful God gave me the husband he did.  In a flash he had a divine idea and said, “let me handle this”.  He took a pencil and scrap of paper and we both headed back to the gate where Aaron was still waiting on the other side of his imaginary barrier.

“So Aaron,” my gallant knight said calmly, “we were unable to reach your friends.  But if you give me your phone number, I will continue to call them and when I reach them I will ask them to contact you”.

Oooo…great idea, I wanted to say out loud.  Then if he IS for real, we can make sure our friends are truly able to help him.  Unfortunately, Aaron told us he didn’t have a phone.  Big Red Flag!!  Everyone in this city has a phone – everyone!  Since phone credit can be purchased in 50 cent increments, there is no excuse for even the poorest residents to wander around “disconnected”.  We exchanged glances and I prayed he had a suitable plan B.

“Okay then, how can we have them get in touch with you?”  Aaron’s eyes started to look “caught”.  He said we could give them his e-mail address and proceeded to rattle of some cocktail of letters ending with a quick “@yahoo.com”.  My husband wrote it down, for real, and assured Aaron we would try to reach them again and pass on his message.  At this point he instructed me to go in for a bottle of fresh water.  Whoever this guy is, we both felt the need to send him on his way with a token of our true desire to help him…in whatever form.  I quickly filled a bottle and grabbed an orange from the fruit dish on the counter.  I gave them to my husband who offered them as a cordial goodbye, hoping Aaron would take the hint.

“But I have nowhere to go”, Aaron said desperately.  My compassion spot was choking out last minute pleas for a more substantial form of assistance.  But alas, I knew my husband was right when he said “I’m sorry Aaron, this is all I can offer you”.

I can’t tell you how I participated in a mental wrestling match all in the course of a millisecond.  But as my husband began to close the gate I suddenly remembered a recent discussion in my office regarding the verse in Luke 6 that says Give to everyone who asks you… At the end of our discussion we all agreed, the Bible doesn’t say give money, or food, or a job, or whatever.  It just says “give”, leaving each unique scenario dependent on our obedience to the Spirit’s voice.  On that day I decided no matter who approaches me with whatever request, I can always give them Jesus – so I committed to make a personal prayer my ‘go-to’ gift.  Again my logic and heart argued, not wanting to open a door that had been safely closed.  But at the last second God’s will prevailed.

“Aaron,” I said quickly as he was turning away, “I do want to pray for you right now, okay?”

Aaron didn’t answer.  But I extended my hand to him and crossed the chasm to take his.  As I bowed my head and started to pray I noticed him grow uneasy (it’s not a good idea to close your eyes while praying in this town – I let go of that endangering habit a while ago), looking to the left and right as if disoriented.  I thanked God for bringing Aaron to us.  I thanked Him that someone in his life reached out to him. I asked God to return Aaron to their care so he can get the help he needed.  As I said “amen”, he released my hand and turned away without so much as a goodbye or thank you.

It all makes sense…

By the next morning, I had all but forgotten about it.  I was drowning in my own sorrows after a long night of no sleep and the prospect of a cold shower.  The power had gone out about 9pm the previous evening and by 8:30am I decided to call a friend near my office and borrow her hot water.  I cursed through traffic and tried to manipulate my plans for the day, allowing for a nap and an early bedtime.

The shower was only lukewarm so I was still a bit sulky when the chime of my phone alerted me to a new text message.  I felt like sinking to the wet tiled floor as I read these words from my coworker, recounting the previous night’s events:

Thanks so much for helping our son Haroun last night. (Translated into English, Aaron).  He found his way to our house soon after talking to you.  He said he was lost and confused all day until “some missionaries prayed for him and gave him some water”.  Some demons were giving him some trouble the last two days and when the power went off at our house last evening they really manifested.  Please pray for Haroun and us.  He knows there is an “Islamic” demon causing fear and confusion.  He has been a Believer for 2 years.  He is from Darfur.

Needless to say I called her immediately and she gave me the whole story.  Apparently the demonic “fog” that had been encompassing Aaron through the weekend was lifted at my gate, long enough to take him 100 yards to our colleagues home.  She said he arrived there within 15 minutes of my conversation with her.  He told them what was happening and identified his plague as the Spirit of Islam.  But when the power went out, he just went crazy.

Haroum is a multilingual Muslim Background Believer led to the Lord by our coworkers two years ago.  As with all their spiritual children (and yes, there are many) they address him as “son” and he refers to them as “mother” and “father”.  Since that time he has read the Bible several times, converted other Muslim men, and is a leader in their small study group.  But for whatever reason, perhaps instigated by the final days of Ramadan, Satan has been attacking him.

In the cover of darkness Haroum met his own internal battle that night.  Speaking in various languages at the top of his lungs and bolting for the front door, occasional moments in Kiswahili made it clear what was torturing him: “they are coming…they are coming for me”.  Using The Word as his arsenal, his “father” spoke him into quietness.  Before fleeing, Haroum told them “this spirit that is in me is making me afraid of you”.  Then he dashed through the open gate and out into the night.

As I listened to the details of the hours following our encounter with Aaron, a number of things began to become clear in my mind.  For starters, even in his ‘controlled’ state, Yahweh brought Aaron to our gate.  What a clear example of exactly Who is in charge…always.  Secondly, I felt myself turning a corner.  She who was once sent to Africa to tell stories, is clearly being led in a new direction.  I shared with my friend how He has been stirring in me regarding Muslim women.  How my heart has been broken over and over again to the point that I am no longer content to just relay other people’s stories.  I know He is changing me from a mid-western Baptist blogger, to a front line Proclaimer.  I confessed to my friend that I struggle to abandon myself to the transformation.  Fear and feelings of inadequacy keep my future rolling around in the category of “ a good idea for a fiction novel”.  But our encounter with Aaron was Him speaking clearly to me:

If you won’t go willingly, I will bring them to your door.

Perhaps the most important thing I learned from this experience, however,  is how many times I miss His answers to my prayers.  You see, about a month ago I began praying that if He was going to move me into a more volatile ministry, He was going to have to protect me and my family from the one who would, no doubt, be seeking our destruction.  Prompted by a story I once heard about a hedge of flaming angels protecting the showing of “The J—s Film”, I prayed at that time, and every day since, that He would place a hedge like that….at…..my…..gate.

As I recount the invisible chasm that prohibited Aaron from coming within two feet of our property, I can see that those who are with us, were more than those who were in him.

II Kings 6:17   Then the LORD opened the servant’s eyes, and he looked and saw the hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.

Luke 10:18-20  He replied… I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you. However, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”

A hundred years ago the challenge of our grandparents was to reach untouched lands in unknown languages with the Good News.  For those serving in Africa, there was an acute awareness that time was short.  Even at that time Islam was soaking into the fabric of every nation with very little resistance.  Today, that passion and vision desperately needs resuscitation.  What started as a quiet crusade with subtle tactics has become, in the past 15 years, more like an atomic bomb: strategic drops whose mushroom cloud encompasses the masses before they can even explain its origin.  The challenge of our generation is reaching into countries where we can’t say His name.  Places where we cannot go and proclaim freely.  Places we cannot even name to our friends.

But our generation has favor that our grandparents didn’t have: these nations, these veiled cousins, are coming to us.  They are crossing our borders right now looking for food and water.  They are arriving in our cities looking for political asylum.  They are coming to hospitals in search of Western healthcare. They are coming…to our gate.  The question is, will we cross the chasm to take their hand and pray?