Living Close to the Earth

In my country we don't see men or boys walking around with machetes casually dangling from their hands.  In fact, I made mention of this little fact one afternoon when ten-year-old Caleb, with machete in hand, passed through the house as nonchalantly as if he were carrying a baseball glove.  I hate it for him that such simple, innocent connections to the earth are going to be lost to him when he moves back to America later this year.  In our society a machete would be considered by most to be a weapon, whereas in West Africa it is a tool for survival.  I am hoping God will bless this guileless little boy with opportunities to stay close to the earth in his new home in the land of the free and the home of the brave, where freedom and opportunities for bravery are becoming scarcer and scarcer with each passing year.  Our American existence seems to be taking us farther and farther from a bond with the earth that God created for us to enjoy.

Early in the week, as we hiked a path into one of the more hidden Monsanka villages (see A Walk Into Another World), we passed enormous trees with huge football-shaped fruits dangling far above our heads.  Kate found a fresh baobab fruit on the ground with a crack in it, and managed to break it open for us to sample the edible insides.  Though it was rather sweet, the feel of it in my mouth was like styrofoam, only more dense.  Dry as dust.

 
The next day at the market we noticed children selling little plastic bags of a cloudy liquid, and Kate informed us this was juice made from the fruit of the baobab tree.  She assured us it was very tasty, but since we had no way of knowing the source of the water used to make the juice the kids were selling, it seemed wise to pass on that opportunity.  But the day we visited Liz at her home in Lendeng, she had a baobab fruit on hand to make the beverage for our lunch, and she asked Tonya and me to do the honors.  Ummm . . . what, exactly, were we supposed to do with this huge, fuzzy, nut-looking thing full of styrofoam?  Following Liz's instructions, Tonya slammed the fruit repeatedly on the concrete porch with enough force to finally make it crack open, and together we dug out the contents, complete with the tough web-like fibers and large seeds that God put in there with the white stuff that is purportedly chock full of nutrients.  Once all the strings and seeds and broken pieces of dry fruit were collected in the bucket Liz had provided, she poured a pitcher of water in with the whole mess and told us to squish it with our hands until all the fruit had dissolved in the water.  Squish, squish, squish.  Very sensory.  Very preschool.  Very fun. 

Once the fruit was totally dissolved, Liz added more water until the consistency was like orange juice, then strained it all to get out the chunks, and voila!  Oh, yes, she did add some sugar for the palates of the Americans, just to make sure we would enjoy it, and enjoy it we did! 

Another unfamiliar food item that turned up over and over through the week was tamarind.  These seed pods, roughly the size of a tough old overgrown green bean, are frequently used to season the fish and rice dishes that are the staple of the West African diet.  Sold in clumps in the market, these slightly spicy pods are cooked in a sauce until they are tender and delectable, but eating them involves spitting out a mouthful of seeds.  This is not a problem, however, when the family is eating on the floor around a large bowl, with chickens and goats at the ready to snarf down whatever is discarded by the humans. 

Salt, one of the most prized seasonings anywhere you go, is a natural byproduct of the soil in this part of the world.  The salty dirt is scooped up and carried home by women in large buckets on their heads, where they labor through the lengthy and tedious process of extracting the salt so that it is suitable for selling and cooking.  Though I didn't pay close attention when the process was being explained to me, I do remember Kate pointing out an odd contraption in one of the Monsanka villages as one of the stages of making salt.  Without her enlightenment I never would have figured out on my own what this crudely constructed apparatus was all about.

Far right, apparatus where salt is being made

Today I will pour juice out of a waxed cardboard container without any idea how it was processed or where the fruit was grown, and I will season my meat with spices that I shake out of a little jar without any knowledge of where they were harvested, and I will sprinkle salt on my dinner without any idea where that salt came from or how it got into that round cardboard container on the supermarket shelf.  The Monsanka women may not know anything about the world beyond their firsthand experience, but they know where their food comes from, which is more than I can say for myself. 

Faith Comes By Hearing

Months before the Jesus Spa came to Mansoa, Guinea Bissau, a handful of hungry siblings were regularly finding their way to the developing YFC center in hopes of getting food or money.  For weeks Wade & Kate showed them compassion and provided for some of their physical needs.  Eventually, however, Wade noticed one teenage brother who would often sit and watch them work on construction for hours, not offering to help with any of the labor, but always moving in when food and water appeared.  Finally Wade confronted this capable young man with a message from the Bible that he who does not work should not eat.  He offered work, but the teen chose instead to flee from the property and not return.  It was then that Wade decided he needed to learn more about this family, and with a little detective work he was able to find out where they lived.  When he arrived at their home in hopes of meeting the parents, he discovered a blind father and an overworked mother of twelve.  The father was managing to provide some income for his family as a beggar, and was teaching his sons how to be effective beggars as well, as is expected in that culture.  Sons of a beggar become beggars themselves, regardless of how capable they might be to do productive work of some kind.  Wade shared some truths of scripture with these parents, including the way to spiritual freedom through Jesus Christ, and the Christian work ethic.  As the Spirit of God illuminated these truths in the hearts of Dominga and her husband, they both made the choice to follow Jesus and turn from serving demons.  Wade then asked the father to give him one of his sons as an employee, and promised to pay the boy a fair wage and teach him how to make his way in the world as a man who can take pride in his work rather than as a beggar.  The teenager who had previously been hanging around watching and taking advantage of opportunities to get something for nothing was not interested.  He was already steeped in an ethos of laziness.  So the father gave Wade his 14-yr. old son to work on the team constructing the new guest house, and this boy is now being mentored by the best.  It took some effort to teach the young man how to actually apply himself to hard labor, but eventually he began experiencing the sense of self-worth that develops when one produces something by the labor of his own hands, and he is now earning his pay and has become the primary supporter of his family. 

