The Garden of God.

The other day the pastor's landcruiser was at the mechanic's for some repairs. 

So before we could head to the church for lessons we had to go and pick it up.

...Not literally pick it up...its huge.

Now, for those of you who know me well enough,

it should be no surprise to you why this truck, also getting work done,

caught my eye.

For no matter what I end up doing,

there is definitely still

--and I hope always will--

be a love for animals and for nature that runs through the deepest parts of me.

So when I see the truck with the World Wildlife Fund stickers stamped to the doors and tailgate,

something in me gets excited. 

My heart jumps a little as I remember my childhood dreams

of traveling the world to find, 

admire, preserve and teach about animals.

A dream dashed by the first year chemistry class

 of the University of Guelph's wildlife biology degree.

That's not entirely true. 

But my inability to flourish in science and math did definitely play a part into

my pursuing philosophy and then onto theology and intercultural studies. 

God has his ways.

And even yet, 

though He has guided me down a path different than those of my childhood expectations,

still, more than remnants of awe for His creation do remain in my heart.  

The scenes He creates remind me of Him.

--------

It rained all last night and this morning.

 A welcome change as, a month into dry season, the dust was beginning to pick up.

The difficulty of the rain comes, however, when the water meets the dirt roads.

What was once a bumpy, hard path, becomes a slick mudway,

and the potholes, or craters I should say,  become small lakes.

This morning, I embarked on a small expedition down the road,

around these lakes and over those mudways,

 because I had run out of bread.

I safely made it to the shop and successfully purchased a loaf of what the sign and the bread bag assured me was 'toast',

it was just bread. I can't see that pre-toasted bread would ever take off.

Now, on my way back from buying bread I saw a white dove in the muddy streets.

To me it was a stark contrast to see this bird in these streets filled with mud and littered with trash.

I wondered how it was able to stay so white;

and there was a moment which arose in between dodging traffic, 

hopping around puddles 

and trying not to slip in front of everybody watching.  

There was a moment on the dirty streets of Bukavu

that  I was reminded of how God is here.

A strong metaphor of God's Spirit in this place.

When I saw that bird my heart rested,

just as it had when I had seen the butterfly on my drive with Raha.

And, I think, that if you unpack those moments you would find

that the heart's rest came because I was reminded that even in the midst 

of hundreds of thousands of people striving to make their way,

even in the midst of a  a war-torn country

there is peace.

I thank God for the little pieces of Heaven here on Earth that remind us of Him.

And I hope that we, especially we as Christians,

are doing our best to be good stewards of the property lent to us while we are staying here.

I hope that I never develop an absolute apathy towards these things 

which are such constant reminders of God,

which give peace of heart in the midst of war.

Forbid it that I take what God made and said was good,

and ever treat it as if it were a mistake.

God can be found all around in the life He commanded to spring up from the ground,

from the water, in the air; His breath is everywhere.

Moses saw the glory of God in the burning bush.

I want to be so filled with wonder,

and my spiritual eyes to be so open,

that I see God's glory in every bush,

every flower, rock, bird and tree.

So that I cannot help but find rest and give God praise in the midst of any circumstance

because I am so overcome and surrounded by the beauty that He has planted

and cared for on this earth, and that I am unable to deny it as His craftsmanship.  

When I feel the wind, I feel the breath of God.

When I smell the flower, I smell the fragrance of His grace.

When I taste the food from the ground, I taste His goodness.

So that when I hear the bird, I hear His voice.

So that when I see life, I see God.

May I tend to the earth and all within as if it were the very garden of God. 

Because it is.

Prayer Requests:

The pastor's computer was stolen today from his house today. Luckily nothing else was taken, however the computer contained a lot of information over the years from community development projects, sermons, and personal information so it was a big loss. Please pray that a replacement could be found quickly, or best yet, 

that this computer with all its contents can be recovered. 

A miracle is what we wanna see!

Also, I'm heading with the pastor to Uvira from Thursday until Saturday. Its a number of hours south and a bit more interior.

 So please pray for safety on the roads and throughout travel 

and that we would find the people there well and that God's hands at work would be evident.

Heart and Home

If you follow even the traveler's heart for long enough

 it will eventually lead you back to its home.

My third week here has now come to completion. And as third weeks often go on trips, I found myself missing home. Perhaps, along with the third week, being sick and confined to the house for an extended period of time added to a fond desire to see home. Not just Canada nor Edmonton though, but my real home. The little farm in Ontario. That is where my heart leads to; even as I venture into amazing places and try share love and to inspire hope, my heart still goes there. It's where my heart was grown. My childhood thirst was quenched with water from the laundry room tap and the kitchen cooler. My roots go into the Perth county soil that, so many times, I've washed off of my hands after coming into the house from the great outdoors. My mind treasures the memories of sunsets watched from the living room window and of the star-filled skies seen best under the cover of blankets as you drift to sleep on the trampoline in the front yard. My eyes long to see those sights again. My lungs want to breathe the country air. My ears want to hear birds singing and kids playings in the daytime, the chirping of the crickets and the croaking of the frogs from the pond in the night. My voice wants to be heard by other ears that know these sounds. My fingers want to just barely touch the tops of the wheat growing in the field. My hands want to grasp the maple, spruce and cherry tree branches. My feet want to dodge the thistles and pinecones as they run bare on the grass beside the laneway heading towards the house. My legs want to remember what it feels like to jump the cedar rail fence and run through the cornfield. My arms want to remember what it feels like to hug family members in both greetings and farewells.The people who nurtured these roots so that they could grow strong.

