In the game!

I decided it was time to tell why I am writing this blog…. I’m still on the second of three reasons…to help people understand what following Christ looks like - from my vantage point.

As I connected with people from various walks of life, and all sorts of beliefs, I began to see how God in His marvelous grace can reach us and use us for His glory in whatever state we find ourselves in. (Consider David, Joseph, Paul, the woman at the well, etc…) God does not wait for us to have perfect lives. He sees our brokenness and our hearts, and His mercy and lovingkindness have no end for those who call on Him and put their trust in Him.

Well, that’s exactly what I discovered. I was still in the game! My Heavenly Father was taking me by the hand and gently sending me back into the game, where I found I had a new relevance to other imperfect people around me. In fact many - then and now - want to listen to my story and hear what I have to say. Why - because my life’s been pleasant and easy? Not at all… It’s my scars and my imperfect life that, oddly enough, give me a platform to give praise and glory to my God.

I can’t tell you how surprised I was when I first realized this, and how delighted I am that I can still serve my God. You do not have to have a “pleasant” or perfect life before you can follow and serve Christ. And following Christ is both difficult and easy. It requires humbling oneself (difficult for many of us) before a loving God, and before His Son, whose life was given on the cross to free us from the bondage to sin we were born with (easy for us – the price was paid). If you don’t know how great it is to be free, I encourage you to become a follower of Christ. You will never ever regret it.

And now…the third reason I’m writing this blog… It’s to tell my grandparents’ stories from their lives as pioneer missionaries in Cameroon, Africa - so that in hearing these stories of faith, our own faith in God will grow.

In the game?

As in the previous post, I’m using tidbits from my story to tell what I want, in terms of this blog. And I’m still on the second of three things - to help people understand what following Christ looks like. From my vantage point, of course…

It’s interesting to me that about the time my life started to get visibly messy (it was behind the scenes messy long before) was about the time I started to learn the most about following Christ. And about what kind of follower He wants…

I thought that I would be of little use to God once the road to, and through, divorce started, and that made me very sad because I really wanted to serve Him and bring Him glory – even then. I was totally expecting to have to sit quietly on the sidelines – watching all the action, but knowing I’d no longer be called into the game. I was sure that I was now like the injured player who could still wear the jersey, and may get a few sympathy pats from a teammate now and then, but would soon be forgotten, as I watched the game from my spot on the bench. But I had a surprise ahead.

As I began to walk through my new life as a separated and then divorced person, suddenly I began connecting with unbelievers at every turn. Oddly enough, a handful of them, and not most of my Christian friends, became my support group. They helped me through the tough, lonely times, when many Christians acted like nothing huge was happening to me. I was gushing blood, but it was almost like no one at church saw it. And I’m positive most, if not all, didn’t intend, even for a second, to enlarge my wounds. They simply didn’t know what to do with me, or what to say to me. I was an elder’s daughter, a pioneer missionary’s granddaughter, a Sunday school teacher, a worship team member…and was initiating divorce (needless to say, not lightly). It (I?) was scary to many, I think, and I guess understandably so. Yet it hurt… (A few Christians - my sisters and niece especially - were huge supports to me, I must say, for which I'm forever grateful.)

But God’s love and grace are huge. He never, ever abandoned me or let me down. And it really should be of no great surprise to us when people fail us. I’ve told my kids that many times. “I love you so much and don’t ever want to fail you, but unfortunately I will. But don’t look to me; look to God. He will never fail you.”

Does God "not failing me" mean I always get what I want? Of course not… I never wanted to be divorced, for example. But life on this earth, which is broken by sin, is only temporary and my Jesus walks through it with me, and will bring me safely into eternity with Him. That is how God never fails me. That is how I’m never alone. That is why I write this blog…to encourage others. To tell people: “Don’t look to me or my grandparents. We will fail you. But look at our God. He will never ever fail you.”

(In the game? to be continued...)

In Annie's words...

As we approach the beginning of a new year, I’ve decided to do a few posts that are Annie speaking in her own words. I’ll begin with this one.

This has been a year where I’ve taken a few bold steps (for me), like booking a trip to Africa – and with a woman I hadn’t yet met, taking a vacation alone (okay, so it was only one night away, in a city two hours from here), and yes…kicking off a blog. I’ve switched things up a bit, I guess, and it causes me to think about what it is I want from this switch. (Warning: I always get a bit reflective as a new year approaches and kicks off. I’ll get back to Africa stories soon...)

Well, first it must be said that I want to bring glory to my God and Savior. It rolls off my tongue and keyboard with ease. Does the desired roll from my life with as much ease?...

Then also: I want to love well. “If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels but do not have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.” (I Cor. 13:1, NIV) I think of this verse often as I’m putting down words in this blog. I could write an awesome post some day, but if I don’t love, it’s worse than worthless. I find I’m constantly reminded of this, though my life, all-too-often, doesn’t reflect it…

At some point these conceptual desires to glorify God and love well need to take on shape and get specific. So, here we go. In terms of this blog, what do I want? Why am I writing about my grandparents’ (and father’s) experiences in Africa and posting something here most every week?

Three reasons… First of all, I feel called to do this. With each post I feel like I’m building an alter to my God. I’m laying stone upon stone, story upon story, to, and for, Him. This both removes pressure, and makes me want to do my very best. I’m excited and encouraged when I hear someone’s reading the blog. And at the same time, I would keep building this if no one was reading it. (But I'm thankful, and grateful, that you are.)

Second, I’m writing this because I want people everywhere to understand what following Christ looks like, and this is one attempt at least, to consider what it likely does look like. And from my experience, it’s not much of what the unbelieving world thinks. It’s not about religiosity or right-winged stances or shallow, Pollyanna-type thinking. It’s not about hating sinners or condemning sin or judging people. I learned this through my own story, key pieces of which I will share with you now. (And the third reason is about your calling, which I will get to in a later post...)

The path to my divorce was the most difficult path of my life so far. I’m torn between not wishing it on anyone, and because of the learning, wishing it on everyone. But I don't wish it on anyone. I learned a lot from it, and it was extremely painful and difficult.

The most important, significant learning was about my Savior, Jesus Christ – who He really is and what He’s done for me. I’ll never forget what happened about an hour after I asked for a separation from my spouse, the first time. It was during my first minutes alone after the traumatic, dreaded conversation and I suddenly realized that the Holy Spirit was with me. He was comforting me and so close to me that I could feel Him. I was shocked, and joyfully relieved! Until that moment of surprise, I hadn’t realized that I thought He would no longer want me - that He would no longer be with me. My head knew that God would still want me, I think, but in my brokenness, my heart feared it wasn't so. And this was only the beginning of what I had to learn: God’s love transcends divorce.

Thirsty iron monster

My dad’s perspective continues, in his words…

One time, in 1929, we were coming home to Yagoua from Lere and stopped at a small village called Bosgoi. The Model T Ford had been overheating and needed a drink, as the Africans described it. In those years, whenever this iron monster stopped, a crowd would quickly gather in astonishment. My dad used many of these occasions to preach to the gathering crowd.

This day, as he was preaching, two men with long scraggly hair and unkempt beards were sitting at the back of the group. My father may or may not have recognized them as the two local medicine men, or witch doctors, as they were often called in those days. My mother told me later, that to my father, it appeared that they were disturbing the meeting and so in desperation he sternly said, “In the name of Jesus I command you to be quiet!” Immediately, they became quiet and listened to what he was saying. After a little while we continued on home to Yagoua.

A week or two later, I saw these two men approaching our mission compound asking to speak with my father because they wanted to hear more about this Jesus he had spoken about on that day the iron monster needed a drink. They had traveled 30 miles on foot and it had taken them five days to get to us. (You see they had to come to a village, make friends with the people, stay overnight, then go the next village, make friendly overtures, stay overnight and thus continue on their way...)

My folks had been in Africa 10 years and no one yet had received Christ. These were the first two in that region that did. These most unlikely ones were willing to receive the gospel, thus, one can never be sure who it may be that is open to the Good News. Perhaps it is someone you consider to be the most unlikely one.

This was the beginning of a great awakening in that district of Cameroon, and it all started in the village of Bosgoi because the iron monster was thirsty and needed a drink.

There’s a phrase that’s been going through my mind recently. “If you keep doing what you’re doing, you’ll keep getting what you’ve got.” I first heard this in the electronics manufacturing industry about 10 years ago from Harry, a six sigma black belt who was the quality manager at the firm where I was the training manager. He loved to use this phrase to help teach us that there are reasonable results to be expected from a manufacturing process...and that we need to be open to data-inspired change to these processes, or else it's ridiculous to expect different results.

Harry’s words have been going through my mind a lot this past week. Am I getting the results that I want in life? And if not, do I need to change something or stop expecting different results?

As I typed Dad’s story for today’s post, I kept thinking about 10 years... Ten years of waiting for a convert... Ten years in Africa of doing what Grandpa and Grandma were doing and not getting what they wanted: people to accept salvation through Jesus Christ. Did they contemplate switching things up in order to try to get different results? I imagine they may have…

Grandpa and Grandma kept on in faith when results did not follow. For 10 long years... They trusted God’s call and stayed the course.

I don’t like to wait a week for something I want, much less a year…certainly not 10. When I’m impatient or full of doubt based on invisible or nonexistent results, I need to go back to my Source. I need to chat with my Heavenly Father, reviewing my intent and actions with Him, and seek His response and direction. He may be leading me to switch things up, or he may be saying, “stay the current course and trust me.” He will guide, and either could be the right answer… Because with God, it is entirely possible to keep doing what we’re doing, and get something we’ve not gotten before.

