God's wondrous protection (part 1)

Back to stories from my Grandpa’s memoirs… Grandpa titled this section: God’s Wondrous Protection in Times of Danger.

It isn’t only missionaries and workers of the Kingdom who have this sense of God’s protection in danger, but I believe every child of God in a special way feels that he is under God’s direct protection. It was my first journey on foot after I arrived in Africa. I was making a visit to Salatu Station on the Dutch Reform Mission field in Nigeria. I had walked all day to arrive there and one of the missionaries on the station was kind enough to offer me his bicycle for the return journey to Wokari, where my wife was taking care of a woman who was to have a baby at that time.

Between Salatu and Wokari there were a number of bridges across smaller rivers. These bridges were made of lumber logs laid parallel across the rivers. The logs were covered with dirt and it was difficult to see the joints of the logs. It had rained and the bridges were slippery and some places the logs were not too close together either. In this way it was difficult to ride the bicycle so that the wheels would follow the center of one of these logs. It happened so that the wheels of my bike slipped to the side of one of the logs and went down between them.

At this spot the logs were far enough apart so that my foot went through the bridge until my leg was caught between two of the logs. With the weight of my body and the bicycle resting on my leg, which was caught, there was danger that my leg would break. I spent some agonizing minutes in this position and needless to say, I prayed much that God would either strengthen my leg or get me in another position where the weight wasn’t so heavy upon me. I was watching and waiting for a moment where I could change the position of my body so that the whole weight would not be on the leg; and God heard my prayer. I was then able to move my leg in one direction and get out of the trap that I was in.

Grandpa was saved from this dangerous situation, and the next post will be about a time he felt he was in even graver danger, yet was safely delivered from that situation, as well. But…and I’ve been thinking about this lately…what if he had not been? What if God had allowed his leg to be broken? People do get sick, get injured and die. So if we don’t have assurance that our life will be smooth, and that we will get the healings and answers we want, why bother praying to, and trusting in God? Is God only great and powerful when He answers how we wish Him to, or is He great and powerful all the time?

I have determined to say and believe that He is great and powerful all the time. I say He is God and I am not, and I will trust Him. I’ll call to Him when I’m in distress, and praise Him during both the good and the bad times. I’ll look to Him for answers and keep working to trust Him each day. As He has already, He will likely continue to rescue me over and over in this life until one day He will decide to take me home. My job is to trust. He is God.

A bigger picture

I’d like to take a brief pause from my Grandpa’s words to give a little bit of history – both into why I’m writing this blog and why much of it is about my Grandpa’s mission in life. As I mentioned in the first blog post (August 10), this has been a big year for me. It’s a year in which God is moving visibly in my life. He’s been preparing me for a long time, but this is a year of action it seems. He's listened to my cries, has been with me through the waiting and now he is opening up a whole new path of my destiny. I'm humbled that such a great and mighty God is not only willing to guide my life, but actually desires to.

The following was written in May, when I went away alone for a weekend with God. I titled it that day – The Intro – knowing it was some sort of an introduction to a piece or pieces of writing, but that’s all I knew. (And honestly, I don’t know much more today...although I now know I have a blog!)

The Intro - May 22, 2010 -- Sometimes I understand that there is a bigger picture and sometimes I don’t. Right now, I do. I’m sitting in a hotel room overlooking the harbor in Duluth, Minnesota. The sun is streaming through these windows and falling over the hot tub. A large steamer ship cruised by an hour ago, and seagulls are circling and dipping over the water, casting strobe-like shadows in my peripheral vision. My life at this moment is calm. It is easy, and I’m at peace. Yet as I sit here wondering what restaurant I will walk to in a little while, as my stomach is beginning to feel empty, I realize that this one “moment” of my life is pivotal. I will leave this place tomorrow, never to be the same again. (And really, when is that ever not true? Are we ever the same from one moment to the next?)

Back in 1907 my Grandpa Revne experienced a similar day in Norway, although his surroundings were far different from mine. He did not have a hot tub in his room. There was no flat screen TV sitting above a gas fireplace, and no netbook resting on his lap connecting him with the world. Yet make no mistake: he was no less connected to the world. His heart was being pulled to a place far away. He didn’t know where exactly that world was, what exactly he would be doing there, and he certainly didn’t know the results. What he did know was the one speaking to his heart, and that made the answer relatively easy, even though he knew he would be walking a difficult path.

That’s sort of where I am today. As I type these words in 2010, more than one hundred years from my grandpa’s “similar” day, I can’t begin to explain to you how connected I feel to him. And this feeling is despite the fact that I hardly knew him. He died when I was five years old. I have only sketchy memories of him from the year before he died when he lived with us for a few months after coming back to the U.S. from Africa. Yes, Africa... That’s where his heart was being pulled. It was his home for more than 40 years, and it’s a connection we share today.

My grandpa dedicated his life so people in Africa could know the one true God. (You may or may not believe there’s only one true God. Nevertheless, whether or not you believe is irrelevant right now.) It’s the same God that has called me to write his story. And when God speaks to a heart that’s been asking and listening, there’s no question what the appropriate response should be. So I’m saying yes to a call, and beginning this journey. And whoever you are that is reading this, make no mistake – there is a reason.

That's what I wrote back in May...before I had a blog...