But, roots are not developed so that nothing would ever change. Roots are developed so that things can grow and change and reach into new places and to new heights. With a thankful heart my life builds upon the memories that I am so privileged to have. And may it be considered an honor to now be a part of trying to make the soil fertile for others. So that the world in which others are now growing their roots, may be good to them. That the water they drink will be refreshing and pure. That the sights and sounds they see and hear would be pleasing and not a source of pain or fear. That the roads their feet tread upon would lead to a safe and peaceful home. And that the people they embrace would be healthy, happy and a source of God's deep love in their life.

So as I think back on my home and look forward to when I find myself there again, I thank God for that place, and also I thank Him for where I am now. Regardless of where my heart will lead, may it now be all here, as Jim Elliott once advised. May I find my heart torn when I leave this place. Not because I have been uprooted and replanted. But because I have taken what has been nurtured and grown in me, and allowed it to be woven into the fabric of life here, stitched together with the thread of love. So that when I return to the place of my roots, I am still somehow bound to the people here. So bound in love and solitude in the community of God's children that I find myself unable to sever the tie that binds with a lack of prayer, an abundance of apathy, or complacency in the comforts of home.

May we be bound to all people with the perfect love of God so that we may know and experience fullness in Him together with one heart and, one day, be together in our heavenly home.

Back To It.

So today I was glad to be well enough to get back to teaching and visiting people. 

I visited some friends at a nearby sowing shop and tried to explain why I wasn't able to come on Wednesday. I think I was quite successful at this. 

However when a sower there commented on how both my shirt and glasses frames were 

LaCoste, my response would cause me stumble into my first classic language learning blunder. 

 I affirmed to her that yes, they were both LaCoste, and then wanted to inform the lady that the

shirt was a purchase from my mother. 

"Mama mungu, ananunua..." I told her.

Except I should have said 'wangu' for 'my' (mama), 'mungu' means God.

and I forgot to conjugate 'ana' from present tense, to 'ali', past tense. 

So while I had intended to say, 

My mother, she bought them."  (Mama wangu, alinunua...:)

What I ended up saying was "Mother God, she is buying them."

And that is why my Congo friends think I am part of this God the Mother sect

that always comes to my door in Edmonton.

And why they also think that I believe that God the mother is going buy my LaCoste apparel from me, probably to help me pay off my student loans...

It's a good life. 

In other news, I have some friends who are tripping to Africa shortly. 

And I thought it may be a good idea to give them some indications of suspicious varieties of mosquitoes to be on the lookout for during their time here.

  

1.  Anopheles breficases

This of course, is the first breed to be suspicious of. . You can never be certain if they really are a carrier or are just trending, but its good to be careful nonetheless. 

 

2. Anopheles breficasescertaintus

These guys, on the other hand, are much more malicious. Similar to the first breed, but they are carriers and they know it. Swat them immediately. 

3. Anopheles trenchcotovialacis

This third variety is found in the sketchier parts of certain districts. Don't trust them, and they can be easily avoided by not venturing into the wrong areas.. 

A little blood to trade for malaria is never as sweet a deal as it sounds.

But all joking aside,

malaria can of course be quite serious and fatal if not treated.

Just Sunday I had visited a church member, with my pastor,

who had been bed-ridden and hospitalized by malaria.

Many have lost their lives or loved ones to the disease.
So if you are traveling to an infected area,
do educate yourself on malaria prevention,
medication, possible side effects,
what the moquitoes in the area may be resistant to,
and other preventative measures (bug spray, mosquito nets...etc).
And because even all these things are not foolproof,
don't take any sickness overseas as something
 'small or to be toughed out'.
Get some tests done if you become ill, because you never know.

Keep those affected in your prayers, 

and that healthcare may keep improving to prevent and treat malaria more and more effectively.

And be thankful for your healthcare and where you are! 

Sick Days

So yesterday I woke up with a funny feeling in my stomach,

but I began the day as normal with some toast a la peanut butter and jam. 

However by 10 oclock, half way through Swahili lessons, 

I was starting to feel nauseated, so the lessons were cut short and I began to rest. 

Later I saw my friend John briefly, but also had to cut that time short

due to nausea again. From the afternoon on I was in bed all day, 

with nausea, fever, body aches and fatigue.

So English lessons yesterday and this morning were cancelled.

Today I have been feeling better, with only mild fatigue and cramps.

However I went with my pastor to a hospital just for a check up and some tests

and the test came back positive for malaria.

So I have received my official welcome to Africa. 

Twelve pills a day for the next three days will be on my menu,

but hey, I was praying for a way to switch malaria medication anyway.

Oh life.

Please pray for a quick recovery so I can get back to teaching 

and what God has for me here in Congo.
 

All to God.

Letters to the Congo (Bukavu)

Dear Congo,

I walked your streets again today.
I ventured out onto the dusty red roads.
I saw your countless vendors of fruit, packaged cookies and used shoes.
I saw your people working,
and working,
working. 
I met one your people again,
my friend John. He joined me as I walked.
And we talked together for hours.
Matured and aged by the demanding realities of life here.Yet he calls me his uncle and his brother.
Be good to him, to his village and to his family Congo.