Model T's destiny

My dad’s perspective continues, in his words…

Just before we were to return to Africa after our furlough in 1926, a couple who owned a restaurant in Chicago gave my dad their own 1925 Model T Ford – one with a spotlight in the center of the front windshield. I always thought this gift came from someone who had quite a bit of money, and generously gave that car. It was not until four or five years ago (Dad wrote this in approximately 1993) that I found out from their daughter that this was definitely not her idea. In fact, she and her brother were exceedingly angry about it. For a whole year thereafter, the family could not afford to buy another car. Instead, the father bought the family a radio to placate the children. As you can see this gift was truly a sacrificial gift.

Missionaries never have surplus funds and the fare on transatlantic passenger boats costs quite a bit more than on slow freighters. It also costs more to ship a car stored down in the hold of a ship than to leave it out on top of the deck. Therefore, we left Brooklyn on the SS West Kidron, a freighter bound for Africa, with the Ford on the outside deck, held down with a few ropes.

A few days out on the Atlantic, we were hit by a tremendous hurricane. The waves pounded against the ship. One moment the nose was pointed up into the sky and the next it was plunging into the sea with tons of water slopping over the decks. The ship would shudder as the propeller came out of the water, and grab again as the rear of the ship came down. I was too young to know, but my parents at times were sure that the ship might sink at any moment.

The fierceness of the storm broke many of the railings off the ship and swept them into the ocean. A storage pantry that the ship’s carpenter had built on the deck was smashed and swept out to sea. There was no reason that the Ford could survive the storm and not be swept overboard. Certainly it was not the cords that were holding it in place.

After the storm was over, my dad took me to the forward deck where we saw several 14 to 18 foot steel bridge I-beams that were 18 inches across. These were twisted and bent by the force of the storm. But the Model T was fine. It was destined for God’s service in Cameroon and Chad. The sacrificial gift had been carefully protected by Heaven’s angels.

I’ve always loved this true story, which Dad told many times during his life. It inspires me with hope and confidence because it reminds me that God is all powerful. And that God has a plan... If the car had washed into the sea, it would be because He allowed it to be washed into the sea. But His will was for the car to make it to Africa. So it did. It’s that simple. Steel beams could twist in the hurricane, but the Model T had a destiny, and it stood unharmed.

I sometimes wonder about my journey... Shouldn’t I be rolling over lovely country roads, receiving admiration from onlookers as I dutifully and beautifully fulfill my destiny? Why, all too often then, does it feel like I’m being tossed about on an ugly ol’ freighter where my destination is not only unclear, it seems likely I may not arrive anywhere at all?

Having faith is both the easiest thing to do and the most difficult. It requires believing past the storm. It requires believing God is big and can do big things.

Back to Africa?

The second post from my Dad's perspective...

During this furlough, well meaning American friends tried very hard to convince my parents that it was absolutely unthinkable, unreasonable and perhaps even sinful to take such a tiny child to that horrible, dark continent with all those poisonous snakes, scorpions and wild, man-eating animals. As I reflect on this, I wonder where they thought I had been all of my three-and-a-half year life, up until that time.

I have heard of other missionary kids whose parents succumbed to that pressure and left their young children at home with friends or relatives, and the children tragically felt that they were unwanted and had been abandoned. In fact, some have even said, “If they didn’t want me, why did they even bring me into the world?” I’m so thankful to God that He had other plans for me and my parents. Every single day that I was in the United States I would ask: “When are we going back home to Africa?” My intense persistence with that question helped remove any doubt from their mind as to what they were to do with me. As a result, I’ve always known I had parents who loved me enough to keep me with them, even when others thought that was the wrong decision.

In addition to that, when I was nine, and until I was twelve years old, my mother stayed in America with me while my father went alone to Africa for three years. At the time I wasn’t mature enough to really appreciate the sacrifice they made on my behalf until years later when I was married, I finally realized the greatness of their sacrifice, and their love for me and for the work of spreading the Gospel.

Well, after this first furlough, we arrived back in Africa. In Nigeria we stayed a few days with some American missionaries and I had a wonderful time playing with their children. Leaving them, we went over trails, primitive roads, and at times just foot paths to reach our home in Yagoua, Cameroon. Now that I had arrived back home in Africa, and had such wonderful memories of playing with the American missionary children, my tune suddenly changed so that it became: “When are we going back to America?” But God had so graciously brought me back to Africa with my parents; for this I am now truly grateful.

As I think of my young dad with changeable desires – wanting to go home to Africa, then wanting to go back to America – I think about some of my own changeability. I would like to think my changeable desires are much more adult…mature. But I know better. That’s why the older I get, the more I truly want to defer to my Heavenly Father’s guidance. Not that I hold back, often anyway, from telling Him what I think I want. But the whole, “yet not my will, but yours be done,” is added onto my prayers with more genuineness and truthfulness than ever before.

The other thing I found myself thinking about as I typed Dad’s words, is how God always leads us when we ask Him for wisdom, and truly expect Him to give it to us. (It’s a promise in the book of James, for one...) Grandpa and Grandma sought God’s wisdom concerning whether or not to bring Dad back to Africa with them. And God answered them, in part, through their vocal three-year-old’s daily stated desire to return to Africa. A little boy who would change his tune once he arrived there…

I cannot think of a time when I have cried out to God for wisdom, and He has not answered me. He may not choose to answer in my preferred timing…and yes, some answers I am still waiting for… Yet I know His promises are trustworthy. He has shown me that over and over again.

Berge, Herborg & Harold

This is the first post from my Dad’s perspective. Dad was Grandpa and Grandma Revne’s only child. Dad (Harold Revne) died in 2003, but thankfully he left some stories about his childhood…

My father (this is my Dad speaking about his father)was born in Norway, just south of Bergen on the seashore of the Bjorne fjord. I believe he had as a very young man the desire to serve God as a missionary to a foreign country. In handwritten notes I found, Father says he was influenced by Christian public school teachers and Christian parents. He was converted himself to Christianity at the age of 17, and the young childhood call came back to him then. Consequently he eventually left the farm and emigrated to the United States for further Bible training, practical missionary training and language learning studies, especially that of phonetics and phonemics and the study of the structure of languages.

My mother’s home was located about one-half mile up the mountain from the ocean where my father lived. The children living in the area would walk to school. My mother was three years older than my father and they went to the same school, but did not walk together. The school was in Baldersheim which was about a mile or two away. They never ‘went together’ but secretly liked each other. It wasn’t until my father sent mother a letter with money for a ticket to America that she knew he was serious – this was the equivalent to his asking her to marry him. She came to the U.S. and worked in Fargo as a nurse assistant.

I was born in Norway just half-way between my father’s seaside home and my mother’s mountain view home, in a house belonging to my aunt. My parents registered my birth with the American Consulate because they were naturalized citizens of the USA. My father had been studying in France that summer while waiting my arrival.

Two weeks after I was born they took me with them on a steamship back to Africa, where they had been missionaries for almost four years. Then we went by two covered dugout canoes to Garoua, Cameroon on the Benue river, and then by horseback or whatever transportation mode was available, in order to reach the mission station in Lere, Chad. Naturally I have no recollection of my first three years in Africa, but I am told that whenever a national would peer through the mosquito netting covering the baby buggy, they would invariably remark, “You mean they are even born white?”

When I was three we left for furlough via Norway to America. The first leg of the journey to reach the coast of Africa took two months in two dugout canoes outfitted kind of like Conestoga covered wagons, with mosquito netting to protect from insects, and grass mat overhead to give shade from the hot tropical sun. At night the canoes would be latched together to help prevent the hippopotamus from playfully or otherwise overturning the craft. From Lagos, Nigeria we went by ship to Norway and then across the Atlantic to America.

On landing in the United States I no doubt experienced a mild culture shock since I could not speak English, although I was fluent in Norwegian and two African languages: Masana and Fulani.

I’m trying to picture my three-year-old dad experiencing culture shock upon arriving in the U.S. for the first time in his little life. No worried parental talk of hippopotamus, no comfort of mosquito netting at naptime, no dugout canoes to romp in, and three toddler languages to try to get a glass of milk with, but none of them working... A Norwegian-born, U.S. citizen, who had really only lived in Africa by age three! What an interesting childhood my Dad had.

Yet what I’m even more intrigued by, is Dad’s mention of how his parents got together. Secretly liking each other, a letter with money for a ticket to America… (The next Nicholas Sparks movie?) I would so love to know what Grandpa’s letter said. Maybe he wrote: “Dear Herborg, I know I haven’t seen you in a year or two, but here’s some money for a ticket to America. Please hop on the next boat out of Norway because I’d really like to date you.”

Well, maybe not. Yet whatever Berge said, one thing is totally clear to me. It took some courage and faith for him to write it. And I have no doubt it took some courage and faith for Herborg to respond the way she did. They both took a risk to pursue love. Their granddaughter admires them for this, and is grateful they did.

The tag attraction

This is a current day Annie story…

For the past six months or so I’ve been intrigued by little ones and their attraction to tags. Well, specifically, two grandson’s attraction to tags... It was around the same time, that I noticed both my 9-month-old grandson and my 2-1/2-year-old grandson (approximate ages at that time) had a thing about tags. When the older grandson was staying here one night, and his pack-n-play was in my bedroom, his mom and dad told me that if he wakes up during the night, “simply help him find the tag on his blanket,” and, “that’s usually all he needs.” Well, I’m not one to argue with simplicity, especially when it concerns my interrupted sleep, so I filed that info safely away for the night. Sure enough, when my toddler started squirming and crying out a bit during the night, I found the blanket, then the tag on it, handed the tag to my grandson, and he was back in dreamland before I was back in bed. I marveled for about 10 seconds – then slept ‘til morning.

