Brain Boogers

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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.”

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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!

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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?

I didn’t see a thing today.  After breakfast I opened my front gate to see if Brian had brought the trash in.  Then the boys and I drove to my office and back again by lunch time.  It was after I pulled into the driveway that I thought to myself, Huh…I don’t even feel like I’m in Africa today.

Last Sunday marked one year since our arrival here.  That means in 12 short months I’ve gone from sensory overload on a daily basis to administering myself some sort of neurological Novocain.  How is it possible for me to have gone to work without noticing the unemployed women-in-waiting that hold down the concrete near my office?  I’ve rarely missed an opportunity to count the number of children begging for school fees on Ngong Road.  Why did I not close the massive metal gates to my driveway and feel some relief to put Africa outside the door for the afternoon?  Could it be I was never in Africa today?  Could it be that between the book-ends of Augusts I have manufactured a way to turn it all off?  Now isn’t that ironic…

Only a week ago I was walking through Target wearing my two-ton judgement cap saying (nearly out loud) How can “you people” just walk around here with your little orange shopping carts and act like you don’t know what’s going on in the rest of the world? I did catch myself, mind you.  In fact, once I pulled those thoughts out of my head and took a look at them it made me nauseous.  Funny how I didn’t feel sick today, though.  I simply slammed the car door and went in the house having successfully shed my conscience right there on the broken concrete.

But tonight I’m alone with my thoughts and they are squawking at me like the African parrot we’re pet-sitting.  Perhaps it is the parrot.  Perhaps my hypocrisy is so obvious even a birdbrain can see it.  Rwaaaak….Polly wanna phony?

When I started this job, writing stories so you could see what I see, I knew I was up against the enemy of apathy.  I’d been a Stepford Wife long enough to know that being separated by half the globe meant I wasn’t really expected to DO anything about any of it.  I myself read a million stories over Filet Mignon and Merlot that broke my heart, but turned promptly around and ordered a $10 dessert, then drove home in my SUV at $3.50 a gallon.  I’ve been there.  Apparently, I AM there, pulling the drapes on the window to my own back yard.

I recently started buying vegetables from a farm who delivers them directly to my door instead of buying from, what Isaac calls, the chicken-poo market (aptly named for the aroma and footing).  They aren’t terribly farm-fresh or really even any cheaper.  But they come to my door!

But tomorrow I’m going to visit my vegetable friend, Evans, and maybe buy an onion or two.  I need to catch up on how he’s doing. He uses my 10-cents-per-cucumber to put himself through University – he wants to be an engineer.  I mean, if I don’t do something to wake myself up…what the heck am I going to write to you about?

I can’t believe I haven’t told you this story.  It represents the reason we are all here and with it a message of His perfect timing and working all things together for good .  All I can tell you is that I heard this story first hand.  I have re-written it to protect those involved, but the story is sound…and one you should feel proud to be a part of.

It was a rough day for David.  His foot-path to the office was filled with imaginary post-it notes of all there was to do that day.  With a short term team coming in less than a week the details were mounting.  Despite his enthusiasm for their arrival, the team brought with it a mountain of paperwork if they were going to be efficient with their brief visit.

As David unlocked his office the phrase “and they’re off” ran across his mind.  But before he could even set his bag on the desk his eyes triggered a “false start”.  Underneath shards of broken glass David saw cords; like a nest of lifeless snakes they were lying there limp…still plugged in at the wall, but attached to nothing.  Panicked, he ran a microsecond inventory of all that was lost: 2 computers, a printer, a fax machine, 2 external hard drives and 3 cell phones.  But the panic had little to do with missing hardware.  The real danger was what lay hidden inside each microchip.  Names, accounts, prayers, locations….documents and contacts of his fellow Workers and details of all those they were reaching out to with The Word.  The quiet was broken by the sound of his mind’s question: “What if my encryption wasn’t good enough?”

The recent memory of teammates being expelled from their country of service after a similar invasion put a headache in his heart.  They got off lucky.  If they would have been in some other areas they would have lost their lives before they even knew their security was breeched.  The fact that David was still standing there alive made him believe his documents must have been effectively concealed…for now.

David immediately emailed his director with his iPhone (thank goodness he was carrying it instead of leaving it in the office). They exchanged prayers and brainstormed about all the financial implications and security risks provoked by these vandals.  David’s concern was for his approaching short term team – how was he going to organize details when the details were on the other end of those frayed cords?  Then the sweet hand of Sovereignty came back in a message from the director’s wife:  “Dear David, please don’t worry – we will do whatever necessary to help you from our end.”  And they did.

Two days later, David was strolling through a technology store looking for replacements.  Still sour at the necessity for this trip, he unconsciously felt annoyed when his phone rang.  He glanced at the ID before putting it to his ear – it was Rasheed.  Not really in the mood for Mentoring but motivated by their recent promising dialogues, David tossed Up a quick request for Wisdom and Words.  He barely said hello when his friend unloaded the purpose of his call.  After two and a half years working in this country, David heard his friend ask of him a favor no one on this Island had ever asked before.

Later that night, in the cover of darkness, David could hardly wait to send the following e-mail to his director:

“Today we saw the country’s very first Follower ‘pass through the waters’.”

Many of you may not be able to handle this – but I beg you…read it anyway.  And forgive me for praying that God uses it to rock your world right to the core.

This woman, Kimberly Smith, is one of our customers.  One of our AIM Air pilots took her  out of this horrific scene.  Even for me, it’s hard to grasp…this is not just a news story…this is real.

**Caution – graphic pictures

http://kimberlylsmithblog.blogspot.com/2011/07/today-we-face-our-worst-times-with.html