Appleseed Travel Journal

— Dorcas Hands at Last!

Finally after five weeks of traveling in East Africa we had arrived in familiar territory, Kitale town, in the mountainous region of western Kenya.  I could hardly wait to get here since leaving last March. That’s when my Kenyan friend Elizabeth and I had been stranded in a broken down vehicle and had been given an extra hour’s visit.  This unscheduled time was all the two of us needed to share our hearts and what we dreamed could happen in the lives of a few African women. Here, there are many widows and so many women who are left abandoned either by HIV-AIDS or divorce or young girls who had to drop out of school because of lack of school fees and now find themselves destitute and single moms themselves. They are left thinking their life is over; there is nothing left to live for, so they give up.  They are looked down on and rejected by others, so not only are they poor physically, they are poor in spirit as well.  “But, do they have to stay that way?” Elizabeth and I asked each other.  “Why can’t we do something to help lift them up? Why couldn’t we give them a hand out of the gutter into the mainstream of life as the beautiful, intelligent, lovely women they are.”  They no longer need to walk in shame; they are entitled to walk in grace and beauty and all they are meant to.  What could we do to help?  We didn’t want to give them “fish to eat for today”, we wanted to “teach them to fish for a lifetime”.  We wanted to start a school, a school that would teach them tailoring, sewing….well, to start with.  Eventually we dreamed of a school that would include computer training, secretarial training, poultry farming, beauty school training and English.  If you’re going to dream, dream big, right? So after seven months of Elizabeth working on the logistics here in Kenya and me working on the financial end in America and maybe a hundred emails flying back and forth, here I was.  I had told the plight of the Kenyan women to hundreds of people in as many places as I could think of through internet, phone, mail, person-to-person trying to raise the funds to launch the school.  So many people, especially women, had responded and given hundreds of dollars joining us in this cause.  Liz had gotten figures, bought sewing machines, scissors, materials, interviewed students, found our temporary space.  She had also brought together women to work with her, to teach, to be on the Board, to help and support.  It really felt like a small army of American women joining with their Kenyan sisters in an effort to fight not only the poverty, but everything that goes along with it to keep women oppressed and living in shame.  It had been amazing to see the women (and men) who were now standing with us and now I could hardly contain myself waiting to see Liz and The Women’s Vocational Training Center:  Dorcas Hands. As we flew over Kitale I could see the beautiful, lush mountainous countryside below me, with the bright orange of the dirt roads below.  It must have just been harvesting season as the maize was still standing but in long rows of dry husks now.  The last two years had been such a season of drought, I prayed this season had been better.  Our tiny plane finally circled and bump, bump, bumped it’s way onto the one lane landing strip and we were here.  Finally! Elizabeth and her husband Dawson and John, a friend of theirs and now ours, too, were all there waiting, big smiles, open arms.  We gathered up our things and crammed everything and everybody into the familiar, worn out, grey van and drove into town.  Kitale is a town of 500,000 people, but its downtown area is quite small by American standards.  It’s an agricultural town, so lots of feed stores and one main store called Transmatt (Walmart) and then the typical markets of Africa all alongside and in all of the neighborhoods of people in their outside shops selling their various wares of shoes or clothes or vegetables. Finally the time had come.  We walked through the busy town, avoiding cars, bikes, or anything else that might be coming, as pedestrians never have the right of way and then walked into a storefront cement building.  There was a long narrow dark hallway I had been in once before when we had to visit the lab to take someone for a malaria test.  There at the end Elizabeth turned.  She had secured a donation of temporary space for us in one room in an office for now so the school can be started. There they were. Two little rows of sewing machines: four of them, and against the wall an overlock machine, and standing proudly on a table was the knitting machine that would be used to make the required school uniform sweaters.  Sitting shyly behind each sewing machine were four women:  Christine, Janet, Bilha and Lucy.  There were two other women there.  The teachers.  One to teach sewing; the other to teach embroidery and rug-making.  Each of the teachers grabbed my hand and in typical Kenyan fashion said, “Karibuni!” (Very Welcome!)  I reached over to the students who couldn’t believe the mazungu (white person) would touch them and speak with them, and shook their hands in the tiny space.   But what I really wanted to do was grab each one of them to me and hold them in my arms.  I wanted to tell them, “You are safe now, it’s going to be alright. You’re scared and lonely and desperate right now, but your life is never going to be the same from this moment on.”  It was all I could do not to burst into tears as I saw what God had done in a few short months and what He was going to do in the lives of these four women, and hopefully many more in the days to come.