In the meantime, Dominga and her husband have tried to make strides toward a more Christ-honoring lifestyle, but a blind man and an illiterate wife in a third world country have few opportunities to learn what that entails.  They desired to be instructed in scripture, but had no means for making that happen.  In their ignorance there seemed to be little hope of breaking all the chains of their animistic way of life, but it is never a surprise when God provides supernaturally for the legitimate needs of a sincere heart who looks to Him to have those needs met.

While I was home preparing for this trip, Kate informed me about an organization called Faith Comes By Hearing.  This organization produces an audio version of the entire Bible, called a Proclaimer, in 627 spoken languages.  According to the FCBH website, "The Proclaimer is a digital player dedicated to playing God's Word in the local heart language."  The battery will provide fifteen hours of playing time, and can be recharged enough times to listen to the entire New Testament over a thousand times.  The microchip cannot be recorded over and cannot wear out from use.  If the battery is damaged or lost, the Proclaimer can still be run by the built-in solar panel as long as it is placed in direct sunlight.  The sound is digital quality and loud enough to be heard by groups of up to 300.  If ever there was a solution to the problem faced by new believers such as Dominga and her husband, the Proclaimer is it!  My conversation with a representative from Faith Comes By Hearing ended with a promise for them to send me two free Proclaimers in Portuguese Creole to take to Guinea Bissau, where the local missionaries could place them into the hands of those most likely to make good use of them. 

Dominga, who doesn't know her own age, had been invited by Kate to come to our spa, with specific instructions to come at 4:00 since that is the time we would be providing pampering services.  She showed up one day in the late morning, however, with a passel of children in tow, as this was the only time she could get away from her work and come.  We welcomed her and quickly drew some water for her pedicure and facial, and instructed the children to stay outside and play.  While Kate and Tonya were giving their attentions to Dominga's shoulders and feet, we asked about her children, commenting on how amazing it was to us that she had such a large family.  She proudly talked about her two sets of twins and the age span of her twelve children from 26 years down to 16 months.  This mother has been nursing babies continuously for 26 years!  While we Americans were picking our jaws up off the floor, she told us that having a baby is easy.  She does her morning work, then she has her baby, and then she cooks dinner.  And that's that.  One more revelation of the vast differences between the lives of soft American women and our tough West African sisters.

When the massaging, and scrubbing, and painting, and praying over Dominga were finished, and she was feeling thoroughly loved and cared for, we presented her with a Proclaimer to take home to her family.  The only condition, which comes from the Faith Comes By Hearing ministry, is that she commit to playing a portion of scripture for at least thirty minutes once a week for as many people as she can gather together to listen.  She was visibly happy to receive this gift, and indicated that she would listen to it almost daily with her family in their little one room mud hut in a village so far off a driveable road that it is accessible only by way of a long footpath.  The curiosity of having such a tool in her possession, however, is likely to intrigue others in the primitive village into stopping by and listening as well.  The Word of God is now being audibly proclaimed in this little Monsanka village for the very first time!

A Trip to the Hospital

As the ladies arrived back home from our lumu outing, Wade was ready to head over to the hospital.  He, Lalas and Eric had been working construction under the brutal sun all morning, and after a drink of water they piled in the truck along with Tonya and me.  It was so hot I wondered what manner of grace enabled the two white men to labor so hard without being overcome by the sun.  At noon the thermometer was already close to 120 degrees, and after lunch and a short rest they would be back at it with their shovels and wheelbarrows. 

Entering Mansoa on lumu day was more chaotic and congested than even the usual bedlam in the streets of the busy town.  People everywhere with something to sell or looking for something to buy seemed almost oblivious to the motor vehicle pushing through the throng.  A man covered in sweat on top of a toka-toka was securing a squealing pig struggling to escape from the ropes, while her piglets were tied, each by a rear leg, to a tree in the shade below.  Vendors' displays had migrated so far into the road on each side that they had to be pulled back in order for the truck to have room to pass.  And somewhere beyond this cauldron of humanity was a hospital where the sick hoped to find healing after the ministrations of the local witchdoctor or their pleas to Allah had left them worse off than before. 