It wasn’t long after, or perhaps even just before this, that I was at my other grandson’s house doing a little babysitting. My daughter-in-law was giving me bedtime directions before she and my son went on a date. She told me to hand my 9-month-old guy the little tag on his stuffed Dalmatian when I laid him in the crib. I looked at the tag she was showing me. It was teeny tiny. The stuffed Dalmatian itself is all of six inches, and this stamp-sized tag that my grandson was going to want was about half an inch long. But hey… again…I’m not one to argue with what makes/keeps these little ones happy, so if he wants that little slip of fabric handed to him – he’s got it. And sure enough, at bedtime he wanted it, and he fell asleep clutching it.

It was all I could do to not say to these little guys: “Sweetie, you’ve got a whole, super soft blanket to cuddle with, why don’t you grab onto that? Forget the ol’ tag!” And, “My little Snookums, (what grandmas say…) your Dalmatian is so soft and cuddly, why don’t you just snuggle with him and forget about the ragged ribbon peeking out of the seam?” But of course I didn’t... And of course I was grateful for the tags, and their calming charm.

I’ve been thinking about this off and on ever since… My grandsons’ obsession with tags has caused me to reflect on the conflict between my mortal self and my eternal self. I mean there are times when I’m so filled with the Spirit of God that I feel I am soaring and it feels so awesome, and so – right. And then after a time of this, I suddenly need to put air in the car’s tires, or take the garbage out, or trudge through another day of humanity. This all, then, feels so mundane and so…in conflict with my soaring self. It can feel like I’m living in two different worlds.

That’s when the tag started to make sense… The tag is my humanness. It’s what I am still at times attracted to here, and still at times bound to here, despite being surrounded by a lovely large soft blanket of heavenly things. The boring, ugly, sometimes scratchy tag is still the place I live out my days. I can’t escape it – and, there’s some comfort and care for myself in remembering, and not fighting this too much.

The other day this really clicked for me. I came home tired. As I stood in the dining room I thought about all the good things that I could/should do. And then I realized I simply wanted to plop into a cozy chair and watch a good movie. And is that okay? It’s not like I’ve never done this before, yet I did long to have some time with my God, also. So…I asked God if he wanted to watch an old movie with me. Some may think this is sacrilegious. I would tell them that they don’t know about my (many people’s) relationship with God. So I made some popcorn, settled into the leather recliner, and God and I watched A Few Good Men.

It was about the time that Jack Nicolson thundered, “You can’t handle the truth!” when I realized what was going on here. I was holding onto the tag. I’m a spiritual and physical being – and, my physical being wanted some ordinary ol' downtime. It’s not only okay to live in this physical world (with prayer and care), but it’s our created mode of entry into the spiritual world, as well… Holding onto the tag can be comforting while we are here on this earth. I will not be ashamed to clutch it, before/with God, and even enjoy it, ordinary as it is. And it helps me draw near the awesomeness that I will one day boldly access, tag-free.

Rest site found

The last post about Grandpa described a failed attempt to find a vacation site for a missionary rest home... This post describes another try some years later. This is the final post from Grandpa’s document…

Another attempt to find a vacation place for a missionary rest home was done a number of years later. This time we followed the new all-season road from Garoua to Mokolo which goes through Dourbeye and Mogode. From Dourbeye we made a short trip up to Domo mountain. The climate there is excellent and would be a fine location for a missionary rest place, but the road from Dourbeye to Domo is very difficult. We chose a place on Domo mountain and decided to keep it if we did not find any better place on this road.

Reaching Mogode, we, without hesitation, decided on this place as the vacation site location for two reasons: 1) The climate was very good. 2) Mogode is a city with a very large population which would be good for a mission station. As a result we have a mission station as well as a missionary vacation place at Mogode.

The people at Mogode were, to begin with, hard to win for Christ, but in recent years it has changed for the better. We pray and believe that many shall be gathered into the kingdom of God even from Mogode; and that a missionary’s rest home will be very profitable for our missionaries.

Grandpa had an evangelistic heart. Wherever he was, he wanted people to know Christ…to experience the saving power of God’s grace – the power which transforms lives from the bondage of sin to the freedom that’s in Christ Jesus. That is so clear to me from this document, which I finally got to read, and have shared most of it with you here, more than 40 years after he dictated it.

The more I’ve learned about Grandpa and Grandma and their lives as pioneer missionaries in Africa, the more I’m impressed by all they accomplished, with God’s gracious blessing. Frankly, I can get a bit tired just reading about their work and adventures. So it’s significant to me that this final entry is about finding and building a place of rest. It tells me that Grandpa recognized the place for rest in our lives. He was well aware of physical limits (although reading some of his stories, I wondered!) and wanted missionaries – current and future – to have a place of comfort, to refresh and recharge.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my busy life lately, and asking God if I’m spending my time on the right things. I know He will show me... One recent Sunday I spent half a day with Him – doing nothing but praying, reading His word, thinking, listening… It was transformational in a non-transformational way. I didn’t look different after that half-day (at least I don't think so). I didn’t get any course-changing message that would revolutionize my life. But I did rest and chat with my Lord, and it was sweet. Why don't I do that more often?

Grandpa’s last dictated words were that “a missionary’s rest home will be very profitable for our missionaries.” Then, some time not long afterwards, God took him home. Grandpa is now receiving the best rest of all, and the reward for living a life of meaning.

There are more stories to come…in future posts, from the perspective of Grandpa and Grandma’s son, my Dad (who died in 2003). And to those who are finding their way here, I pray that God is encouraging you, and calling you to know and serve Him in new or expanded ways. It’s an honor to share these, and some of my own, stories with you.
Always,
Annie

He got it

I'll post the final story from Grandpa's document in a few days. But first, there is recent mission "family" news from Papua New Guinea, and I would like to insert and dedicate this particular post to the memory of a dear man from that country. I had the privilege of meeting him twice, and I will never forget him.

Late last night I learned that Aloysius Baki went home to be with his Savior yesterday. I sobbed. These were not mostly tears of grief, although there will be great grief for some people of course, and I did cry and pray for them. But I literally sobbed praise to God, for the life of a man who “got it” and lived accordingly.

Aloysius first met my brother-in-law, Brent Wiebe, in a Bola-speaking village in Papua New Guinea. It was 1996 and my sister’s family had not lived in their PNG home for long. Brent went to a celebration for someone’s first-born son in a nearby village and was mingling with the people there when a man introduced himself, and asked if it’s true what he had heard – that Brent had moved there to translate the Bible into the Bola language? Brent told him that was correct, and then Aloysius said something that will never be forgotten. He told Brent that he had prayed a long time ago that God would send someone to translate the Bible into Bola... Well, needless to say, that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship... It was also the beginning of a translation partnership that lasted until yesterday.

God spoke to, and worked in, my sister, Sandi, and Brent’s hearts back in Wisconsin when they were in their early twenties. He lovingly led them to train, and then to discover where they should settle to do translation work. And all during this calling and preparation time, they had no idea they would be the answer to a man’s prayers in Papua New Guinea! What wonderful validation for them the day Aloysius came into the picture. They knew they were right where God wanted them to be.

Aloysius became an exceptional partner to Brent in the translation of the New Testament and eight books of the Old Testament. The Bola Bible is being dedicated next June after 18 years of work. We were praying that Aloysius would be healed so that he could live at least through the dedication in June, and God has miraculously healed him many times. This time God said, “I’ve got something better for you, Aloysius. Come on home and I’ll let you rejoice from here, with no pain.” I now think Aloysius will be leading a simultaneous celebration in heaven...

I’m in awe of God and His plan. God’s desire and ability to work intricately in people’s hearts and lives for His great purpose should be a no-brainer to “get,” yet so often I get caught up in the mundane daily tasks and lose sight of, and faith in, His big picture. Aloysius got it. He invested his life in things that have eternal returns. Thank you, God, for Aloysius. Please comfort Sandi, Brent, and family – and his biological family – who are missing a great man of God today.

May his story inspire us all to keep on in faith. May we “get” the big picture, like Aloysius did, and spend our lives accordingly…

Wild animal night

This is the second-to-last post from the document Grandpa dictated months before his death in 1963.

Ever since we came to Africa we thought definitely of finding a cooler place where missionaries could spend the hot season – from the end of March until the end of May. And by spending those months in a cooler and better place, the missionaries’ health would be better. Also, perhaps, the missionaries’ terms on the field could be lengthened. The Sudan Interior Mission had such a place on the Nigerian Plateau and it was a very comfortable place to be. But the difficulty was that all the missionaries preferred to have their vacation during those hot months and the vacation place was always crowded and there was difficulty securing room at the right time. Our missionaries found it necessary to find a vacation place of their own on their own field.

This, of course, wasn’t so easy because almost our entire field is located on the low land where it is hot and humid during that season. However, attempts were made to find a location for such a place, already as early as the 1920’s. We had heard about a cool place up in the Mokolo Mountains in the northwestern part of our field. When the hot season began, in about 1924, my wife and I made a visit to the other pioneer missionary’s station, and talked the matter over with them, and we decided to make the trip from Lere, cross-country to Mokolo to find out if that would be a suitable place for a vacation spot.

My wife and I started on our cross country trip, which would last at least ten days. We passed by Guider, and about 20 miles west of there we camped for the night. We have never before, or since, been in a place like that with its wild animals. The wild animals were running all over and howling so that we couldn’t sleep. The people told us that the hyenas were so bad that a couple of nights before, while two nationals were sleeping on a goat skin, a hyena came and took the goat skin right out from under them and devoured it.

From there we traveled to Hina and then on to Zamai. We spent a day in Zamai, and not having much of a rest during the previous night we were very tired. It was one of the hottest days we had spent in Africa. Consequently, we got discouraged, although we had only about 16 miles left to get to Mokolo. Therefore, that ended our trip to Mokolo and the investigation for a vacation place. We took a short cut back to Yagoua, thus completing our travels for that time.