I also drove your roads today, well not I personally,
but I was a passenger on them.
Your rugged, dirt roads with rocks strewn about.
Your roads filled with trucks, bikes and cars
weaving around each other and around your people all walking where ever they can. 
Your roads once paved Congo,
once tarmac only years ago, now rubble. What happened to you?
You as well, Congo, look so much older than you are.
So beautiful, yet so mistreated.
So chaotic, yet so peaceful.
The busyness of life and the serenity of the lake,
the chaos of traffic, and the gentle fluttering of butterfly wings
as their bearer peacefully explores your streets. 

Sometimes I wonder if you even know who you are, Congo.
Are you peace or are you war?
And perhaps your people struggle with identity as well.
 Do they know who they are? Where they belong? Where they can rest....
Your resilient, struggling, determined people.
Your fearful people. Congo, so many of your people are afraid.
Its in the construction constantly going on in your city.
People, because of the past, too scared to trust the bank.
Deposit your money one day, your bank looted another,
and they lose all. So instead, they earn and they build.
Earn a hundred, buy concrete.
Earn fifty, buy some bricks.
Earn thirty, buy some lumber.
To build their houses. For years upon years upon years.
There are so many fears,
in your people Congo.

I saw one of your refugee camps today Congo. At one time a football field,
now a fenced quarter with long tents, for the people of your sister Rwanda.
A place for them to rest as they emerge from the jungles,
where they had fled not so very long ago, but yet an eternity ago. 
Looking now to go home. Safely.
Do not tarry in allowing them safe passage.

Today I also saw your workers for justice and development.
The offices of the UN MONUC, of OXFAM, of the Tear Fund,
of the Geneva Convention, of World Vision, of....Congo, there are so many.
So many of the organizations, the NGO's that I have ever heard of...are here.
With you, for you. I hope your people see that they are loved.
In the absence of local leadership, there is a universal leadership which loves them. 
I hope they see it.
I hope they see it in me Congo.

Me, your guest. Your guest that had, in honesty,
started to grow tired of the stares of your people as he walked by.
The stares at his clothing, his shoes, his hair, his difference.
And every look is a stare, there are no glances. 
I'm sorry but I was starting to be frustrated Congo.
Frustrated with their uncertainty as to what to do with the different,
and perhaps with my uncertainty as well.
But, thankfully, my heart is changing Congo.
And may I now see every stare as an opportunity.
An opportunity to look back with love.
An opportunity to respond with love, to show, all people, God through me.
I hope they will see it in my eyes Congo, my eyes and my smile and my attitude.
I hope your people see God in me staring back at them
with a fierce and relentless compassion; passion
 for their lives here on this earth and their souls in eternity.

Oh Congo, today I walked your streets again.
And even though we have known each other for only a little over two weeks,
when I stepped onto your roads, surrounded by walls and wires,
flowers, plants and people, so many of your people,
I felt love for you today Congo.
The Congo dust that clings to my feet is beginning to cling to my heart.
Your dust Congo. Your dust and dirt.
Your ugly and your beautiful.
You Congo.


Sincerely,
A Sojourner In Your Midst.

Rhythm and Celebration

It was a day of rhythm, music and celebration. 

Sunday I attended my first ever African wedding. 

The day began at 8:30, as I headed off to church for the regular service. 

The service was shortened to two hours in lie of the wedding ceremony 

which began at around 11am. 

There was music, singing, 

music, singing. 

Dancing, preaching,

singing and music. 

The ceremony ended around 1:30pm

and was followed by a small parade of Toyota Land Cruisers

and various other SUV's driving around the city

honking a, rough, but rhythmic beat.

The center focus being, of course, the vehicle decorated with ribbons

and bearing the bride and groom. 

At 5:00 the reception began, 

bearing many similarities to a Canadian reception,but with more music and dancing. 

The reception ended around 8:00 with a TIGHT circle dancing around the bride, groom,

 best man and maid of honor. It was an honor and a blast to be a part of the celebration.

Though you will note that in none of the pictures neither the bride nor groom are smiling. 

I asked someone about this, but they didn't know why. 

I do imagine that your jaw would get quite tired given the length of  the celebrations

if you were smiling before everyone the whole time.  Perhaps...

 Following the reception I joined the Pastor and his family

as they visited a church member in the hospital.

A young fellow suffering from pretty severe malaria. 

A reminder that amidst celebration 

there is pain occurring at the same time.  

But the existence of pain, brokenness and sickness,

does not mean that we should cease to celebrate the good things. 

Here be some photos of the event.

 

The Ceremony at the church. In Congo they have a civil wedding for the government, which was on the Friday. On Saturday was the giving of dowries. And Sunday was the church ceremony and following reception. The choir in the back is in pink, yellow and blue floral pattern, the colors chosen by the marriage partners.

 Leaving the church.

The entry of the family and wedding party.

Gift giving time. When the first people came up with the bracelet I thought: "Oh, that's a nice gift, they made a bracelet for the couple." I was soon informed that the banana-leaves woven into the rope symbolized either the gift of a goat or cow. The top right one is a cow, the other two are goats. I missed one goat, because I thought it was just rope. 

The presentation and cutting of the cake. It didn't stretch to feed everyone (maybe 200 guests, the Pastor said some receptions may host up to 800) but they got it quite far.

