— Border Crossing
Brooks
We made it through! What an adventure! Stephen, Justin, Roger and I, along with our driver, all piled into a taxi (the size of a small subaru station wagon) with all of our things and drove from Buja Town, they call Bujumbura, up and around the tip of Lake Taganyika over to the border of Burundi and the Congo, where piles of cars were lined up helter skelter making no sense whatsoever with various folks squatting along the side of the road roasting sticks of meat or selling vegetables and then a few dirty concrete buildings along to the left side of the road, no doors, just openings with a few official people sitting behind desks in them. Up ahead was an old rickety metal pole barrier signifying no crossing til you were officially let through with a couple of police decked out in blue uniforms with pants tucked neatly in their boots and berets on their heads, while they proudly carried their machine guns. So, Stephen led us into one of the buildings where a Burundise official checked out our passports, greeted us in French, and waved us through and off we went....walking ahead and waited for our taxi to come through the barrier.
Then, we all piled back in and I thought we were good to go, but oh no, we were only in the free zone—the in-between zone between Congo and Burundi! Up until now we had been on a paved road, passing poor, poor villages with lots of people walking or riding their bikes with huge bundles of wood or vegetables piled on themselves or their vehicles. Now we were on a partially paved, partially dirt road and approaching another barrier, that looked even more feeble than the one before, but a barrier nevertheless. There were similar structures to the left only these, too, were quite a few steps down from the buildings before, if that could even be possible. They were smaller, dirtier and barely standing. Out we all piled again. This time into the Congolese border crossing. I hadn’t realized we had to cross out of Burundi and then into Congo—two separate crossings! We stepped into one small room where Stephen handed the official our passports. He laughed afterwards saying the officials were so interested in “the visitors”, that they took little interest in him or Justin today! They then led us into an even tinier room where there were two obviously much more important officials sitting behind their desks and to my great comfort two French men and a very decked out French woman all squished in there, too. Without much hesitation, our passports were quickly leafed through, thanks to the thoroughness of my beloved having done his homework and we had gotten our invitation and visas done ahead of time and paid for, so with a quick stamp/stamp and a merci, off we went.
Again, I thought we were done and off, but no, not yet...we went out to the taxi, pulled up in the rocky dirt parking lot in front of the building and about five officials asked which bags were mine. So, they pulled mine out of the car, along with Roger’s and took them into yet another dirty, tiny little room and slung them up on a table. Seriously, there must have been about five guys in there looking in Roger’s suitcases. They barely looked through them and then sent him out. Then all of the sudden all the guys left the room, with just me standing in there and a female official comes swiftly in, big smile on her face and unzips my suitcase. She’s chit-chatting scantily in English as she’s pawing through my stuff and then she says, “Please don’t you have any lotion, just a small bit of some lotion?” I can’t believe it...lotion, lotion, lotion, do I have any? If I do, do I want to give it to her? I asked her, “Do you have any babies?” “Yes,” she says. So, I quickly handed her one of the beanie baby teddy bears I had brought for a gift and she giggled and giggled with delight. Small price to pay, I’d say. So much for all of Roger’s, “Do you have to bring all this stuff?” wouldn’t you say???
So we are here, safe and sound, in Uvira. Already had to change hotels because the first one, the nice one, didn’t have any water....but that’s a whole other story....we’re still blessed...and pray you are, too.
In the early morning hours, as I (Brooks) still lay in bed, the familiar knot started to swell in my stomach as I started thinking about our upcoming trip to Africa. Was it fear? Going into the Congo is kind of scary. Was it anxiety? Lots to do and lots on my mind. Was it sadness to be leaving home? Always hate to say good-bye, especially to my kids. I was actually trying to figure it out. What was going on with me? Typically, a few weeks away from going on a big overseas trip, I’m pretty excited—stressed, oh yeah, sure. There’s always the yellow legal pad with the various lists on it: one labeled: work stuff, another: shopping yet to do, which always includes yet one more trip to Walmart; another: miscellaneous items like washing the dog, get medications and so on. I had my yellow pad and I had all my lists and my calendar was pretty well filled up til the minute we leave, but no, none of that was what was causing the pain in the pit of my stomach.
You know how you burned your finger once and then you burn it again…then you think to yourself, “Wow, this hurts -- just like the last time.” Then you remember exactly what was going on when you burned it before. Well, that’s what happened when I started feeling this pain. It wasn’t like other pain, like oh, my daughter’s been hurt, or I’m in a scary situation, but it most definitely was like pain I had felt before.