Grandpa and Grandma, you camped under the open African sky with a bunch of howling hyenas, yet turned back 16 miles from your destination?! Now I know that 16 miles – whatever your mode of transportation was in 1924 – is not like 16 miles down the freeway in 2010. You may have been on horseback… Nevertheless, it really bothers me that you went through all of that, and then had to turn back.

There is no judgment in this – whatsoever – as any who know me know that I would have turned back at the first hyena howl. (Yes, I grew up in a camping family. And yes, we camped in a hard-sided Winnebago.) But you survived that scary night, went a few more days in record heat, and then turned back – so, relatively, close to your destination.

But that’s reality, isn’t it? Grandpa and Grandma were human beings, with human needs, including rest. When that particular journey became too difficult, they smartly considered their options and decided to turn back. And I’m fairly certain they were praying a lot, and were guided by the Holy Spirit. (Okay, so I have to ask, is anyone but me dying to know if this was a time when Grandma said, “Berge, I’ve willingly and lovingly followed you to many places, but if you choose to continue this trip even one more mile you will be going on alone!”? Sorry Grandma, if that thought never even entered your head. But after that night in the wild, and in that extreme heat, well, I can't help but wonder...)

Like Grandpa and Grandma, I'm human, with human needs, including rest. Sometimes my results aren’t stellar like I’d like them to be. Sometimes I let myself down. But I need to pray and follow the Spirit’s leading and when I do, I find I’m encouraged, and not condemned. The peace-stealing enemy may not be the howling hyena in the wild, it may be me. Positive results may still come, but at a later time, in another way...

Hauna and Maria

This section my Grandpa titled “Evangelist Hauna from Bosgoi.” It’s actually more about Hauna’s cool wife, Maria…

I have already mentioned about the awakening at Bosgoi in the early years of the mission and the number of young men and boys who were converted at that time. Many of them became workers in the kingdom of God. One of these was Hauna. He wasn’t the energetic type, like Darman of Djouman, but he was easy going, and he did much for spreading the gospel. He sat down with his friends and relatives and talked with them, in that way getting them interested in the gospel.

His father wasn’t a Christian to begin with, so he had some opposition in his home; but his mother was a wonderful, kindhearted, Christian who was wholeheartedly with him. She was a praying woman. His father was somewhat against her too, because she was kind to her son Hauna. He had a brother whose name was Semdi. They worked together, talked, and prayed together much about spiritual things. Semdi became a catechist and Hauna was called to Gounou Gaya to teach the children and young people there.

Hauna did a very good work there. Everyone loved him because of his kindheartedness. He desired to help the people when they were hungry and he was able to win their hearts, and lead many to Christ. Physically he wasn’t strong; he contracted an ailment which he suffered much from and he finally died because of it. He was happy both when he was sick and when he was well.

His wife Maria deserves mention, also. She was a daughter of an elder of the church in Bosgoi. She, like Hauna, had a wonderful disposition and was loved by everyone. Because her husband wasn’t physically strong, as mentioned before, he had a difficult time supplying the material needs of his family. But his wife was a very industrious and hard worker. She planted and grew things in places where no one else could get a harvest. God blessed her both materially and spiritually.

When it was mealtime, there was always laughter and chatter at Maria’s place. She often entertained her family and friends both spiritually and mentally. After the meal, she always followed them to the gate to say goodbye and to welcome them for the next time. She was a great help to her husband and there could not have been a happier home than theirs.

She was, you might say, a real evangelist wife, helping both spiritually and materially. And she herself was happy. Thus, whenever life in Bosgoi and vicinity is mentioned, her name is remembered. She certainly deserves to be remembered - not only as one of the finest church members, but as the wife of the evangelist of the church.

It is indeed fortunate for an evangelist to have such a helpmate who in everything goes with him and helps him. We pray that God will give many of the African pastors and evangelists such wives as Maria. Her work and life will live long after she is gone. Whoever visited their home will long remember both his and her kindness, and the spiritual uplift they received while visiting with them.

Maria, I want to be like you! I would have loved to have been a guest for one of your meals because it sounds like people felt loved when they were around you. (I so want people to feel loved when they are around me, but I wonder how often I actually achieve that...) You had laughter and chatter around the table. What hostess doesn't want that?

And you got results: “She planted and grew things in places where no one else could get a harvest.” You did the impossible. You inspire me, dear sister! Also, I love that you walked your guests to the gate, not simply to say goodbye, but to ensure they felt welcome to return. I bet they came back as quick as they could.

I wish I had known you, Maria. I’m really glad Grandpa wrote about you. I'm really glad that he wrote about the value of a woman partner.

Three simple words

I’m going to go all out today and post a second post in the same day. :) This isn’t one of Grandpa’s stories, however, it’s one of my own. And it’s not from years ago - it’s from today – and I’m the grandparent in this one. So, in keeping with the generational theme, but this time leaping forward by two, rather than back…


This morning I woke up to three words I will never forget. My four-year-old granddaughter was sleeping on a cushion on my bedroom floor for the second night in a row, as her family was visiting for the weekend. To fully appreciate the words I heard this morning, I must begin by describing yesterday morning. Yesterday, Saturday, she woke up in a very chatty mood at a very early hour – 5 a.m. to be exact – and never went back to sleep.

You need to know that I am not a morning person. (An understatement…) Nevertheless, every Monday through Friday I must act like a morning person and get up and go to work, like many other people who are fortunate enough to be employed. Well, by the time Saturday rolls around, it’s no surprise that I am more than ready to sleep in a bit – or a lot. So when yesterday’s 5 a.m. wake-up discussion began, it was difficult for me to fully appreciate it, even though I love my granddaughter like crazy. While I dozed, off and on, from 5-7 a.m., there were numerous comments and questions like, “I’m thirsty,” “Is it time to get up, yet?” and so forth…

So this morning, when I glanced at the clock upon hearing her first word – “Grandma” – and realized it was already around 6:30 a.m., I was pleased that it was later than yesterday’s start time, although it was still earlier than I had hoped, since my bedtime occurred after midnight. Well, preparing for the likely drink or potty question, I replied, “Yes, honey?”

And that’s when I heard it. The three words that are continuing to rock my world even tonight. She replied simply and wondrously. “I love you.” That was it. No asking “Can I watch the Clifford movie?” or “Are the deer still up?” or “When can we get up, Grandma?” Nope. This morning, my darling granddaughter just wanted to tell me that she loved me.

As I was still enjoying the warmth of those early morning words, and her love behind them – receiving joy from that expression even now, more than fifteen hours later – it suddenly occurred to me. I actually get to start every day with those three beautiful words. They are spoken daily from my Heavenly Father, who loves me even more than my sweet granddaughter does. If I was so transformed by her words of love this morning, shouldn’t I be equally transformed (even more so) by my Creator’s morning reminder of love?

Why is it I seem to miss His greeting first thing in the morning? Am I not listening? Do I not truly believe His love is there for me? Actually, I think it’s because I forget... I forget to remember that He is not only in the room with me, but wants to remind me – first thing each day – that He loves me like crazy. He wants the first three words I hear every day to be “I love you” – and He gets to speak them, because no one loves me like He does. I think He spoke them audibly through my granddaughter today. To remind me how awesome it is to start the day with love. And how possible.

The story behind...

This is the second of two posts from a section my Grandpa titled “The Evangelist Darman of Djouman.”

The story behind Darman is even more wonderful. God indeed sent him to Nigeria that he might learn Hausa and bring the gospel back to Djouman. But the Lord had been working from another direction to prepare for this.

My wife and I were sent by the mission board to Nigeria, where the Hausa language is widely known and spoken; and God, even before that time, appointed men to translate the Bible into the Hausa language. When my wife and I came to Nigeria, the work of the translation was already underway. A few years later the whole Bible was translated. We, therefore, were able to take up the study of the Hausa language and the Bible, as Darman also did.

Now I see God’s wonderful plan in this. God sent us to Nigeria to study the Hausa Bible and then He sent Darman to learn Hausa so that when he had learned Hausa we were already there, prepared to help him and to show him the Way of Life. This leads us to think, and to know, that God had a purpose in His dealing with both my wife and myself, and also with Darman.

I don’t look upon it as a coincidence that we were sent to Nigeria about the same time as Darman; I believe it was a part of the fullness of time for evangelizing the village and country around Djouman, Ere and many other villages around there.

My wife and I had not planned to learn Hausa because we were planning to go eastward to Cameroon where the Hausa language would not be of much use to us. But now we see God’s plan and why He led us to learn Hausa and to meet Darman of Djouman – so that we could be of spiritual help to him and the movement that he, by the grace of God, was able to start.

We thank God for such African men as Darman, and pray that He will raise up men to continue His work so that the evangelizing of this part of Africa may go forth in strength, and many may be saved out of the darkness of unbelief, into the marvelous light of Jesus Christ. May the Lord bless the memory of Darman of Djouman.

Oh Grandpa, I pray that Darman's memory is being blessed by God even today, as I have the honor of relaying this story to any blog readers... I love that you pointed out God’s planning and orchestrating in this story - I couldn't agree with you more! It was not simply a coincidence that you ended up in Nigeria learning Hausa.

The fact that I’m even typing your words from this newly found document into this blog, is also something I do not believe for a second is a coincidence. The fact that I have met numerous people this year with connections to Cameroon is not a coincidence. And the fact that I’m planning to visit your longtime home in Yagoua in January – with a now dear friend, who I had not even met prior to August – is not a coincidence either.

God’s ways are so much more interesting and fun than our ways without Him. God has placed Africa on my heart this year, and while I don’t know all the why's in particular, I do believe it is a God thing, and I'm trusting and praying that He will use this interest for His glory.