Every image I ever had of a hospital vanished from my mind the moment we pulled in and parked the truck in a patch of dirt outside a low sprawling complex of buildings that looked more like an ancient military barracks than a place where medical care might be dispensed to the sick and dying.  Chickens, pigs and goats wandered freely between the buildings, while women and children with baskets of food sat on the edges of the concrete walkways in front of open doors into small, dark rooms.  A woman with a huge plastic tub on the ground beside her threw a dozen identical large, dark green cloths over a clothesline, and a queue of people stood waiting to enter a room at one end of the first building.  It was so hot I was anxious to get out of the sun, and it occurred to me that the sick people in these buildings must be stifling in the heat of their tiny rooms without so much as an electric fan to cool them. 

After Wade got clearance from someone in authority to visit patients, he sent Lalas & Tonya in one direction, Paulu & Eric in another direction, and took me with him.  He explained that it wouldn't be a good idea to have such a big group of white visitors descending on people, and by breaking up we could cover more ground and pray for more patients. 

Wade and I walked past a lot of curious eyes on our way around to another barracks-style building, across the dirt yard and over to a particular destination he had in mind.  Passing by a series of closed doors, we came to an open door on an inside hallway where three concerned women sat on the edge of a bed with bundles of food, while an older woman sat on another bed next to a beautiful young woman who was obviously the patient.  My first thought upon seeing this lovely woman lying on the bed with her eyes closed was that she was waiting for her facial at our salon.  In the previous three days I had seen nearly twenty dark-skinned women lying just like this on a small bed with their eyes closed, enjoying the pampering we were lavishing on them.  But this was not the Jesus Spa, and this young lady was not waiting for a facial.  Her family members told Wade that she had been like this for two days, and they couldn't get her to wake up or eat or talk.  It was apparent from their explanation of her condition that they didn't understand that she was in a coma.  Wade asked their permission for us to pray for her, and we kneeled on the concrete beside her bed and laid our hands on her and prayed.  After a few minutes Wade spoke with the mother again, and then we prayed some more.  After repeating this a third time without seeing any change, Wade told the family he would come back and check on her later and pray for her again.

Then we made our way around to a different building looking for another open door with a patient who would welcome prayers for healing.  In spite of the conflict of religions, those who are sick with little hope of recovery generally welcome any compassionate offer to help them find relief.  Through this ministry Wade has had the opportunity to lead several Islamic or animist people to faith in Jesus Christ after they or a family member or friend had been instantly healed.  And for those who have been healed but didn't choose to put their trust in Christ at that time, they have the physical testimony in their bodies that will forever remind them of where their restored health came from, and perhaps they will eventually respond to the wooing of the Holy Spirit to draw them in.  Deafness being replaced by hearing, large tumors disappearing within minutes, pain leaving a body as prayers are going up to heaven, muscles and bones mending and being useful again - these are undeniable manifestations of a loving Father's compassion for the suffering, and it gets the attention of many who might otherwise have no interest in hearing the Gospel message. 

The next room we entered, just like the first, was about twelve feet square with five beds lined up around the walls.  The only other furnishings in the room were two small tables.  Each metal bed with thin mattress had long sticks wrapped around the four corner posts, which I eventually figured out must have been to hold up mosquito nets during the rainy season.  On one of these beds sat an older woman holding her left hand in her right hand, looking worried.  Wade had a conversation with her in Creole and learned that her left hand was swollen and nearly useless, while her right shoulder and upper chest were in so much pain so that she couldn't move her right shoulder or arm.  She gave us permission to pray for her in the name of Jesus, so Wade placed his hand on her swollen left hand while I placed my hand on her right shoulder as we kneeled on the concrete and prayed.  When Wade asked her to try moving the fingers on her bad hand, there was an obvious increase in movement from before the prayer.  When he told her to try moving her right shoulder and arm she actually stretched her right arm clear behind her back, stretching and bending over and over, demonstrating that she had full range of movement in that shoulder with no pain!  He prayed for her hand again, and again she demonstrated an increase in strength and movement in that hand.  After the third time she was able to gently grip Wade's hand, whereas she had had no grip at all when we first met her less than ten minutes before.  Wade then shared the message of Jesus with this animist lady and invited her to put her trust in Him.  She didn't do that at the time, but seeds were planted as her body received a touch of healing and her heart heard a message of love and hope. 

Later in the day Wade made a trip back to the hospital to check on the young woman in the coma.  He found her sitting up in her bed eating dinner!  Glory to God!

Since Wade and his companions began their weekly hospital visits a couple years ago, the Mansoa hospital has risen in national ratings to the position of #1 in the country for patients experiencing healing of their illnesses, and for having the least number of infections develop while in the hospital.  Needless to say, the staff are always happy to see them come.  Jesus is making a name for Himself in this place.

Once again, through my hospital visit this time, I was confronted with some harsh realities that provided perspective to my ingrained sense of entitlement toward expected availability of goods and services in my own country.  At least in U.S. hospitals I can expect there will be linens on the bed, air conditioning in the summer, a high level of sanitation, meals delivered three times a day, and actual American Board Certified medical doctors running tests, making diagnoses, and prescribing appropriate treatment.  The hospital in Mansoa was more like a warehouse for the sick, making do the best they could with crude conditions and one doctor for every 20,000 residents.  God help these poor people.