The Blink

The Blink

“Surely the lowborn are but a breath, 

the highborn are but a lie. 

If weighed on a balance, 

they are nothing;

 together they are only a breath.”

Psalm 62:9

The days. In single form: some drain, some energize. As the sum of hours: culminating in weeks, months and years hopefully a rich, rewarding blink.

I had transferred the “to do” from successive lists since early 2017. I finally was able to cross it off last week. But, the return reply sobered me.

I had asked for updates on things mentioned earlier this year. I offered brief updates on my world. Then someone called. The same reason I hadn’t written in so many months was now cutting short the communique of the moment.  I hastily finished the note by stating “someone is calling, literally.” I hit send. There, one thing off the “to do” list.

This friend’s response included some benign, newsy updates, but I was shaken by his third paragraph. Only the night before he’d said to his wife, “my world is fast shrinking, having neither classes nor colleagues.  You should feel very blessed that people are calling you, literally.  And they have no idea how blessed they are by having you to call!  Send out a message telling them I said so!  :)  “

And so, here I am. Sending out the message, hoping it perfuses.

You, of course, were not the originally intended audience for that statement. The one who was calling, oh, the deep anguish.

 I invite you in to the intimate blink.

I spent the majority of last week sitting with two dear friends. She delivered their baby via C-section only six days before the call. He was admitted, could I please come to be with them?

Four more long days until I stood at his NICU bassinet wondering which of his breaths were his actual last as they came so very infrequently. He did not cry, he had been mostly silent for many days. The doctor had spoken the truth and the parents walked to the bedside to say good-bye. But, then the father said, “Well, we will go and you can stay, Auntie Mary.” 

I was horrified! Not because I would be left alone with a dying child, but because the parents would miss his last moments on this side of heaven. I begged them to stay and I touched his body, speaking the truth of God’s love over him. The parents followed and I believe that their words, touch, song enveloped the baby in peace as he went to our loving Father.

The silent, streaming tears and then the business of readying ourselves to begin the next long journey.

The stares of each and every mama that sat inside and outside the NICU; the stares of every new mama as we dragged ourselves numbly through the open maternity ward; the beds laden with sheets, blankets, babies suckling, shook us repeatedly to our fresh loss. We had walked past these mamas numerous times, now we walked differently.

I financially cleared at the accounts office. They physically cleared the room. Then, in less than 10 minutes we were at their home. The receiving of mourning friends and now the far from silent wailing of the mother, my friend. 

Less than three hours later the seven hour drive to the father’s home began. 

One family offered their large comfortable car for the transport. A young single man offered himself as the driver. A beloved friend, tribe-mate and colleague offered to accompany. Two nurses from the hospital supported with their presence. Friends gave extra funds to facilitate any need along the way.

As the vehicle left view, we piled in cars for home and to prepare for our early morning leave time. The burial was the next day at 2 p.m. We would leave at 5 a.m.

I won’t go into the rest of the exhausting details.

In the past eleven years we have walked roads of grief, pain, loss. Of joy, exuberance, victory, celebration. A blink. Truly.

How have I postured myself? When at His feet, humbly aware of both my smallness and my immense value, victory. When backed turned, very unaware of both my haughtiness and my need, grief.

There is gripping remorse when I realize afresh that I have thought myself God.

Reality is nothing I have done in these past eleven years of any worth have I done on my own. 

It is privilege to be called. It is grace to be the one to whom they reach. But, it is not me.

May there be nothing of me that says, ME! 

Deep breath. Selah. In Him. Breathe again.

And in that moment, another call.

The levity is needed. “Can you come see this “thing” on my leg? The clinic says it is not a boil, but some kind of bite. Are you able to come tell me what you think?”

I gather. Myself and things—band-aids, gauze, ointments, peroxide, alcohol, antibiotics.

I walk. After the sitting, the waiting, the driving, the grieving. I need to walk.

The dog follows, she always does.

Wow. That “thing” is massive! Trial and error. I completely occlude it with ointment on the chance we’re dealing with a mango fly larvae. (sorry, that is the stuff of life here, turn away if you must.) I heat water as we wait in case nothing wiggles and instead we need the warm compress with baking soda.

The heat of the infection melts the ointment. We reapply more heavily and we wait. . . 

Finally, the worm emerges just enough for tweezers to conquer. I dress the gaping chasm left behind.

"Good morning! How are you? I'm Dr. Worm"

Yuck, really, truly, yuck. 

Amid the variety of demand I am thankful to be called. In the days of drain, the days of mango worms, the calls are life. They fuel relationships. 

Thank you LORD, for the opportunities you give.

I will close as my friend, catalyst for this blog, closed his email, “So here's to God's leading for both of us, and for each member of your family.  And for those you serve.  In this crazy world (crazier by the day), we are in such need of his leading.”

Kamwenge Stories

In late August/early September Geoff and around 25 young people traveled about nine hours southwest of our home in central Uganda to minister to the people in the village of Kamwenge. 

The village itself is extremely impoverished—not just economically, but spiritually. Fishing villages are notorious for alcoholism, promiscuity, poverty and numerous abandoned children. Kamwenge fulfills this typical profile.