A 'flower girl' and some of the gifts laid out before the head table.

A few of the traditional gifts: rice sifter, broom, bowl and wooden spoon.  I wasn't able to upload the video, but each traditional gift was presented with a dance demonstrating the use of each, whether sifting, sweeping or stirring.

A Piece of Bread and a Few Trees

Days pass by...
That was a free insight,
the next ones going to cost you.

(muzungu = foreigner, essentially)

Okay, so on my second Thursday here I went for a walk.
Now Thursdays are a little different for me because I teach English in the morning
rather than late afternoon as all other days.
So after my beginner English class I went for a walk
knowing there was no limit on when I had to get back.
Thus, I decided to try what I hoped was a new shortcut to a hotel by the lake,
that I had discovered/been shown by a lady whom I had no idea what she was saying
but that sure said a lot as we walked.
So this shortcut I took, across the road,
down the hill, past the bakery that smells as good and pleasant as you could imagine
a room of fresh breads and buns would.
Down the street, past many shops, and into a narrow early with a steep staircase leading down towards the direct path to the Hotel La Roche.
Currently my favorite spot to work and prepare lessons. (photos to come in the future).
I spent a little while at La Roche and then decided to head back to the house.
I took an alternate route back, which I thought was the scenic but longer route.
It was actually shorter than my shortcut.
I had just taken a wrong turn, or two, the first time walking it.
Cest la vie.

Now as I walked back I came on the intersection directly across from my place,
but for some reason, perhaps it was the onslaught of taxi drivers on the main road
suddenly and overwhelmingly me a ride or other forces unknown,
 I took a right instead of heading across the street to the house.
Okay I was definitely avoiding the taxi drivers.
I took a right, I figured that I could just walk down the busy street a ways,
and, because I was feeling particularly self conscious that day and didn't want to look like a wondering, lost muzungu, I would round the corner at the bottom of the hill and take the side street back up to the house.
However, as I walked down the street, as I had a previous day,
I developed another young-tag-along.
Not Victoire, but another boy, his name I could not catch amidst his other Swahili words. 
He was leaning against pipe fencing and once he saw me he immediately also started to walk.
This boy was a little different than Victoire though.
Everything about this boy spoke of street kid,
from the dirty face, stained white shirt,
and the tear along the back of his pants revealing no undergarments.
He spoke in quick Swahili and I could catch only one word,
"Saidia" - 'help'.

Now I will tell you this, I have had no trouble saying no to many kids and people.
I know the need is real here,
but the need is not for my money.
So when some kids have practiced their English with the words "Give me ze money."
I will tell them, "hapana, pole." Which is my best attempt at saying 'No, I'm sorry."

But with this young boy I felt something different, not sure why.
I wanted to do something.
But not here, not with so many people around
and where what would be intended as a kind action for a boy
could turn into pain as I'm sure more would come asking
and I would not be able to give to all.
 So I kept walking, praying over a plan.
And soon enough we came to that bakery,
the bakery where the pleasant aroma of fresh bread is perhaps
not as pleasing to some as it is to I, who can, at any time, enter and have of whatever I want.
So I decided, I'd go in, I did need bread myself anyway,
and if the boy stayed with me, perhaps it could be something to offer him.
The boy didn't come in with me, perhaps knowing
he would have been scooted out by the shopkeeper.
But he waited outside, I imagine hoping in his heart that I wasn't just buying for myself.
I purchased a bag of buns, shoved it out of site into my backpack
and found the boy waiting.
I don't know what he was thinking,
seeing me go inside the shop, knowing I was buying something,
and then coming out 'empty handed'. Knowing that I was hiding the bread.
 I wanted to somehow still show him love,
and let him know that I wasn't giving him the cold shoulder.
"Unakuya". - 'You, come.' I told him as I started to walk and cross the busy street,
a little abrupt perhaps, but again, the best language I could muster. 
While we walked I kept thinking about the words of Jesus about how
to give a glass of water, or a morsel of food to the poor, is to give it to Jesus.

But the image of the muzungu here is so twisted,
I don't understand it, I cannot even pretend to.
But I really don't want to be just a source of money,
I want to be a source of love.
I do want to feed Jesus in the 'distressing disguise of the poor', as Mother Teresa once said.
But I guess I do want to do it right as well, helping without harming.
With right motives of heart, thinking about the long term,
beyond the moment of "look at me because I have given food to a hungry child."
I have little idea though which of my actions are good
and which are misguided.  I cannot tell you whether the choices I have made are the best or not.

But I digress.
We walked along. I had a route in mind, intending to find a less busy place where I could take out the bread and give him some.

Now, as a small note, I want to admit that
I have developed a curious condition of taking wrong turns in Bukavu,
and this walk was no exception.
Though I knew the way,
the knowledge of the way slipped out of mind for a second,
 and I found myself and my small companion walking down another road.
I recognized the place though and knowing the new way I,
 like a gps, redirected myself and kept walking towards the house.

Along the way were more attempts at small talk.
"Muji mukubwa sana". - 'The city... is very big,' I said.
....good one Andrew.
He nodded, and aat least I knew he understood a bit.
I managed to ask him if he lived nearby and he nodded again.
I asked him it he had eaten today and he shook his head, 'hapana'.
By that time I had had breakfast, lunch and a small snack. 
"Yesterday?" I asked. "Ndiyo"-'Yes', he responded. That was good to hear  at least.