I'm also praying, as I type this, that God is orchestrating non-coincidences, of similar scope, in your life. And that He is giving you the faith and grace to trust His wonderful plan behind them.

Always,
Annie

Darman of Djouman

This is the first of two posts from a section my Grandpa titled “The Evangelist Darman of Djouman.”

It was a treat to have Darman come into our mission station at Yagoua one day in 1929. He is one of the most remarkable Africans I have ever known… Like many others of his village, he went to Nigeria to work in the tin mines to make money. He got work and stayed there a few years. He made enough money for clothes for himself and his wife and gifts for his friends when he returned home. But, he came back with more than that. In Nigeria, he learned to read Hausa by reading the Hausa Bible. In that way he learned to know the Bible, thus accepting Christ as his Savior.

Being saved himself, he wasn’t satisfied to leave the others in darkness. Coming back to his village, he gathered a group of young men and boys around him and taught them to read. In teaching he explained to them the truth of the Bible. Almost the entire group received the saving knowledge of Christ, and they, in turn, taught their brothers and sisters. It was not long before a considerable group believed.

At first the village people left him alone with his teaching and preaching. But, as soon as the older ones realized that his teaching was a new religion, they made opposition, wrought in accusation, against him to the leaders of the village, as well as to those representing the government. He was soon brought into court and put in prison. The accusations against him were, of course, not true. But he had no one to defend him and explain his case so he was kept in prison.

That did not prevent him from preaching the gospel. In and out of prison, to the prisoners as well as the guards, he witnessed like Paul of old for Christ, and a number of them were saved. This went on for some time. He was accused and condemned to prison – occasionally freed again – only to be accused once again. But he was always happy and content for the privilege he had in witnessing for Christ in prison.

I visited him a number of times and tried to set his case straight before the government. The last time I went to visit him I met him on the way. He was coming to see me in Yagoua, and I was on my way to Bongor to see him. When I saw him I immediately noticed his downheartedness. He told me all that had happened and that he now was at liberty. I said to him, “Darman, if you are at liberty and you are vindicated before the government, you should not be downhearted, but happy about it.”

He then replied, “Mister that is true, I am free; I am at liberty to go back to my village and teach. But the captains of the prisons and the guards realized that the reason for my strength and courage wasn’t in me but in the Book I have been reading continually - the Bible. So they thought that the only way they could discourage me and keep me from teaching was to take the Bible from me. So here I am a free man, but the source of my strength and happiness has been taken from me. I may go back to my village and teach the boys and young men about Christ, but without the Bible how can I teach?” He was almost at the point of weeping.

Living until he was a middle aged man, Darman’s occupation, like the majority of the men in his village, was fishing. Along the rivers where they fished were lots of tsetse flies, which carry the contagious disease of sleeping sickness. During his time as a fisherman, he came in contact with this disease and in a few years, he passed away. He is gone, but his message and influence of life lives on. He is remembered to this day as the evangelist that brought the gospel to Djouman. Many today praise God for his life.

Freedom, without God’s word, felt like bondage to Darman. I know that I don’t appreciate the easy access I have to the Bible on my nightstand. While hardly a day goes by that I don’t read from it – I get hungry and thirsty for the nourishment God’s Word offers me – I’m certain I don’t treasure it the way Darman did. Perhaps, because I’ve never had to go without it... If you are not a follower of Christ, you likely can’t imagine how “alive” this book can be. You probably can’t imagine how it is actually God’s relevant Word to people today, and that He uses it daily to speak personally to His followers all over the world.

While Grandpa doesn’t say...I suspect, and hope, that Darman was able to get his hands on another copy of the Bible.

In the next post, Grandpa looks at God’s orchestration in “the story behind Darman.”

Engagement ring sacrifice

This is the second of two posts my Grandpa titled “The Beginning of the Sudan Mission,” written about the years before he and my Grandma left for Africa (which they did in 1918).

At the next annual meeting of the Lutheran Brethren in Grand Forks, the interest in the mission had increased and the delegates decided to spread information about the mission, and work up interest among the people. I was called to travel in the interest of the mission, at which time I had much encouragement and many happy experiences.

At that time, the interest of the Lutheran Brethren Schools Foreign Bible Mission Society was very high and encouraging. Many of the students gave all that they could and sometimes even more than they were able to. One pastor in particular contributed considerably to the Bible School China Mission Society. When the offering was taken, he never gave less than $100. I visited his church one time and his wife, in her original way, placed a bill, larger than ordinarily given in the offering, under my dinner plate, and I knew that it was a contribution to the mission.

I had many such encouragements during my traveling for the mission, and before the next annual meeting, enough money had come in for the mission to send my wife and I to Africa. When we gathered for the following annual meeting, everyone realized that this was from the Lord and it was decided that the Lutheran Brethren should take up a mission in Africa, which for many years was called the Sudan Mission.

My wife and I at that time had joined the 59th Street Church in Brooklyn. These years of depression were hard times, even in New York and Brooklyn, but the people were much interested, and gave liberally to the mission – especially the girls working in the city. (This was because at that time there was very little work to be had, for the man to make money.)

Three years ago when we visited Norway [most likely in 1959], I heard about a couple whose interest in the mission back then had been so great that even when they were engaged to be married they gave up the buying of an engagement ring and gave that money to the mission. Even today, many are giving freely to the cause...

I am inspired by the Norwegian couple’s passion, yet it's clearly not the typical variety of passion - at least not the kind that's found in a romantic flick. It was their great interest in the African mission that led them to make a sacrifice of love toward a cause they believed in. How romantic is that?! In this age of big weddings, who would ever consider foregoing an engagement ring? Yet does anyone doubt that this sacrifice brought the couple great joy? And likely many blessings besides?

As I think about traveling to Africa in late January, I can’t help but remember a prayer from my youth: “Please God, don’t send me to Africa!” Seriously, with missions in my family history, I feared this... I loved God and wanted to please Him, but I really did not want Him to want me in Africa!

My high school girlfriends have reminded me of this prayer, with a smile, as they see my excitement for the upcoming trip. Granted, I’m only going for a couple of weeks, but nevertheless, I’m using every drop of vacation time to do so – and I can’t wait! While I don’t think this necessarily qualifies as a sacrifice, I do know it is now a great interest, which is bringing me much joy to explore, and to seek God’s will regarding...

Whoever is reading this – please allow me to ask, with kindness: What is your passion? Is there a great interest in your heart? And, have you considered this interest might be a God thing? He may be calling you to some work or sacrifice which will bring you great joy – and blessing to you and others, as well. I encourage you to explore, and seek God’s will regarding it!

The first dollar

The next two posts are from a section Grandpa titled “The Beginning of the Sudan Mission.” And to any newcomers – this is from a document my Grandpa, a missionary to Cameroon, Africa, beginning in 1918, dictated just months before he died in 1963.

While attending the Union Mission Institute in Brooklyn, NY, I met and got acquainted with two Danes. They, like me, were interested in the Sudan Mission. They had attended some mission courses in Denmark given by the Danish United Sudan Mission and had not gotten to go out to Africa for that mission. When they came to America for further education, their mission board was not much in favor of sending them out under them. As I had at the time no prospect of being sent by our mission, we planned and talked about organizing a mission together after the pattern of the Santal Mission. But as it happened, one of the men became ill and died in one or two years time, and the other man then applied to a mission in Liberia, and went out under that mission.

In the Lutheran Brethren things developed also (so that they finally decided to take up the Sudan Mission). In 1915 at the annual meeting in Fergus Falls, several missionaries were being sent to China. The mission board, who knew my desire to go as a missionary to Sudan, sent an inquiry to me asking if I would consider going to China if they called me. To this I had to reply that my heart was fixed on Africa and I could not at that time give it up.

During the annual meeting some of the leaders of the Lutheran Brethren had been thinking it over, and before the meeting closed, a Pastor suggested that perhaps this was the Lord’s guiding that the Lutheran Brethren should take up a mission field on the continent of Africa. A number of others also gave the thought much consideration.

The following summer, I taught Vacation Bible School in Superior, Wisconsin. I had a very fine opportunity to draw a large map of Sudan; it covered half of the classroom wall. There was considerable interest among the school children. Several dedicated their lives to missionary work. During my stay in Superior, someone recommended that I go to Bayfield, Wisconsin and conduct a series of meetings. While at Bayfield, an elderly lady, when she heard about the mission, gave a dollar for it. That was the first dollar that was ever given to the Sudan Project.

While I’m titling this “the first dollar,” and think it’s really cool that the first dollar toward the African mission was truly and simply one dollar, I gotta tell you I’m stuck on something else I read in this section. It’s that my Grandpa’s heart was fixed on Africa (end of his second paragraph, above). As I typed this, I couldn’t help but gulp, and ask: “What is my heart fixed on?”

At the Don Miller conference in Portland last month, one question that Don asked participants has stuck with me (even prior to reviewing my notes, which I’ve still not done...). “What do you want?” Don asked. He even wore this question on a t-shirt at one point. I’m not particularly fond of this question. In fact whenever I’m asked it, I tend to either squirm or get teary. It seems that either 1) I don’t know what I want, or 2) I know but am reluctant to admit it because then I may actually allow myself to desire it and, potentially, to be disappointed.

Grandpa knew what he wanted (to go to Africa) and stuck to it, even when a church board asked if they could send him to China. At the time, he didn’t have another mission option, but his “heart was fixed on Africa. “ He had confidence that there was a reason God placed Africa on his heart, and he stayed true to this conviction.

I’m really thinking that I need to: 1) figure out what I want, and/ or 2) admit what I want and risk disappointment, trusting that God has placed it on my heart for a reason. I’ll admit I’m somewhat envious of Grandpa’s fixed heart… Yet nobody is stopping me from fixing my heart on something. Except for me. So I’ll start with the obvious want. I want a heart that knows, and is willing to declare, what it wants.