The following are a few random stories from their week-long outreach. These stories highlight God’s hand on the lives of His children and the commitment of our young people to honor Him.

The EYO outreaches traditionally have been week-long and jam-packed with practical help in the form of building new housing structures or shoring up dilapidated roofs/kitchens/ pit latrines, etc, and working to improve area garden yield, plus football tournaments to draw community members together; once together the youth preach and teach God’s truths to the crowds. In addition, they visit most of the community members in their homes and share their personal encounters with Jesus, revealing His great love for all, in hopes that more will give their lives to our great, loving Father. In the evenings after the football matches they show the Jesus Film in the local language and again preach God’s truth.

It was during such a week in Kamwenge that the following random stories had their origins.

As our EYO group set up and hosted a football match each afternoon as part an area tournament they came face-to-face with young children of 5 or 6 years being the sole caretakers of infants and toddlers. The crowds pressing in at the football matches and subsequent evening film comprised these young children, idling teenagers, drunk adults and trouble makers looking to stir up discontent. 

One afternoon, when villagers disagreed with the referees' calls, a large portion of the crowd loudly and threateningly argued. There was talk of bringing machetes to settle the “unfair” outcome at which point Geoff and one of the young men raced off in the van to retrieve the local police. (You don’t call the police here—they rarely have phones or vehicles with which to respond, especially in such a remote place as Kamwenge—you must go to them and facilitate their transport to wherever it is you’re needing them.) With police presence intact the crowd backed down and the match and evening activities were able to continue.

At one football match Geoff noticed an infant sleeping on a blanket not far from the football field boundary line. For almost two hours the infant was unattended. He never did find out who was responsible for the baby. It slept, quite contentedly amidst chaos—no doubt the usual for this little one.

One night one of our young men went out at 1 a.m. from the place where they slept to receive a phone call and found an unattended young child of about 5 or 6 years of age, sitting on the ground aimlessly playing with a plastic bottle. There were no adults in sight. The real problem of abandonment revealed in this instance deeply struck him.

During the daytime hours the young people split into small groups, spread out in the village and visited the local people. During the course of the week they built a new structure for one of the elderly men and also worked hard in the gardens of older villagers. Sitting with the people of the village and sharing the good news of Jesus and what He’s done in their lives energized and challenged the young people. One young man ran up to Geoff after a pretty intense encounter, freshly challenged to dig deeper in his study of God’s word, “Uncle Geoff! I have GOT to read my Bible more!” He was exasperated that he couldn’t answer all of the man’s questions with confidence. Awakened to his need to know more of God’s truth, he committed himself to expanding his knowledge of the Word.

One of the older EYO members also serves as the manager of our New Hope Maize Mill. Throughout the week he needed to frequently make decisions and stay up-to-date with his employees’ needs. His cell phone, hovering low on battery power, needed to be charged, but there was no charging site near the EYO base camp. Geoff immediately offered our van as a “charging station.” Hindsight is 20/20 goes the saying. His generosity was the first in a long series of falling dominoes which added significant stress to the later part of that day. A run down car battery, a football match about to start 4 km away, a need for the heavy and numerous pieces of sound system to be hauled to the field and only one small motorbike found hastily when they realized the car battery was dead meant one EYO member journeyed back and forth ferrying all the needed items. The match did NOT start on time, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind too much. Geoff, however, loathed his “bonehead” maneuver as he termed it.

After days of one-on-one discussions, marriage/foundational doctrine teachings to area leaders, and the preaching at each football match the week culminated in one rousing award and recognition ceremony. Present was a wealthy local goat farming family who gave the EYO group a healthy, robust 8-month old male goat as an appreciation of the love and compassion shown to their village. There was no room in the small bus to carry a very large he-goat 9 hours home, so Geoff and a few of the boys hog-tied it, placed it in a large Rubbermaid tub which barely fit in the back of our van, and then began the long journey home. 

Every so often the goat would shout out, once at a very inopportune moment. The van was stopped by the police—a very common occurrence here. It does NOT necessarily mean you did anything wrong to warrant being pulled off the road, but often boredom (and so taking the opportunity to pull over the white man and engage him in conversation) or even fishing for bribes might serve as the catalyst. As the police officer was talking (and Geoff said he was talking and talking and talking, enamored with his own story) the goat loudly yelled out. Everybody in the car froze, waiting for the officer to take opportunity to levy a fine, but the officer was so taken by his own words he didn’t even hear the goat. Laughter, only slightly controlled, broke out, but the officer remained unaware of the extra passenger, which fueled even more laughter. There was no fine, no attempt at a bribe and they were soon back on the road, still laughing. The stop was due to officer boredom as best we can figure.

When Geoff is part of these outreaches he endures long hours of driving, simple suppers anywhere from 10-midnight, little water, perhaps no discreet place to bathe, sleeping in the van, hours of hearing local language & no to little English, and lots of stares as the only white man in remote villages. It’s all worth it, however, as he finds these times ideal for interaction with our young people. 

Faith has been honed in many of the youth as they’ve given of themselves to people who have little materially and also truly need God’s spirit to fill them with the truth of the Gospel.

When the group arrives home after their long drive I love hearing their stories tumble out with excitement over all that God did in and around them. I hope you’ve enjoyed hearing some of  them as well.