We continued to walk until I saw this place where some old concrete foundation
from a house or a wall, which I do not know, sat in a small ledge overlooking
a large portion of the city.
A clean seat with a view is what I saw. An opportunity.
So here I went and sat. The young boy with the torn pants walked a few steps,
realized I was stopping and then, as I beckoned him over, came and sat down by me.
Here I unzipped my backpack, pulled out some bread and handed it to him.
He took it,  and started to work his way through it as I looked over the city,
trying to think of how I could show him Christ's love.
I looked over the houses, hills and trees thinking about this, then tried some swahili again.
"Ni...uh..Ninapenda miti." - "I like the trees. " He nodded again.
"Unapenda miti?" -'Do you like the trees?".
"Ndiyo." He responded. I was glad he didn't hate the trees,
that would have really killed the conversation.

At this time now, it should be noted, that a muzungu sitting on the side of the road in Bukavu
is not a common site. And down below this ledge where the boy and I sat was house.
There were a number of children playing outside the house,
and seeing me one yelled up a phrase I never would have expected.
 "MUZUNGU!"
I sent the word "Jambo!" - "Hello" back down,
and my response to them,
my acknowledgement of them was all they needed.
Three boy rushed up the hillside and joined us on the ledge.
Their names I do not remember, but their ages, 9, 9 and 12, I do.
Down below another girl remained, probably about 13, but she was caring for
a toddler  and a young baby, siblings I supposed (but I didn't know the word to ask),
so she could not join the others.
 She would listen from below though as  I tried to spur on more conversation about the trees.
Seeing a bamboo tree I pointed and asked in Swahili 'This tree, what kind is it?"
They answered with the Swahili name, and I told them the English name as well. 
"And that tree? What is it?" I asked again, pointing at another.
(I have been having a lot of trouble remembering the words for 'that', 'this' and 'those' in Swahili, so I was proud of this accomplishment.)
"Avocado." One boy responded, it sounds a little different in Swahili,
 but similar enough to English that I got excited to say the English word for the tree as well.
I do like avocado trees, though the fruit is not my favorite.

Now as time passed
I had definitely drawn a lot of curious onlookers wondering about this
 muzungu sitting by the road speaking in chopped up Swahili to these children.
A young man yelled a greeting from a house atop a hill with a steep staircase leading up to it.
 I think I had chatted with him my first time down this road.
 I answered back with a quick greeting.
Three young men then approached as well,
wanting to chat, to use what English they knew.
Before long they were saying that a lady down the road was inviting me over there too,
curious as well, I'm sure, of what I was doing here.
So, with 'always be relational' in my mind,
I got up after a bit and made my way over there,
feeling a little bad that my focus on the tattered boy
 seemed to have gotten lost amidst the new crowd.
I said a farewell to the kids from the house and walked over to where a couple
jolly, plump woman were calling us over.
Perhaps that's not the best way to describe them, but its true!

The first young boy got up and walked with me as well,
whether it was for companionship or more bread I don't know.
Part of me hoped it was for companionship,
because then I could have known that I had shown him I would be a friend.
Part of me hoped that it was just for more free stuff,
because then I wouldn't feel as guilty to lose him amidst the people.
Just being brutally honest...

 The young men that I was with could speak a little English,
which was good because the women talked so fast in Swahili I couldn't catch a word.
We were somehow having a fun time and they invited me to see their small sowing shop
which I entered and where the conversation continued.
The boy didn't come in though, and after a little while he walked off.
I know this because they told me my companion was starting to go,
and asked if this was alright.
 I nodded and said it was...

I stayed in the shop a little while, chatting, laughing, and feeling a little uncomfortable at times.
Observing the old but reliable machines,
dusty photos on the wall,
and fabric and clothing in the process of repair.
Then as the conversation dwindled, I stated that I must be on my way
and started to make my way back home again.
Soon to be detoured by two guys my age with excellent English
sitting on benches at the bottom of the hill with the steep staircase leading
to the house from where a young man had previously called greetings down to me.
I chatted with them, I climbed the steep staircase.
I discovered the father of the house was the king of a nearby tribe.
I chatted and laughed, too loud at times.
And then as the young men had an appointment to get to
I made my way back to the once, once again, walking with them for a portion of the way.

Now, I will meet with the people at the sowing shop again tomorrow.
I expect that I will see those living in the house atop the steep hill again.
But...
I do not know if I will see that young boy once more.
And he is the one my heart is going out to right now.
I want to be his friend. 
I hope I showed him love,
but I wish I could have done more.
I went home feeling that I should have done more.
"One piece of bread" I thought to myself as I entered my house that day, that was all I gave.
One piece of bread and some conversation about a few trees. What a meager offering.
 But, I remind myself that God continues to see the boy.
My prayers go from my heart and reach to him through God's hands.
I have hope in the God who has worked miracles
with small pieces of bread before.
And pray He will do this again
in the life of that boy, who, as I do, also likes the trees.