Posted via email from Brooks's posterous

— Musings of A Spoiled American Traveler


After spending a few days respite, I was looking forward to the rest of our journey in East Africa.  Even though our time in Nosy Be was like something out of the imaginings of fantasy Pacific Island living (only in the Indian Ocean), I was ready to wave the white flag and give it all back to the mosquitoes.   I looked eagerly forward to our next stop with the promise of a hot shower and cooler weather once again.

And so yesterday began…with a fresh count of new mosquito bites, even with Deet lacquering my body and our mosquito net securely in place.  Even today hopeful of a hot shower, I was to be disappointed once again, but only slightly, knowing that this was the day that I would win in the end and get one anyway!  So, I huffed and puffed and stuffed all my things (and a few newly purchased items) back in the teeny tiny suitcase I had brought (minus the things that were just too gross to put in one more time).  Roger didn’t even say a word, not even one roll of the eyes.  Matter of fact, he even offered space in his suitcase for the things that were kind of bulging out of the zipper of mine!

Then we hiked down the beach to grab something quick to eat, but oops, too early for lunch, so after some deliberation in French, we settled for a snack, a zebu burger instead, and hiked back to our place, now, all hot and sweaty for the flight to Antannanarivo (Tana), Madagascar.  Unfortunately, we found out we had to leave a day early because in October Air Madagascar had decided to make a change, like cancel our flight altogether.  The change didn’t throw us too badly though, as a few days earlier on our flight there, the plane was some two DAYS late.  Not to worry, they had made up some time, so they were only 14 hours late in the end.  We were actually getting the hang of this Air Madagascar thing!

So, off we went in our little taxi, winding around the island, through hilly fields of ylang ylang trees making the island smell like sweet perfume, for about an hour, eventually ending up at a small guardhouse with a beat up iron gate signifying payment due before entering the airport parking lot…mmm or spaces is more what I guess you would call it.  We checked in with Air Madagascar and had no problem, as there could be no problem:  no security system, no seating assignment, just pretty much walk in, show your passport, ticket and you’re in.  Everyone speaks French or Malagasy so they aren’t very interested in what you have to say anyway, I suppose!

I was ready this time, though.  No, I was not going to be disappointed that Roger and I would not be sitting together.  No, I was not going to whine and complain that it was going to be hot as hell in the tiny aircraft and the smells would be unbearable and no, I was not going to start sucking and gagging just because I couldn’t breathe from lack of air.  Nobody else could breathe either.  But, you know what, when the doors opened and everybody made a dash for the plane and Roger and I got on (and we did get to sit together – poor man), I did start whining almost immediately and I did start complaining. I almost put my mouth over the air vent just to try to suck something out of it, just as I saw arms shoot up and down the plane turning the knobs trying to make some air come out. The seats were so close together that Roger had his legs spread eagle just to be able to sit down and then the man in front of him put his seat back!  Ok, ok, it only lasted an hour, but it was bad!  The good news is that we got to Tana safe and sound and I kept my eye on the goal:  nice transition hotel, internet, hot shower, shuttle van coming to pick us up. The also good news is that there was a great article about Tibetans living in China in the air magazine, right where we would like to go next year!  Prophetic or what???  Of course!  Could be scary what kind of planes they have there, right?  So, really, what was there to complain about?

So as for my fantasy…  It blew up not long after the big skirmish at the luggage wheel where one always wonders if people are always that nasty or if they save it up for that special moment when they really want their stuff and they want it NOW…  Seriously, like anyone else wants it!  No, there was no one from the hotel there to meet us. You know how some people have someone there with the big fancy sign that has their name plastered all over it and they come rushing over and grab all of their luggage and whisk them away in a beautiful big fancy van and take them to a big fancy beautiful hotel.  Nope, didn’t happen.

BUT, my fantastically awesome husband is not to be daunted in these places or these situations.  Never to be outdone in a developing country, he ALWAYS is technologically ready to deal with any situation!!  Of course, he had his cell phone and, of course, he had the phone number of our hotel, and even better, he knew where both of them were.  Within moments there he was, a man shouting “Tomaaan, Tomaaaan” and yes, he grabbed our bags and yes, he even whisked us into a van, ok a small, fancy, ok, not so fancy, but clean van and took us to our hotel…and there was internet, and there was air conditioning, and there was a tv, and there was a bowl with two bananas and a mango in it and a frig with a soda in it, and there were towels—two of them, AND there was HOT water!!  It was better than ever!