Paradox of persecution

Another of Grandpa’s stories from his early days in Cameroon, Africa – back in the 1920s…

In the spring of 1928, I made an extensive trip up the Logone River to Ham, Djouman, Ere and Kim. From Ere, I crossed over the low swampy country to the west, and arrived on the other side of the village of Kolong in the Kelo district.

Here lived a big African chief who called himself the King of the Banana. (The name has no relation to the banana plant, but this tribe was known to outsiders and foreigners as ‘banana’. This was because of their greetings. Whenever they met, they greeted with the word ‘banana’ which means ‘my friend’.) This chief prided himself by having a large lion in a den which he fed one goat every day.

When we brought the gospel to those people, the chiefs of lesser rank opposed the gospel because they knew they couldn’t keep on subduing and oppressing their people as they had done before. So they brought their complaint before the head chief saying that the Christians would not obey them and pay taxes. Consequently the chief put the Christians in a form of prison and they were persecuted.

When a preacher from America visited our field in Africa, I took him up to this place. There must have been more than twenty prisoners at this time. I pleaded to the chief, of course, and he released some of the Christians. But in time, he put others in prison again. This continued until the Christians finally fled across the river into another district. Here many of these groups of Christians settled down and today make up the bulk of God’s people in that district.

This we may compare with the persecution of the church in Jerusalem when people fled to Samaria and other places; and the gospel spread as never before. Not only in the case of the church of Jerusalem is this true but the whole of church history tells about the spreading of the gospel because of persecution.

We have continually tried to tell this to the national Christians, and they have been willing to suffer for Christ’s name in order that the gospel might go out to others. Persecution of the Christians has never stopped the spreading of the gospel. Many countries have been evangelized through the persecution of Christians in those localities.

The past year or so, I’ve become intrigued by the number of paradoxes that exist. I even started a list many months ago to begin keeping track of them. (But I didn’t keep track very well and am not sure where that list is... Nevertheless, I continue to notice them, and it seems my list would be pretty long by now.) The African Christians in 1928 were part of a paradox. For as they were persecuted and stopped from sharing the good news about life in Christ, the result was that the good news spread. It’s a reminder that when God’s Spirit works in hearts, and His Word is shared, not only can persecution not stop it, but it will likely advance it!

The real thing

Finally getting back to Grandpa’s stories... He’s speaking about his early days in Cameroon, Africa – in the 1920s.

There was a revival or awakening among the nationals in Bosgoi. It was remarkable, in that it was no respecter of persons. Pagan priests like Dangdang and Fokna, old men like Frumsia and old women like Pata; young boys like Ole and Haune, Semdi and Ware; wild warriors like Pirsu; bright and intelligent boys and girls who learn to read and write in a few months; unintelligent men who felt it was impossible to learn – all these were accepted equally in God’s great salvation. This is undoubtedly what Paul meant when he wrote to the Romans, “I am not ashamed of the Gospel of Christ, for it is the power of God unto salvation to everyone who believeth, to the Jew first, and also to the Greek.”

This awakening in Bosgoi illustrates this truth that it isn’t by knowledge or intelligence, but whosoever believeth on Jesus is saved and transformed from the children of wrath unto new creatures in Christ Jesus. This awakening wasn’t confined to the village of Bosgoi only; it spread from home to home, village to village; it spread westward to the villages of Hoyang and Dachega where scores of people were converted. The gospel took hold especially in Dachega and soon there were 100 members added to the church, many of them young people.

It was a real joy to come and visit them when they had their meetings – Sundays as well as prayer meetings. There was wonderful fellowship among the children of God. Later, the gospel spread across the lake and through the woods and brush country until eventually it reached Gounou Gaya. From there it later could spread to the surrounding areas…

Grandpa’s words remind me of the power of God’s Spirit working in people’s hearts, preparing them and calling them to hear the truth and accept it. Grandpa did the physical work of going and speaking, but as cool as I think his going and speaking was – it was his God who changed people’s hearts. It was God who brought people the joy of being free from the power of sin and death. Grandpa went to share the good news, and trusted God to use His truth to change hearts.

And how does one know this heart changing is real? For me, the last paragraph says it all – “there was wonderful fellowship among the children of God.” Unless you’ve experienced that fellowship - brought by the Spirit of God - first-hand, you can’t imagine how great it is.

I had that fellowship with the pastor on the plane to Denver (previous post); I had it at the Portland conference with women from Branson and Phoenix, who I met for the first time; I have it with a man from Cameroon that I’ve never met except by email and phone (he’s in the states getting his PhD so he can go back and teach in a Cameroon seminary). I could go on and on…

It’s both fun, and reassuring, to read that Grandpa witnessed that fellowship immediately among the new believers in a 1920s Cameroon. This is not something that can be manufactured; it’s the real thing.

In this together

I'll get back to my Grandparents' stories very soon... My call to write their stories actually was a significant reason I decided to attend a conference in Portland - the one I mentioned in my very first blog post - and one I'm about to walk to in a few minutes. Before I leave, however, I'd like to post something I wrote this morning...

I’m in Portland right now, snuggled in a terry robe in my hotel room, praising God for this journey. While I’m super excited to be in Portland, the journey I’m praising Him for is so much bigger than this trip. It’s the journey of my life, which is mapped out in a tapestry that I will not be able to view the completed result of until eternity. Yet I get glimpses of it now... Snippets of a small section of the tapestry here and there… Glimpsed views of intertwining, colorful and pleasing combinations of threads that are being lovingly stitched together to create a piece that is so amazing, and so thrilling to see, that it will cause every viewer to fall on their face and worship God. It’s an expansive piece of artwork which includes the lives of all of God’s current and future children – those who accept His salvation – and live with Him forever.

Yesterday on the way to Portland I got one of those snippet views of my thread... My day began at 5 a.m. CST and ended at 10:30 p.m. PST and is a day I’ll never forget – for many reasons, and many thoughts and conversations – but one in particular stands out and wants to be shared. It was my first flight from Minneapolis to Denver. I found my window seat in a smaller, United plane and got out a book, wondering who would be joining me in the aisle seat, and if it would be a silent, reading flight, or one with conversation. A very pleasant looking man – I'm guessing in his late thirties, but I’m a terrible judge of age, claimed the seat and sat down. We exchanged hellos and then he commented on the book in my lap, and our two-hour, non-stop flight and conversation began.

This man is a pastor, come to find out, and he’s on his way home to Tucson, after officiating a wedding in Minnesota. I told him I was on my way to a Donald Miller conference in Portland and he has read Don Miller, so camaraderie began and we launched into a conversation that was largely about authentic Christianity and what that means and looks like in today' world. We discussed our passion to engage believers in loving, and interacting more with our world, and ways to do that. He told me of some cool programs at his church that are reaching out to partner with the secular community in various non-faith specific efforts, and of a program within the church that makes it easy for people without church backgrounds or beliefs to see what following Christ is all about, in an easy, non-judgmental and open way.

By the time we landed in Denver, it was clear to me, and I’m fairly sure to him, that our seat assignments had been no accident. God’s Spirit had been with us and I was encouraged and full of joy from chatting with this brother in Christ. Yet there was to be an added reason for joy…

As our plane arrived at the gate and people began stirring and gathering their carry-ons, the lady in the seat directly in front of me turned around, and her husband, slightly, as well. They were probably in their late sixties/early seventies (again, I'm a poor judge of age) and she said, “I’m sorry, but I have to tell you that I’ve been listening to your entire conversation. When you started talking, I thought to myself, ‘now this is something I’m interested in,’ so I tuned in and have listened to it all. I want to tell you that it really blessed me (her eyes were a little moist at this point), and I want to say thank you.”

This was awesome… To realize that you can talk for two hours to a virtual stranger, and bless another, unknowingly, is surely a God thing. We smiled at her and thanked her for telling us and then the Pastor looked at me and asked, “What was that one key thing you said to me again?” I thought a second, and said, “Oh boy, I don’t know if I remember - why don’t we ask her?” and smiled at my joke, as she was now part of our conversation. She said, “Oh yes, you told him: ‘Don’t settle!’” And we all laughed – as she was right. Then he and I exchanged business cards, and we all said our goodbyes.

It strikes me now, in a big way, that later today I will attend the conference – the reason I took this trip. But as I do, I’m very aware that the reason I think I may be doing something (i.e. attending a conference in Portland) may or may not be the primary reason. I think I’m out here to become a bit more inspired in my quest to live a better story with my remaining days here on earth. Yet even as I’m seeking to live a better story, God is working through me to help me – live a better story.

As I make my way out of this comfy hotel bed and into this new day in Portland, I’m excited to see the city and attend this conference. But especially, to see what God has in store next... I can’t wait to meet Don, the author and conference host/speaker, and people who will encourage me, and who I hope to encourage, as well. Yet this event is simply one more tool, one more needle, if you will, which is being used to stitch the amazing tapestry God is creating. The highlight of my trip may have happened before I even landed in Denver...

May God bless and encourage you my dear friends and family who are reading this,and have encouraged me in this journey so much more than you could know! Your blog, and live, comments mean a lot! And if there’s someone I don’t know who is listening in...I appreciate you, and ask that God will bless you, too. Welcome to the story – which you are all, also, very much a part of.
Always,
Annie

How to die (part 4 of 4)

The last lesson Dad taught me concludes with this post... It was written in 2003, not long after Dad went home.

When I looked at the body of my Dad lying in the nursing home bed and realized, so quickly and certainly, that he was no longer in that body, I felt lonely, and the mourning began. But strangely, with the tears and sorrow, and the dull ache that was spreading through my soul as I began missing the dad of my life, another emotion was about to emerge – one I hadn’t fully expected.