Maelezo vichache kidogo

 Maelezo vichache kidogo...A few little details

1. Yes you bet that little crank is spinning the wheel. After quite a process of heating and trying new fuel sources (oils, wicks, candles) I was finally able to heat the tank long enough to get that little steam powered motor cranking at high velocity. (I'd post the video, but that would take me 4 days to upload.) However, when I pulled out the fuel source attached to the handle under the metal tank, a fire continued to burn in the chamber. I don't know what was burning or if it was a holy moment from God like Moses before the bush or Elijah on Mount Carmel,  But something was burning. So the next task will be to find a sustainable fuel source for whoever will be using this in school to teach kids of steam engines...or I suppose they could just pray each time before the class for the fire...maybe that's sacrilegious... Hope not.

2. A wedding invitation! This Sunday I will attend my first Congolese wedding, and I'm quite looking forward to it. And yes, to my Vanguard internship professor, I will likely also use the wedding as a cultural experience to write about for one of the papers.


3. . Finally, a few inspirational words from Big Momma T.

"Yesterday a wealthy man from Holland came and said, "I have lots of money." He was shocked to hear me say, "I don't need your money." He just looked at me. he expected me to become all excited and to start listing the places where we need money for this and that. Then he said, "But I want to do something. " Then of course I gave him the address of our sisters in Tanzania, where the people are starving... When I gave him that address, you could see joy in his face. First there had been surprise and then joy. We need to show the people that it's not their money that is important but the "giving."
    That man who came to see me said, "I have a big house in Holland. Do you want me to give it up?" I said, "No." "Do you want me to live in that house?" I said, "Yes." "I have a big car--do you want me to give that up instead?" I said, "No. But what I want you to do is to go back and see some of the many lonely people that live in Holland. Then every now and then, I want you to bring a few of them at a time and entertain them. Bring them in that big car of yours and let them enjoy a few hours in your beautiful house. Then your big house will become a center of love---full of light, full of joy, full of life." He smiled and said that he would be happy to bring the people to his home but that he wanted to give something up in his life. So I suggested that, "When you go to the store to buy a new suit or some clothes, or when someone goes to buy for you, instead of buying the best that would cost fifty-five dollars, buy one for fifty dollars and use that extra money to buy something for someone else, or better still, for the poor." When I finished saying this, he really looked amazed and exclaimed, "Oh, is that the way, Mother? I never thought of it." "

(Excerpt from Where There is Love, There is God, Kolodiejchuk, pg 28-29)

The Beauty and the Pain.

The beauty and the pain. 

Sometimes it can be difficult to know when one begins and the other ends.

They are so intertwined that

pain and beauty

really seem to have become strange but common companions here.

I see it in the physical city itself.

The beauty of the lake and the flora,

the intricacy of much of the architecture,

(there really are beautiful buildings here)

intertwined with desperate attempts at living quarters,

shacks, tin roofs, dirt roads

and thousands of people hoping for a better, safer, survivable

 life in the city.

I see the beauty and the pain

in the flowers and the wire that adorn many wall tops.

Walls and wire to keep pain out,

flowers to hold onto something beautiful. 

I saw the beauty and the pain in my friend John,

whom I had promised to meet again this week.

On Wednesday he came,

 with a large burlap sack filled masks and statues 

wrapped in plastic bags.

He came, as promised, to show me his collection,

and to tell me a little about the meaning of each mask.

Masks and statues from the Kasai,, Baluba and Babembe tribes,

The Nyindu, Banyanga and Basonge,

among others. 

He told about the big baluba mask,

with the heart-shaped mouth.

Speaking and using love,

colored in white, red and black.

Reminders to collaborate with others,

to refuse to shed blood,

and to live in peace without discrimination over color.

Beside the Big Baluba another mask of peace,

signifying the King of the Balwalwa, who called for law

and cease of fighting among tribes.

There was the mask with no eyes,

for the blind but sharp-minded.

A reminder that even the blind man is capable of work

if his mind is good.

There was the crying mask,

crying for the death of loved ones.

The animal mask, worn in ceremonies

conducted for the sick animals of the forest.

And the pairs of marriage masks,

for two who will become one,

as man and wife.

John told me about each mask. 

He also told me of his uncle,
whose name is also Andrew.

His Uncle Andrew had sent a mask with John as a gift for me

and his wishes that he too could have visited me in Bukavu.

His uncle who was suffering from malaria,

and had lost both legs to gunshot wounds.

He couldn't come to the city,

but perhaps, one day,
 I may visit him in the village.

The village,

over 50 km away John told me.

He travels from the village because he knows French and some English as well,

so he is chosen to try and sell things to earn money for the people back home.

I felt even more honored that John had showed me this collection of masks

when he told me how half the road to Bukavu was not drivable,

so he walks, with the masks and statues, 25 kilometres.

We also talked about the difficulties of Congo.

"Take me to Canada."

He had said several times,

it seems to be a common phrase here.

He told me that he felt the good presidents get killed,

and the bad ones don't care about the people.

Jobs are offered,

but they are given to the less qualified with some relation to the employers.

How business with tourists used to be good,

maybe a hundred dollars could be made in a day.

But that was before the insecurities,

the increase of war,

fear,

pain.

I like this man a lot.

I appreciated and respected him as he told me about his life

and the life of people in the village.

All the while he never tried to sell me anything,

he just wanted to share his story.

In his heart there was so much

beauty.

There is such evident beauty, and pain in his life.

Before he left I was able to pray with him,

and wish him my most sincere blessings,

as he packed his masks, statues and banana-leaf figurines

into plastic bags and the burlap sack. 

I hope to see him again before I leave.