And, after working for a while and dinner, we were so excited to go to bed in a big bed, like queensize, instead of single or double for the first time in a month, and then it all started to fall apart again.  The mattress was like a cheap bunk bed mattress and there was no mosquito net and there were mosquitoes and the pillow was hard.  Thank God, finally it was 5:30 a.m. and a decent hour to get up.  If nothing else I could enjoy taking another long, hot shower and work on the internet for as long as I liked.

Soon it was time to load up once again and head back to the airport to continue our journey to Nairobi, this time via Kenya Airways.  Piece of cake.  This was going to be the best.  You actually get a seat assignment and get to ride on a big plane!  So after having to pay for breakfast for two, which we thought was included, at this nice hotel that we weren’t able to actually get to sleep in, we loaded into an even smaller van and sat and waited.  Then in French and a lot of hand motions, we were moved to a larger van where others waited anxiously for us who were also headed to the airport.  No problem, we can assume the blame for other’s mistakes; it’s not an issue, so off we went.

The moment we arrived at the airport we were accosted by every kind of peddler you can imagine, but we’ve been through Tana enough to know how to handle this now, so we press on and finally get checked through, exchange our money, fill out all of our paperwork, go through security, such as it is and we made it.  Yeah!  Oh, yes, one last problem, I always have to go to the bathroom one last time before boarding, of course.   So, even if it is in the Tana Airport, I tell myself, it’s not that bad, just buck up, everybody has to go down there eventually!  So, even though I waited til the very last minute, finally I went down, down, down, passed the smoking enclosed glass cubicle, sitting in the middle of the room where the smoke just seeps out into the waiting area so we all get to enjoy it and down the steep dark, filthy flight of stairs.  There are two open doorways at the bottom with no signs, nothing. Which way to go?   Thank goodness, I’ve been here before, so I head straight ahead and shoot past the girl at the table with her little basket, hitting up unsuspecting travelers who think you actually have to pay here if you want to pee.  But I know better now and I also am not intimidated by the men headed my same way, knowing they are going even further down the hallway to the men’s section and I’ll turn into the first doorway, securing my privacy—at least from them.  So, after standing in line with French, Malagasy, Kenyan, Indian women and who knows who else, all of us shyly looking each other over, I quickly got my turn, and then got the heck out of there.  I quickly raced up the stairs and then, of course, walked as nonchalantly as I could over to Roger.

…and waited, and waited, and waited.  Finally, our plane was called…we hoped.  We heard the word Kenya Airlines and we heard Nairobi in French over the loudspeaker and lined up with the rest, even though the sign said Air Madagascar – I know scared us, too.  Then, walked for a very, very long time out to the runway to that big beautiful plane, the one I’m riding on right now that I was so excited about getting onto.  And then things all began to fall apart again.  When will I ever learn about expectations…no matter how realistic they may be??  Roger ALWAYS asks for an aisle seat, which, of course, means I have to sit in the middle, but no matter, at least I’m sitting with my babe.  But, for some reason we were given two aisle seats—across from each other—but still not sitting together, as in connected to each other, which we really, really like to be!  But, lots of people were getting on this plane, so we crammed our bags in the overhead and stuffed our backpacks underneath our seats and sat down, hoping to rearrange our traveling companions once they got seated. Sure enough a lovely young woman sat down beside me.  So, I thought.  Little wench.  I tried in my very, very nicest southern drawl English to explain my dilemma and would she like to have Roger’s great aisle seat.  “NO,” she says.  So, Roger, about to have a coronary because we are going to have an aisle between us for the next three hours, is going to either deck her or get the guy beside him to move.  I tell him, just let it go, already.  So we are set.  Happy, no, but set.