I started to see pictures, like a movie of all the many places we have been, like the Philippines and Thailand, Laos, Madagascar and South Africa. These are places I don’t think about much as I go in and out of my every day life, but they are very real places, filled with very real people. Sure, there are lots of people there who are living the good life, I suppose, although I’ve not met them or seen them. But what I have seen are the poor, the desperate, the destitute. I’ve seen the hungry, the lonely, the hopelessly abandoned and forgotten. The heartbreak of the cries and the filthy stench of poverty are overwhelming. This was the feeling I had come to know from previous trips. Could I do it again? Could I face the realities of going into these developing countries and the people who are trying to literally survive in them? Help! I must brace myself for what I know is coming. It’s going to be awful; it’s going to be heinous and horrible, and I can do nothing to help, to meet the needs. There are simply so many—everywhere. But then, I began to breathe again. One breath, then two, then three, and I heard in my spirit. Just one. You can speak to just one. You can love just one. I was just One. Jesus impacted the entire world and He was just One.
--Brooks 
We were at Pamela and Kefir's house yesterday for house church. Their home is in a string of several other connecting homes, facing other identical homes separated by just a few feet of dirt. It has two dark rooms, divided by a curtain. One room is their bedroom; the other is the sitting room by day, and a bedroom for nine-year old Audrey by night. Each room measures about 8 x 10.
It was so good to be with them. Pamela, as you can see, is a beautiful young woman, and her husband adores her. He is so humble, and she is such a woman of gentleness and faith. Pamela and Kefir are typical of the Kenyan culture, which I have come to appreciate and love. They are soft-spoken, often speaking in low tones, but with such conviction and passion.
While we were together, I asked Pamela about her children. She said she had Audrey, but that she had also lost a boy who was three months old. She had had to have a C-section and there had been complications. This was almost two years ago. Even though she was smiling, it was obvious that she was understandably still grieving over the loss of this boy. But, then the words just began tumbling out of her as her story continued. She had started to feel sick and been to seek medical help. She wanted me to understand that she had read in a paper from the U.S. that women there could go to a clinic and get a screening for female problems, and that this is available for any woman, but here in Kenya, this is impossible. When she goes to the doctor, there are many lines and she must stand in a line, and even your husband cannot stand in line with you, no matter how sick and weak you are. And then they yell at you, "Go to this line, go to that line!" Finally, maybe you can see the doctor and he will tell you what kind of medicine you need and ask you if you can afford 400 shillings. When you say yes, he will give you a prescription, but when you go to the pharmacy, they will tell you the cost is 1200 shillings, so there is no possibility of you being able to pay for it.
So, Pamela was telling me that she was so ill that she couldn't do any work at all. She was so desperate that finally she gave in and went to the doctor. After standing in all of the different lines, she met with the doctor. He told her that she had fibroid tumors on her uterus and she needed to have surgery. He also told her that she was pregnant, and that she was anemic--and that she has malaria. The doctor wanted to do surgery to take out the tumors, but, of course, that would mean that she would lose the child, so Pamela told the doctor, "No, I am going home!" She said first of all, there was no way she wanted to lose the baby. Secondly, there was no way to pay for the surgery or the medicines for the other problems. She said I have nothing; I have only God, but He is enough. So she went home, went to bed and started to pray. As she was telling her story, I couldn't help, but remember the miracle God had done in my own life when I was her age and my excitement began to grow as she continued to tell her story. "So, God visited our house and the bleeding that was happening stopped. And if God had not healed me, I would not be able to visit with you this day or prepare a meal for you or tell you about this thing He has done for me." And, so I did rejoice with her and told her a small bit of my own story some 35 years ago, and yes, because of God's miracles, we were actually able to be able to sit together in her living room that day and share our lives with each other and talk about this awesome God and the miracles He had performed in our lives!
But, that isn't the end of Pamela's story. Pamela speaks beautiful English...as well as Swahili and her native tribal language. But somewhere along the line, we misunderstood what she had spoken. This was not a story that happened a year or two ago. This is a story that is currently happening. This is Pamela's life today. She is standing on God's promises today for her own health, for the health and birth of her baby. She had been to the doctor last week and found out all of this news. God is currently healing her and raising her up. Last week she couldn't get out of bed and yesterday she was in the "kitchen" in the backyard preparing a meal for us. Kefir was helping her, which is VERY unusual in the Kenyan culture for a man to be helping the woman, so I know he is still quite concerned about her health and that she is still not fully recovered, even though she is doing so well.
When we learned of our misunderstanding, we asked if we could pray for her-Anny (one of the Congolese visiting team members) and myself, as the only women present. It was awesome! We look forward to the birth of this special little one and Pamela's full recovery and healing. Please pray with us for this very humble, precious family: for the birth of their baby and for their spiritual babies and church plants in their community as well.