 John, with the collection.

(Yes, you better believe is repping Canada! I had nothing to do with that.)

Other Thoughts

And as I think about beauty and pain, 

I can't help but be reminded 

of where the greatest waves of beauty and pain collided.

Where an innocent Christ was crucified,

and where so many guilty would be justified, declared innocent.

In a world with sin,

but a loving God.

Beauty and pain, I think, 

are inseparable

and insanely confusing.

They are at war and yet they intertwine.

Complementing and contrasting each other. 

But at the end of the day,

at least this is what I think, 

 that it's the flowers that grab the wire.

It's not possible to be the other way around.

It's the flowers that have life, that grow and move.

It's God's creation overcoming man's. 

The beauty and the pain.

Though it may seem that the flowers will wither, 

and the wire will remain. 

Though beauty may seem brief and scarce,

and pain as constant and always here the same.

 I think, and perhaps I do suppose,

that the life of beauty was far more valuable, powerful, meaningful,

than the empty presence of earthly pain. 

Though now they exist together,

they will one day be separate.

And the beauty, freely offered through God, in God

will stretch into eternity.

There, in that place

 with Him,

the pain will not even be a memory.  

To be with Him...

The pain will cease,

beauty will overcome.

Sorrow may last for the night

but joy comes in the morning.

Psalm 30:5

Philippians 3:8

Confronted with Need.

Victoire. 

The other day I went for a walk.

After perusing through the, much too busy for my country-blood, market

I found that I had developed a young tag-a-long by the name of Victoire (victory).

As I walked so did Victoire, across the street,

up the hill,

into the paper store,

down the road. As we walked, with what little Swahili I know I tried to talk with him.

"Jina lako?" (What's your name?)

"How is your mother?' To see if he had parents, and he did.

"My name is Andrew...Andre in french."

Now I presume Victoire had joined me on my walk because I was foreign,

 a muzungu,

a muzungu with money.

And with what english he knew, 

(which seemed only to be 'give' and 'money')

 after I made a purchase he would ask for something for himself.

But I know that I am not a sustainable source to him,

and that there is no way that I alone can provide

for the amount of people in need in the city of Bukavu.

But yet I tried to ask myself, "What would Jesus do with a hungry child."

Mother Teresa was confronted with people saying that she spoils the poor with free things.

She replied saying that God spoils us most of all with the free,

undeserved gifts of grace he showers on us.

How hungry was Victoire?

Was he only tagging along because he had been given a free hand-out by a muzungu before? 

Or was he really in need?

I don't know. Am I the one to judge circumstances worthy of need?

Or if I see good to do, then should I not do it?

I'm not telling you what I did.

John. 

I continued to walk that day,

Victoire with me all along the way.

And soon I met a man named John.

John had come from a village into the city in order to try and sell figurines, souveniers, masks,

in order to make money to bring back to the village.

His English was quite good and he explained to me the need for school fees

for children without parents in the village.

His story touched my heart,

though still I wondered if he knew what would be most touching to say.

But if the things he said were true, then I don't suppose it matters

whether he was saying them because I was muzungu or not.

As we walked John also pulled out some Canadian Tire money

that he had found in a coat pocket,

and he asked if it was any good.

I chuckled and explained that it 'was' money, but only good in one store in Canada.

He laughed as well and told me to keep it.

Now what surprised me most about John was this,

that though he carried his bag of little wooden boats

with banana leaf figurines,

nativity scenes,

and model motorcycles, he never once tried to sell me them.

He just wanted to let me know his story.

I look forward to meeting him again

as he wants to show me his collection of masks 

and tell me about the history of the tribes they represent.

"Perhaps one day you will write a book on them. " He had said to me. 

Perhaps I will.

The Student. 

I had been told about a nice hotel which offered a natural place by the lake to read and work.

So one afternoon I ventured to find the Hotel Orchid.

I, still being new to the city, took the wrong way...twice...okay three times.

However through this adventure I met many new people,

and by the time I finally made it to my destination

I had a group of 7 or 8 teenage guys with me who were showing me the way,

all the while we were teaching each other new words,

exchanging Swahili, French and English.

Now it was after my visit at the Orchid

and as I walked back up the winding, dirt-road hill

that I said 'Jambo' to a young man with big working gloves who was walking down the hill.

"Cava?" He replied. It took a moment for my brain to switch to French,

and then I responded that I was well, but didn't speak much French,

then asked him in Swahili, how he was doing.

"Muzuri" I'm well, was his reply, as is all others.

I didn't catch his name, but he seemed just a little younger than myself,

and he was able to speak with broken but understandable English.

And he too began to explain his current story to this muzungu so confronted with need this day.

He explained to me that his current studies were soon coming to an end,

and that soon he could get his badge,

I didn't quite catch what it was for exactly.

But soon he could get his badge, but there was just one problem.

He pulled out his wallet, and from his wallet he pulled a card.

A card with the cost of a final test he must take.

"I just have one problem" he told me, and I could hear his voice beginning to shake,

as he pointed at the hand-written test fee on the small card.

Forty-five dollars.

"You see sir I finish soon but I have this one problem."

He had some money but not enough.

Forty-five dollars for him to take his test in order for him to receive his badge for work.

Five meals at Lans....one cheap back pack...a couple new shirts...