Then, we take off. I’m pretty excited. The air not only works; it’s cool air.  The captain is speaking English and is talking about things that interest me. I pressed in the button on my seat so I can really settle in and read all about all the duty free items that I can’t afford, BUT…my seat won’t recline.  NO, this can’t be, I started to complain to Roger, and he says, “None of them do!”  So naïve he is.  I, of course, point out every single person on the plane whose seat is in a reclined position to assure him, no, it’s only our’s that can’t!  But, then my ally, the captain makes a new announcement.  I can’t believe it. This plane has a MOVIE!!!  A movie.  It’s been a month without Netflix and I get to watch a movie. This is going to be great!!!  Soon, we’re cruising at the right altitude and everything is a go, and the movie comes on, and what??  Yep, my seat pocket has no headset.  Minor setback.  I called the steward and quickly got one, plugged it in, and what???? Are you kidding me?  Not only did the volume not work, but the channel didn’t work, so the movie continues to play even now, and no, I cannot watch it….Roger either.  

All is not lost though, because this is Kenya Airways and in Kenya there is still food served in the air!  Lunch is coming. Yeah!  Here it comes, my turn, my turn and choices – even better! Lamb, chicken or vegetarian. Chicken for Roger and for me. Oh my gosh.  BAD choice.  Could be the worst.  I mean seriously the worst.  I can’t describe.  Suffice it to say that I drank the coffee.  Roger, of course, said, “Well, at least they still are serving food on the flight, not like in the U.S.”  What is wrong with this man??  (He did later admit that it was pretty bad, which gave me a certain amount of satisfaction.)

So, you see why I am forced to entertain you, writing about how terribly spoiled I am. Not that long ago I couldn’t imagine traveling all over the world with the man of my dreams doing and seeing the things I get to see and do … and now I want a movie to watch in a seat that reclines while I do it!  Spoiled rotten, I know!

Posted via email from Brooks's posterous

— Celebration Time!