After Mom, my sisters, and I hugged and cried for awhile, a nurse knocked on the door and peeked in. We told her that he had gone and she cried and hugged us. She said she could tell he was a wonderful man and she was so sorry for our loss, but was glad he didn’t have to suffer any more. While the funeral home was being called to come and take Dad’s body, we gathered his personal items together, and I seized this opportunity to make a visit to the ladies room.

When I closed the door and had a moment alone, it suddenly hit me. Dad was home! He was with His Savior. He had crossed over into eternity right before our eyes. He had run the race, fought the good fight, and won. “You did it Dad!” I cried. I was suddenly smiling, and tears of joy were streaming down my face, mingling with the tears of sorrow from moments earlier. “You did it! You’re home!” I said over and over as the reality of his triumph sunk in. It was indescribable joy.

July 13, 2003 was my Dad’s – Harold Revne’s – last day on this earth. It was exactly two weeks from the day he, Mom and I prayed in their living room that he would go. Only two weeks…the miracle had happened.

July 13, 2003 was also Dad’s first day face to face with his Savior. Suddenly eternity and heaven seemed amazingly close, and extremely welcoming.

My Dad taught me a lot throughout his life, but his last lesson was the greatest one of all. He taught me how to die. What lesson is more important? Since the Garden of Eden, we are all sentenced to die. On the very day we were born our bodies began their countdown to death. Death is the most certain event of our life, yet how many of us truly prepare for it?

Dad taught me that there’s only one way to prepare for eternity. You must accept the sacrifice of Jesus’ death on the cross. Getting that right is the most important thing in life. If you don’t get it right, you may very well “gain the whole world, but lose your soul.” Preparing correctly for eternity isn’t tricky, and no one is excluded from the offer of God’s grace, but ignoring it or thinking you are above needing it is both common and, frankly, scary. Dad taught me that there is absolute truth, and he taught me to find it in God’s word.

As I watched Dad pass to the other side of eternity, it was confirmed to me that the message my faith is clinging to is true. It is truth from an almighty and loving God, and not simply a human concoction. Dad’s peace during those last moments, when he could no longer respond to us, but clearly heard us, is something I will never forget. I know I will remember it when it is my time to cross over, and it will ease my fear. Death is ugly. In fact, I don’t think there could be much, if anything, worse than the physical dying process of a body. It’s Satan’s last hurrah. It is the final horrid outcome of sin for mortal beings. But Dad did not die alone. He died in the presence of, and with the help of, his Savior who knew exactly what he was going through – and comforted, and helped him. And Dad did not stay dead. His soul was immediately with the Savior he trusted, in heaven. He left his dying body, with the promise of a new, eternal one, in an eternal place.

Since we are all sentenced to die, is any lesson greater than learning how? Is any preparation more important? Thank you, Dad. Thank you, God.

So it’s now seven years later... I’m seven years older and closer to my own death (although I hope it’s a long time from now!). I am comforted even now by what was impressed on my heart when Dad died. When things get rough, and they will, and at the seemingly very worst of life – I know that I will not be alone. The Savior I am trusting will carry me through and bring me home. Where the best part of my life will begin and never end…

How to die (part 3 of 4)

The last lesson Dad taught me, continues (written in 2003, shortly after he died.)...

The next day, Monday, Dad was moved to a nursing home. That Friday I got another call at work saying, “You might want to come; it may be soon.” Dad’s family again gathered around him, singing, praying, looking into his loving eyes, and wondering how many gazes we had left. As we said good-night to him, he kissed each of us, raised his arm in a parting wave, and smiled. We marveled at his display of love for us while in such discomfort...

I returned the following afternoon and spent a couple of hours with him. They were miserable hours for me – I can’t imagine what they must have been for Dad. All I know is that the whole time I was in his room (the only one there at the time) I was silently pleading with God to take him home and release him from his pain and discomfort. I sensed he knew I was there but he seemed to be sleeping or perhaps in a semi-conscious state. He was clearly miserable as he coughed, and breathed with difficulty. I cried, pleaded with God, and wondered how long it would be…

That night at home I felt so helpless from not being able to ease Dad’s pain and discomfort. I was discouraged. I desperately wanted to do something to lift his spirits, or to whisper comforting words to him, but it seemed all words had been used up and there was nothing left to say or do. As I wandered around the house, trying to accomplish meaningless tasks, my mind was continually on Dad. Suddenly, seemingly miraculously, God gave me perfect words for him. I had this urge to drive to the home and immediately share them with him to see if they would bring the comfort I was sure they would, but I decided to wait until morning.

I woke up on Sunday morning slightly relieved that Dad hadn’t gone during the night because I now had some new, hopefully comforting, words to give him. In fact when I got the phone call that morning saying that he may be going and we should come quickly, I really wanted to get there in time to talk to him. When I arrived, my Mom and sisters were already there. We hugged, with tears, realizing that this would probably be the morning we had both dreaded and anticipated. Dad’s eyes were shut and he did not seem to be responding to us but the nurse told us to talk to him anyway, because "hearing is the last sense to go." I’m so glad she told us that. It was all the encouragement I needed... I placed one of my hands gently over one of his swollen hands and my other hand rested on his cold forehead. Then I leaned in, close to his left ear, so he could hear me.

“Dad,” I began, with the words whispered to my heart the night before, “I don’t know what you must be going through right now, but there is someone who does. It’s Jesus. He died - on a cross - so he knows exactly what you’re going through. And He can help you. And He didn’t stay dead, and you won’t either. He rose from the dead and you will too. Not because you’re such a wonderful man, though I think you’re pretty wonderful, but because you’re trusting in Him. You’re saved, Dad. Don’t let Satan tell you otherwise. You’re saved, and you’re going to be with Jesus.” Then I added, “And don’t worry about Mom, you know we’ll take care of her, and Jesus will too, like He’s taken care of you.”

As tears streamed down my face, I sensed God’s truth was releasing Dad and he was letting go. I quickly turned to Mom and my sisters and said, “I think he’s going.” They immediately came closer, as they had stepped back to let me speak to him. We gently covered his hands with ours, and Mom caressed his cheek. We quoted Bible verses out loud, said some spontaneous words of prayer, and with many tears said our final, loving good-byes.

Each breath became farther apart from the last one and then, in a minute or two, there were no more. Dad had gone home.


(Next post...the best part...)

How to die (part 2)

More about the last lesson Dad taught me...

The prayer was on a Sunday night. That Wednesday, Mom called me at work and said Dad wasn’t feeling very well and had a slight fever. As she shared her concern a brief thought surfaced and I almost said, “Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised.” But I didn’t. We had seen dozens of fevers come and go, with as many infections, in recent years. It was probably just the current round.

Two days later, Dad was in the hospital. He was extremely ill; his infection was not responding to the antibiotics this time. His wife, daughters, son-in-laws, grandkids, and great-grandchild were gathered around him singing hymns, thanking him for his love and example, and praying with him. I watched in wonder and awe. Was God really going to take him home now? So soon, like we prayed for just last Sunday?

Dad had always been a praying man... His mom and dad were missionaries in Africa back in the 1920s, when they took my newborn dad by dugout canoe into an African village, where he lived until he was eight years old. His first pets were a monkey and a lamb. His first language was Norwegian, since his parents were originally from Norway, where Dad was born. This was not a usual American childhood, but one full of his parents’ love, and full of prayer to a God he was taught to know and love. He carried this belief in God throughout his entire life but never was it more significant than at the end of his life.

Well, Dad had a fighting body, he always had, and he made it through Friday night. Saturday night as my Mom, sisters, and I said goodnight to Dad and prayed with him before we left the hospital, he asked, again, that we pray he would go soon. This time he asked to be gone by morning. I left thinking, “This will surely be the night.” God answers this man’s prayers!

When I awoke Sunday morning I felt sad. There had been no call during the night. God had said no. Dad had to face another day of pain. I arrived at his hospital room early. It was dark and he was asleep. As I sat in the quiet and prayed, I wondered...how would Dad be feeling? Sad? Discouraged? He had been through so much, and I was very sorry that his request had been denied. In fact, I was a little mad at God. “Here’s a man who wants so very much to be released from this life. Why don’t you take him, God?” I thought.

His hospital door opened, a light went on, and in walked his capable male nurse, who just happened to be a believer. “Good morning, Harold!” he cheerfully called out to wake Dad. I cringed at his joyous greeting on this not-so-joyous morning. The nurse had no idea of the evening prayer or of my discouragement and continued, “It’s Sunday! ‘This is the day that the Lord has made.’” I cringed a bit more and then I heard it. Dad’s feeble voice was finishing the verse the nurse began. “We will rejoice and be glad in it,” he said. I was stunned. How could Dad say that? Not today. Didn’t he know God had denied his request and sentenced him to at least one more day of suffering?

The nurse left and I rose from my chair and walked over to his bed. I took his hand and looked into his eyes. As I did so, I wondered how much discouragement and sadness I would find. His gaze locked into mine and he said in a hoarse, weak voice, “You can’t order Him around.” “What?” I asked, not sure what I had heard. “You can’t order Him around…God.” And his eyes closed from the strain of talking.

I was speechless. Dad knew I was frustrated and wanted to remind me that God was God. I thought it took amazing faith to pray the evening prayer with belief, but it didn’t come close to the faith I witnessed that morning. Blessed are those who believe, though they do not see... God had told Dad, “Not yet, Harold,” and Dad had said, “Okay, you know best. I don’t understand it, but I’ll trust you and praise you anyway. You made this day and I will rejoice and be glad in it.” Dad was not mad at God even though Dad was lying in pain on the opposite side of the eternity he desperately longed for. He acknowledged God’s sovereignty. It didn’t keep him from asking for what his heart desired, but he didn’t give up or get mad when God said no. My Dad was still teaching me what faith in God looks like. I still had a lot to learn…


(Continued in the next post…soon...)