They could open up a whole new spectrum of opportunity for this young student

who apologized for his shaking voice and the tears welling as he explained his situation.

But yet he is another among many who face these challenges.

Challenges only able to be met by a stable economy and not

by an already in-debt-to-the-Government-of-Ontario college student

who, yet, still spends money on things he really doesn't need. 

What did I do? I'm not telling you that either. Something to muddle over in your mind.

To have given, if I did, or if I did not... If you would have, or if you would have not...

Would it have been done out  a genuine compassion for the needs of others?

Or out of an act, most deeply, done to appease and relieve the guilt, or fear,

of appearing as a well-off muzungu who refused to offer even a little to help another.

Would you have been

driven by love,

or dragged by guilt,

to act in the manner which you think you would?

 

I find that I think I know the answer my heart would offer to these questions,

until I'm actually asked them by life circumstance and experience.

Then I discover that the face in the mirror is actually a bit more of a stranger than I thought,

and I don't know myself as well I would have assumed. 

Motos and Steam Engines.

A little over a full week has passed now for me in the Congo.
And the electricity just went out sadly.
The internet is better this morning than its ever been, but no more!
Alas I will continue to type on my battery powered portable computer.

Yesterday after church and lunch I had English lessons.
With the bank machine not working for me I had no cash,
so when my friend Amos came to join me in traveling to the church,
I informed  himthat once again we needed to walk as we had the day before.
It is about a half hour walk and we had 25 minutes so I wasn't too worried,
especially knowing that only a few people would be there on the dot
and the majority would should up at about half past three.

However Amos, after receiving instructions from the Pastor,
was very concerned about arriving there on time.
I tried to reassure him that it would be fine,
but he insisted that we must not make others wait, we could not be late again.
So after walking about five minutes he decided that we should take moto-taxis.
I reminded him that I hadn't been able to withdraw any money to pay for a taxi,
so he offered the 50 cents needed (yes, I lacked even fifty cents to my name).
Thus, yesterday I had my first moto experience.
It was a somewhat harrowing experience, moreso than Thailand that's for sure.
There are less rules on the road here,
just try to keep to the right side when you can,
go as fast as possible, weave quickly, 
honk when you pass, honk when you want to go faster,
honk to let pedestrians know you aren't going to stop for them,
honk to let possible passengers know that you will stop for them
honk at oncoming traffic even if you're in the wrong lane,
honk if you want a banana,
honk if you don't want a banana. 
Okay I made up those last two.

All this to say I had a good time.

We arrived a few minutes, but still rushed into the church.
In the empty church. Amos suggested that we were perhaps late.
I assured him we were early. Around 3:10 people started to show up,
around 3:25 there were enough people to begin.
By 4:10 the class was full. As I expected.
Hakuna shida, no worries.
And hey, I got a moto ride!

-----

Also yesterday after class I asked one of the missionaries at the guest house,
who will be leaving for a year in three weeks,
if there was anything I could help her with as she prepares to go.
Her response, "well yes, what do you know about steam engines."
"Not much." I replied, "but I can and figure things out. What do you need?"
She continued to show me this model steam engine that she had been given.
It would be used to teach kids at the school how a steam engine works,
only, it didn't work. 
So my task would be to try and see what was wrong with it.
So we spent the evening tinkering with the engine,
teaching ourselves how it must work and what may be the problem.
 

We deduced correctly the system. Light a fire underneath the containing cylinder, pre-filled with water. Boil water, steam travels through pipe from containing cylinder to the pump. Power should result in, after a manual push, the wheel being spun at a rapid pace, (and yes, we googled it afterwards).

 

After realizing that each part seemed to be in working order we postulated that we were not  getting enough pressure due to lack of a long-enough burning fuel source to keep the water boiling.

During this time I forgot I had bread in the toaster. Yes, those are embers and the room was filled with smoke for half an hour.. Later, in a stroke of curiosity and stupidity I decided to still try the toast. I wouldn't say that it was like eating charcoal...I would say that it was...literally, eating charcoal.

We are currently still working on finding an appropriate fuel source. I will update in the future if we get it running.

Community

Community.

Last night I had the privilege to join in fellowship 

with the other wazungu at the CEPAC* guest house. 

Here where I stay I feel very blessed to be a part of a community of nations.

There are Norwegians, Swedes, Congolese, German, Hispanic, Congolese, American and Canadian

living on the grounds where I also reside. 

And last night, in celebration of their nation's days,

the Swedes and Norwegians hosted a small meal in the center yard.

So after standing around a miniature of the nations flags

we sang their anthems (or listened to others sing them) 

and then gathered around the table 

eating cinnamon rolls and a Swedish cake,

while drinking soda and coffee.

I recognize what a special opportunity it is 

to be able to gather around a table of less than 20 people

and yet have eight languages represented.

I'm thankful for this little community of nations

all gathered here in the DRC to serve. 

Some, as I, have only been here a short time,

while others have been here since before the Congo gained independence.

 A young man had stepped into a bustling city with multitudes of people,

an elderly lady had stepped into a city of only hundreds 

and watched it grow into a city of a million. 

 

Many ages,

many talents,

many nationalities,

many gifts,

many languages,

many walks of life,

one community. 

*essentially the Swedish Pentecostal Assemblies of the Congo. 

They have been here for around a hundred years

 with many churches, 

schools, hospitals 

and the guest house as well.