The time seemed perfect.  It was relatively calm at our house, so I thought, “Just go for it.”  I found Roger and said, “In a year and half I’m going to be 60 years old, so I want something really, really big for my birthday!” Now, you have to understand, I don’t usually ask for something big, but this time, I figured reaching the age of 60 warranted asking for something really big--as in expensive!  Now Roger is a very approachable guy and would give me just about anything I wanted, but I still thought I should give him some time to get used to the idea of spending some real money.  But, after blurting this out, all he did was stare at me with his mouth open, and didn’t say a word, just stared.  Confused and a little ticked off, I asked, “So, what’s wrong?”   That’s when he gasped for air, took a deep breath and then started to breathe again.  He said, “You’re going to be sixty?  I’m going to be married to someone sixty years old? (He’s five years younger, and this suddenly seemed to become real to him!) So, what I asked for changed umpteen times since then and neither of us knew that God had the most incredibly big birthday planned for me ever—something I definitely wanted, but could never have imagined or asked for! As it turned out, we had committed to be at the YWAM School of Church Planters in Madagascar in 2009 and by the time all the scheduling was finally in place, that’s where we were on my 60th birthday.  Madagascar, Africa!  After arriving, we got the schedule for our two weeks there and as it happened, on Sunday, October 4, my actual birthday, we were scheduled to go upriver, deep into the bush, to a new church plant to help baptize a group of new believers there! Sunday morning arrived and 7 a.m. we all loaded up in a pickup:  Victor (the base director), Theo (our translator), another church planter, two doctors, Roger and myself, and we were pulling “Mercy” (appropriately named), a fiberglass raft boat with an outboard motor. We traveled for about an hour from one end of the city to the other, passing many people busily setting up their shops or roadside stands to get ready for the day.  Soon we were out in the green countryside where shepherds walking alongside their two or three zebu (cows) are common and fields of rice are growing.  The once paved road quickly became only a narrow, dirt bumpy pathway and every once in awhile we would happen on a grouping of thatched, bamboo-sided houses, which I later realized were actually whole villages.  The others chattered away in French or Malagasy, easily shifting from one language to the other and every once in awhile Theo or Victor would speak to us in English and let us know what the others were talking about. Suddenly we stopped at what looked like nothing more than a wide-space in the road, and the doctor driving the rig began to pull in and back up and there to the right through the brush was a river.  Not just a river, but a river with women leaning over washing their clothes, beating them on a huge big rock and then rinsing them diligently back in the river again before laying the clothes out to dry on the bushes nearby.  Other women and girls grabbed handfuls of sand at the water’s edge and standing, scrubbed the edges of their blackened pots with their feet, not even for a moment deterred from their tasks by us.  Meanwhile the guys got the raft in the river and we all piled in, along with a huge bundle of mosquito nets to be given away, painting supplies, including a six foot ladder and all of us.  And off we went – motoring up the river.  Every so often we would pass by hollowed-out tree canoes that some of the bushmen were using to haul either charcoal or wood down the river to sell in Tamatave, the town we had just come from.  Along the banks, we would sometimes pass a mom bathing her small children or see a colorfully dressed woman gracefully balancing a large rubber tub, filled with pots on her head as she made her way down to the river. After about a half hour we turned into one of many tree-lined alcoves where I could see nothing, but then all of the sudden there appeared a young woman walking barefoot down a trail out of the trees.  She was actually coming from a village close by where YWAM had established a medical clinic. The two doctors were stopping here for the day to repaint the clinic, so as they waded into shore with all their gear and sat on the beach.  We all waved good-bye and laughingly said, “We’ll come back for you in a few years.”  It actually seemed like it could be a very real possibility to me at that point! After picking up the young woman I had just seen, we pressed on for the real haul.  Victor upped the motor and we crossed a wide part in the river where we and just about everything in the boat got soaked, but in the heat, it was a welcome relief!  As the river began to narrow once again, we saw them. One, two, and then many children of all ages were running along the bank.  Women and men started walking down a pathway to the little beach by the river to welcome us.  Pretty soon there was a crowd encircling us as we waded into shore. With big grins, they shyly shook our hands and were obviously very happy to see us. Even though the sun was scorching, it didn’t matter. Victor in his great humility asked the leader of the group how he would like to proceed and the day unfolded as each moment became more spectacular than the one before.  As we all gathered on the beach by the river the leader asked Victor to speak first and then to begin the baptism.  I couldn’t help but think as he spoke, “I could be listening to John the Baptist or Jesus speaking by the Sea of Galilee.  It’s just the same.”  Some were sitting on rocks, some sitting on the hillside nursing their babies, some standing upfront listening closely, some standing further back not wanting to appear too interested.  And yet, when the question came, who is here to be baptized today, 10 who had anxiously waited for this moment ran to the bank of the river. Afterwards we were all invited to their gathering place, where each of the ten shared their testimony:  what their life had been like before meeting Jesus, what happened when they met Him and what their life is like now.  We heard story after story testifying to the goodness of God:  stories about marriages ravaged by adultery that had been restored; women who were being eaten alive by jealousy and bitterness who were now content and at peace; and the freedom others were experiencing from the fears of superstition and witchcraft.   Even they themselves couldn’t believe it, though they had become Believers months and months ago. Roger and I had an opportunity to share and then the real party began.  By now it was around 2:30.  The elders of the church apologized that no one had time to cook as everyone wanted to be at the “program” today, so the cooking would now begin.  We knew this meant for us to really settle in and make ourselves at home, because cooking did not mean open a packet of top ramen and throw it in the microwave!  So, the wood fire was lit outside and the water was hauled from the river and poured into large pots to begin cooking the rice. After about an hour and a half some women came in with some woven mats and laid them on the dirt floor.  I was fascinated as next they brought in bundles of freshly picked huge banana leaves and laid them on top of the mats.  I couldn’t believe how shiny, green and clean they were.  And, then with proud grins the men began to carry in the huge pots of rice which they poured down on top of the banana leaves, spreading it out in gigantic mounds.  I couldn’t imagine how or what this was about, but soon learned this is such a familial way of eating!  We all sat down on the floor, encircling the rice, women, children, men.  There were small bowls of a soup mixture with sliced and cubed palm hearts in it sitting at the edge of the rice and everyone had their own spoon…ok, some of us, muzungas (white people)…bush people make their own, out of leaves, of course!  I quickly learned that you dip your spoon into a bowl, any bowl, and pour some of the liquid onto some of the shared rice in the middle and then scoop up that portion and eat it.  Got to tell you, I love eating this way!  I felt very connected to the whole group, could see everyone, hear everyone, and of course, definitely we were sharing our meal together….I mean really sharing our meal!!  And, no need to tell you, clean up was pretty easy, too! After lunch, the elders wanted to have Communion, sharing the Lord’s Supper.  So, the banana leaves were cleared off, the mats shaken and laid back down and in the middle was set a liter of “Coca”(Coca-Cola) and a small cellophane bag of crackers. One of the elders explained that they had started doing communion differently by serving something special instead of the usual rice water.  After a few words and scriptures, Betalata the YWAM planter of this church, poured the coke in a glass and put the crackers on a small plate.  Then, one by one he offered the crackers and the glass of coke to each adult in the gathering—about 50 of us. Victor then stood up to speak (in Malagasy).  As I glanced over the group, I noticed a man sitting off to the side listening intently to every word spoken.  I asked Victor, “Have you asked if there is anyone here today who would like to know Jesus as their Savior?”  He told me, “No, but I will.”  So, after speaking for a short while, he did ask and this very same man instantly raised his hand.  Victor asked him to pray to God, to confess whatever things in his life separated him from God and what he wanted from God.  Without hesitation, Alfonso, prayed loudly in front of all of his friends announcing that he wanted and needed God in his life, that his way of life wasn’t working and that he wanted what these other ten people had testified to. Victor then talked about the Ethiopian eunuch who was told about Jesus, received him as Savior and wanted to be baptized right away.  He asked Alfonso, “Do you want to be baptized today?” Alfonso quickly replied, “Yes!” So, all of us—50 adults and probably as many children—all got up, walked through the village once again, down the path back to the river from where we had come hours ago to baptize yet one more that day.  We all rejoiced as Alfonso celebrated his spiritual birthday!  Roger and I rejoiced because we knew God had given me the biggest 60th birthday celebration ever! There were handshakes and kisses--both cheeks and then a third back again, Malagasy style--all around and then we waded back out and climbed into the raft.  The motor was loud and the wind intense as we shot across the waves, bouncing every inch of the way, getting drenched and chilled, as evening quickly approached.  But, my heart was full as I reflected on all that had happened in just one day.  Men and women had made a decision that would change their lives forever.  They had chosen to be baptized as an expression of that decision and then testified to all of their friends about their new life.  It was a day of celebration.  Men and women way up river, deep in the bush of Madagascar, had not only heard, but had received the Good News. 100_5324 (Small) 100_5327 (Small)