How to die (part 1 of 4)

This week my dad would have turned 88. He’s been gone from us for more than 7 years now, yet as my thoughts have focused on Grandpa lately – who I hardly knew…I can’t help but meet more of my entire Dad in Grandpa’s stories. I learn more about his unusual upbringing and I’m discovering the stories that helped faith take root in Dad’s life at an early age. Since my dad is a key link between Grandpa and me (obviously), during this week it seems right to bring him into my blog.

Like me, Dad was far from perfect. Nevertheless, he taught me much, for which I’m eternally grateful. I’m going to tell you about the last lesson Dad taught me. And incidentally, or perhaps significantly to my story, I wrote the following eight years ago, in the immediate weeks after Dad’s death, and long before this blog…

It was about how I imagined death. The man is 80 years old and lying on a nursing home bed. His closest family is with him. They tenderly pat his head, caress his hand, and whisper final words and prayers. Then it happens. His slowed, shallow breathing ceases. And he is no longer with us. Death is the critical point where you discover if your beliefs were correct. It is the moment where one’s faith, or lack of it, is rewarded or penalized. It is the moment of truth for every human being. The man was my Dad and his death was an unforgettable lesson of truth, faith in God, and God’s faithfulness to those who believe. It is a lesson to tell, to live by, and to die by.

My dad had prostate cancer. Cancer, that dreaded, miserable, disease. Though the disease didn’t take Dad’s life for about 10 years, it definitely changed his life, as complications from radiation treatment transformed him into a person with disabilities.

My mom, my two sisters, and I, were with Dad when he died. That was an answer to prayer, and no small answer, either. One of my sisters is a missionary, and spends three of every four years in Papua New Guinea, but perfectly, she was home on furlough. I was supposed to be playing keyboard in the worship band at church the morning Dad died. I came so close to keeping my morning commitment, thinking, “it is only for an hour… What are the chances Dad will leave us during this one hour?” But God intervened and I was clearly led out of my morning responsibilities to spend that hour, Dad’s last, in a worship service with him. I will never forget that morning, or the memorable days leading up to it…

It was a summer evening in 2003 and I dropped in to Mom and Dad's condo for a visit. When I arrived, Dad was home alone. He greeted me from his electric recliner, the chair he virtually lived in day and night, with his usual “hi” and smile that sparkled across his face, beaming straight from his eyes into mine. He had a way of making you feel that you were the most special, significant, person on earth. Once we began chatting, I realized he was troubled. He began sharing his concern with me: he was worried he would need to go to a nursing home soon, and for the rest of his life. The reality that he may have to leave his own home was not what was discouraging him. Rather, it was the possibility that his stay in a nursing home would drain Mom of all financial assets so she would not be able to live out her life comfortably. He was a man of genuine concern for others, and he dearly loved his wife.

Before long, Mom arrived home and joined our conversation. She told Dad he was worrying too much, and encouraged him not to. As I was getting ready to leave, I realized that I was now troubled, also. Dad had always been a man of strong faith; it was difficult to see him in such turmoil. “Do you want me to pray with you before I go?” I asked. “Yes, please,” he replied. And I continued, “Anything you’d like me to pray for, specifically?” I did not anticipate his reply, nor was I ready for it. “Please pray that I will go; that God will take me,” and then, as if that wasn’t difficult enough, he added, “and pray that it will be soon.”

Wow... Dad had done so much for me throughout my life, is there any way I could not pray for his request, one that he longed for, but also one that would take him from me? He wanted to go home. Home to his Heavenly Father... Home to His Savior… He had fought the good fight and now he wanted the fight to end. He was ready to rest and receive the prize - life eternal through the grace and mercy of the one true God – a promise he fully accepted and believed. His eyes were full of tears, and mine were overflowing as I prayed that God would take my dearly loved Dad home to be with Him, and, “please take him soon.”

After the “amen” Dad immediately quoted, in a hoarse voice, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst.” A peace came over him and I left, comforted that he was a calmer man than when I arrived that evening. As I drove away though, I couldn’t help but think how Dad’s health had been fairly stable, and his body seemed to fight and overcome almost anything. I didn’t think I had enough faith to believe that God would answer that prayer and take him home soon. He had survived so many things, how would he actually ever go? And quickly? It would take a miracle… My lack of faith was discouraging because I had just left a man’s side who clearly believed God was going to answer that prayer.


(Continued in the next post…soon…)

Straight and plumb

Grandpa’s stories continue…

Building a mission station is quite an undertaking. You have to have residence for the missionaries, school houses, chapels and other houses. The great problem is materials. When we first came, there was nothing but local material to build from. We built the walls from clay – burnt bricks – and the roofs from straw and wood. The making of bricks was no problem because we had clay and we made wooden molds. The Africans quickly learned how to mold bricks. The problem, however, was laying the bricks, as cement, for mortar, was not available then.

About one hundred miles from our station, the government built a factory to burn sandstone that would serve as mortar to lay the bricks on. We could buy it from them, but transportation was the next problem. We had no wagons or anything to hold the materials. The only available transportation was a donkey. We ended up filling sacks and placing them on the donkey’s back. Much of the material was lost on the way because of the bad sacks we were forced to put it in.

Arriving at the stations we had still another problem. There was not a man in the country who knew how to lay bricks. I often had to tear down what helpers had built up during the day, but I had to be careful, or I would be reprimanded. Sometimes I would do work over at night. My wife would hold up a lantern while I tore it down and rebuilt.

It appears my Grandpa was a bit of a perfectionist, huh? An article written and published about him after he died said that “Revne is further remembered for his careful construction of buildings at the various stations on the field. He loathed sloppy work. Every wall must be straight and plumb.” (C. Christiansen, Nov. 20, 1963, Faith and Fellowship)

I just have to say, “Really, Grandpa... Does every brick have to be placed exactly so? You’re in early, twentieth-century Africa for crying out loud.”

Can you see how we’re different? (Until I read about him, I did think I had some perfectionist tendencies in me, but I will tell you I would never re-lay bricks in the middle of an African night. Not with snakes, bats, tigers and more in the vicinity... And what do I think of my Grandma’s lantern-holding? I think she loved Grandpa very much.)

I’m not exactly sure why, but the statement that Grandpa “loathed sloppy work” makes me smile each time I read it. I think it might be because when you add up all the accomplishments of Grandpa’s life, he almost seems like some sort of super human person to me. Someone I would never measure up to... But he was just a man, with a great and mighty God working through him. His natural tendencies and personality didn’t disappear so he could do God’s work. He worked (and struggled no doubt) with those tendencies and from that personality.

Too often I long to be someone I’m not. Or think I need to be someone I’m not... A little less opinionated, perhaps, or less analytical, or more patient… Not that I shouldn’t try to improve myself, or offer my best to God – but He did make each of us uniquely different. And we bring those personality traits with us when we follow Christ – by design.

I plan to travel to Cameroon in January (Lord willing) where I will see some of the buildings Grandpa built all those years ago. I’ve heard that many have stood the test of time quite well (no surprise there). I know I will smile when I see them...and cry some tears of joy at getting to see them…because that is the way God has wired me.

Praying for eggs

Grandpa’s stories continue…

Food was a problem for the missionaries in the beginning. When the Africans come and greet the missionaries, they always come with eggs or chickens. Occasionally, it is hard to buy those things. Once we tried very hard to do so but it seemed the nationals had gone on strike, and for what reason we don’t know even to this day. We sent our workers out to buy them, but they came home with nothing.

One forenoon I thought I would go out myself and perhaps they would have more respect for me than my workers, and thus sell things to me. I walked all morning searching for places to buy eggs and I came home with six rotten ones. After this we prayed much about it.

Since our mission station was near the river I got the idea to go fishing. I asked one of my national workers to go with me but he was very reluctant. I found out the reason later when he told me this was not the fishing season and no one would get any fish now. People would laugh at anyone fishing out of season. But I begged him to go and get the fishing rod and line and show me how the people there fish. He was still reluctant to go, but finally yielded and went with me. We walked by his house to get his rod and line but he was ashamed to tell anyone for what purpose we were going down to the river, fearing that all would laugh.

I had barely gotten the line out in the water before a nice sized fish began to bite. Now my friend’s attitude about our fishing changed completely. Returning home again he was not ashamed to tell anyone about our going fishing, and he told everyone how God had given us that fish. We went home, prepared the fish and the entire family was fed that day.

Grandpa's story reminds me of a repeating sequence in my life with God:

1. I encounter a problem.
2. I seek to solve it in several ways.
3. I fail. (Sometimes I get what I seek, only to find it’s “rotten” and not beneficial.)
4. I then pray much about it.
5. I take steps in a new direction, which may not make much, or any, sense to others.
6. God solves the problem.
7. He solves it in a way I didn’t anticipate, and in a way I wouldn’t have first thought to try.

I’m not thinking that God is mad at me for taking steps 1, 2 and 3. I pray nearly every day that “His will be done here on earth, as it is in heaven…” I do believe we should use our brains and our resources to live out our lives. Yet, I do think that I become too anxious and/or discouraged when those efforts aren’t fruitful. It’s at this point (number 4), when I talk much with Him about the issue. And it’s often after that, when He inspires me to try a new direction.

Knowing I’ve been heard by the living and active God gives me the energy and hope needed to explore a different direction, wondering how He may be going to answer my need… I have no doubt that when I call out to Him, He does lead me and He does answer. I may pray for eggs and get fish, but that only adds to the excitement of following Christ.