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— Madagascar: Hot, Sleepless, Exciting, Fulfilling

I am sitting in a hot internet café in a small town in Madagascar.  Someone nearby is smoking a cigarette.  As you can imagine, there are no laws here regarding such things.  But hey, if I were not smelling the smoke, I would be tasting the other aromas of Africa which are often hard to describe: very musk-like at its best and very sewage-like at its worst (in the more impoverished parts of town). I am trying to figure out what to write regarding our last two weeks at the YWAM training base in the coastal town of Tamatave.  Our experiences were so rich, on the one hand, and so unique, on the other.  Also, I find myself wondering what would interest folk back home in the midst of their busy lives! We affectionately refer to this particular YWAM base as "the monastery" because of the dorm-like room situation, the cold showers, and the basic food (mostly rice and beans) prepared daily for the local students.  We love it, but also enjoy "sneaking" out on the weekend for an evening dinner at a local restaurant: skewered zebu and French fried potatoes. I wish there were some way to pull you into the heart of our experience here which was spending 10 full days pouring into the lives of 20 incredible, passionate, young, Malagasy church planters and health care workers (bush clinics).  The fact is, I do not know how to make this real to you in a way that would allow you taste, touch, and feel it. Most of these young people are born and raised in the cities of Madagascar.  To go live in the bush to reach and care for others requires a complete change of lifestyle (and sacrifice) for them.  What do I compare this to so that you might understand?  Although their city-living is not as posh as ours, it still might compare to one of us moving to rural Mexico: no "facilities," outdoor cooking, strange food, and mat-sleeping on dirt floors.  Yet they have given themselves wholeheartedly to this task, loving God passionately and serving him with total surrender by going to care for and reach people in great need. So, what is it like to partner with this team of young people, pour into them, and get caught up in their contagious faith and commitment?  For me, it's life on the edge—being led by the Spirit, learning and teaching, finding and solving problems in strategies, exploring new ideas and tools with them, seeing them have "ah-ha" moments, and feeling part of something that is potentially very big that is changing the lives of people in the remotest parts of the world.  To what might I compare this?  I really don't know, but perhaps you can simply catch a taste of my own excitement. Finally, what is it like to coach, equip, father, and mentor the phenomenal team leaders of this group?  To see transformation and growth in their personal lives?  To see a renewal of vision and commitment in their ministry?  To see apostolic leadership develop that has the potential for changing the course (literally) of nations?  What does the visa commercial say?  "Priceless!" In any case, the fulfillment and excitement keep us going through the smoke-filled cafes, the roads from hell, the mosquitoes with potential malaria in their little stingers, the food served on a dirt floor on top of banana leaves (another story), and the hot, sometimes-sleepless nights. God has been at work, we feel privileged to be a part, and so appreciative, always, of your involvement with us.
PHOTOS FROM THE BUSH:

Posted via email from rogerthoman's posterous

— Reflections As We Leave DR Congo and Burundi

Images of our time in DR Congo and Burundi keep popping into my mind as we spend a day of travel on our way to Madagascar.  These images are powerfully imprinted because they are so emotional, or comical, that I hope they will stay with me forever.  Like just now, every time we leave Kenya, the flight attendant comes walking down the aisle as we get ready for take-off, and sprays two large cans of bug spray, announcing, “The country we are flying into requires that we disinfect this plane before coming into it.  Those who would like to may cover their noses and mouths.” Are you even kidding me?  Do you think that would possibly prevent me from getting sick from the amount of chemicals just sprayed within twelve inches of my face? Or, like last night’s hotel room, where there was no mosquito netting, so they just left a large can of bug spray on a table instead!  Not to be outdone by sleeping on Mickey Mouse sheets for the past week!  Of course, no towels, but again, Roger had to eat it and say, “Ok, glad you brought along two towels, Brooks!” I won’t share some of my more embarrassing moments, but here are some of the other images that are coming to my mind: Lots of men here ask me for my phone number or my email address, which the first visit or two, was rather flattering, but now I know better.  Unfortunately, their plight is such that each one wants something: a laptop, money for education, or an invitation to get a visa to America, but their faces are still imprinted on my heart and mind because these are the ones who had the courage to ask me.  I know there were lots who wanted to, but didn’t. Then, there was the eerie walk crossing the border from Burundi into DR Congo.  Once we had gotten out of the car and been checked through by the officials on the Burundi side, we had to walk through what Roger named “no man’s land”, which was a dirt road of some distance, with rice fields on either side, before reaching the dilapidated structure of the DR Congo’s border crossing official check-in point.  Have to tell you, it was quiet, and it had an alarmingly ghost-like feeling as we silently walked along, knowing that hundreds of people had died in these very fields during the war.  I couldn’t help but wonder what could happen at any moment in such a volatile land. The women, oh the women.  Can you imagine the dirt, the dust, and such a colorless community shouting it’s poverty? There amidst it all the women walk back and forth day after day, carrying huge tubs of wet clothes or sacks of Irish (potatoes) or charcoal or wood on their heads going about their days.  Nothing but brown everywhere, on the ground, on the buildings…nothing growing to be pretty, to show some life, just to decorate the surroundings.  So, once again, the women are the decorations, themselves! They smile, they laugh, they hold hands as they walk along, deep in conversation, dressed so beautifully in their hand-made, brightly colored clothes.  Their love and deep affinity with each other is, perhaps, what holds them together! Angel and Stephen’s faces of sheer joy in sharing their victorious story are seared on my heart forever.  They told about their life of deprivation as children without parents and being shifted from one family member to another, not really belonging to anyone.  And then one day finding themselves fleeing for their very lives from rebel guerilla fighters on the same road to safety, they decided to marry that very day holing up in a mud, thatched roof house, in the rainy season with rain leaking down on them all night long, with mud dripping through onto them.  That was how they spent their honeymoon night!  It was so obvious to them that God had joined them together for such a time as this.  Stephen has lifted his wife up to join him shoulder-to-shoulder as his equal, something very unusual in the African culture.  I believe they are chosen to do something wonderful and powerful in at least two nations! When we first saw Stephen, he kept saying he couldn’t believe we would come all the way from America to be with him…that many Americans will come to a big city in Africa and speak to many people for a big revival or a big conference, but that we would come to Uvira in DR Congo to be with his two teams, he still couldn’t believe it.  When it came time to leave, I shared with him and the teams what it had meant for us to be able to come, and how powerfully I felt God was using each one of them to impact their nation.  As we parted, we cried...and they did, too. I cherish and carry all these memories close to my heart.  And I am full.

Posted via email from Brooks's posterous

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