"Those who are wise will take all this to heart; they will see in our history the faithful love of the Lord." Psalm 107:43 (NLT)

Always,
Annie

"Great white commander"

The story continues in my Grandpa’s words… I’m not sure that the order in which he tells the stories is chronological (maybe someday I’ll figure it out and tell his stories in order), but for now it really doesn't matter. They are true, and lessons of faith that can be applied today are found within.

The tsetse fly was prominent in that area, which gave the horses sleeping sickness. Therefore, it was only through the governor that the natives in that territory of Kursiri would give me a horse. I walked the horse to the edge of the swamp and took my shoes and stockings off, planning to go across, hoping that the horse would follow. But, instead, the horse gave a jerk with his head and knocked the bridle off. This resulted in another runaway horse. I ended up with five days of walking through the swamp bare footed most of the time, because I had only one pair of shoes at that time. On the fifth day I reached Maroua in Cameroun [now spelled Cameroon]. I had never before cared much for dog barking, but now this was a welcome sound, for it meant that a village was near.

My carrier men were hot and thirsty so I sent them into the village with a message telling the people that there was a man near there who was exhausted and thirsty and that they should bring a horse to him. These men greatly loved an opportunity to exaggerate, therefore, they were glad to relay my message. When they arrived, they told the other natives that there was a great white commander in the territory who was dying from thirst and exhaustion. (They were responsible for any white person in their territory.) As a result, the message got through and I am sure that the exaggeration served its purpose.

It makes me smile to read how God allowed that exaggeration to bring speedy help to my Grandpa. I can’t fathom trudging through an African swamp for five days - and with bare feet. Yet Grandpa was never alone. God supplied “carriers” to assist him and renewed his strength each day so that he could arrive at his destination. I can only imagine Grandpa retelling these stories some day in heaven, with friends and family (from Norway, Cameroon, Chad, the U.S., and who knows where else!) gathered around him . His joy on that day will far outweigh the pain and frustration felt while living these stories on earth.

God, I don't want (and am not asking for) pain and frustration so that I can experience incredible joy some day. But I am asking for grace to follow you. Wherever you take me, or whatever uncomfortable experiences may be allowed to come my way, please help me to be faithful to you – the one who loves me perfectly.

Falling off horses

So my Grandpa’s memoirs have appeared… I’m going to get out of the way and let him “talk” to you for a bit. First a few facts: Grandpa’s name was Berge Revne. Grandma was Herborg Revne. My dad was Harold Revne, and he was an only child. (None of them live on this earth any longer.) If I chime into Grandpa’s story, my words will be in brackets.

Back in those days we traveled almost exclusively on horseback. Our first trip to Lere [the second mission site] was before Harold’s birth. A government man from Lere, who we had contacted earlier, sent a young man as our guide. (It was the rainy season and the roads were bad.) We came to a swollen stream which was too wide for our horses to jump over and too deep for them to wade through. My wife and I both had horses at this time. After moments of contemplating, we decided to have the horses jump. Directly across from the creek stood two date palm trees quite close together... My horse aimed for the space of ground between the trees, which happened to be almost wide enough for my African saddle. As the horse leaped between the palms he stripped the saddle off his back, with me still sitting on it. The horse continued to run out of sight leaving me reclining [love your word choice, Grandpa] on the ground.

In the meantime, my wife’s horse had also attempted to jump across. But his efforts were in vain, for they landed in the middle of the creek, stuck in the muddy bottom. [I’m picturing something similar to a Romancing the Stone scene where Kathleen Turner slides through the mud…]

We left Yagoua in the middle of June, 1923, traveling on to Bosgoi. [My Dad was born in Sept. 1922, so is now with them...] A revival had started in Bosgoi a few years earlier. From there we went down to Fianga. Staying there in the afternoon, we were ready to go again at night. Traveling at night was necessary because Harold, our baby son, couldn’t take the heat of the sun.

We tried to make the distance shorter to Yogi. There we experienced a very hot and humid day, one of the worst days of that season. There I was taken sick because of the heat, for two days during which time we experienced a terrific thunder storm. After the rain let up, the roads were exceedingly muddy and slippery, but we had to go on because there was no one stationed at Lere at this time.

My wife and I had one horse between us. I put her and Harold on the horse and I walked beside them. Because of the slippery roads, the horse fell, bringing my wife and child along with it. The fall struck my wife unconscious. When she came to, the first thing she said was, “Where are we?” I thought she may have had a brain injury but later she talked sensibly. The latter comforted me much. [A sensibly-talking woman is evidently a very good thing...] Going on we arrived safely at Lere.

Okay, I don’t know about you, but if I was my Grandma, I’d be wondering if Grandpa was thinking and talking sensibly! Expecting me to take my nine-month-old son on horseback over slippery African roads, with a muddy-creek-bottom-fall in my recent history? Seriously…would I be tempted to doubt his love for me? And if I’m Grandpa – knowing God has called me to this risky place, and yet wanting to protect my wife and baby boy - would I be wondering if God was thinking and talking sensibly to me? Would I be tempted to doubt His love for me?

And I’m me, and it’s 2010. Do I wonder if God is thinking and talking sensibly to me right now? He’s definitely sending me out of my comfort zone – what if I slip and fall? Do I doubt His love for me? Honestly, I can’t... His love has never ever failed me. Although I’ve given Him good reason to turn His holy back on me; He never has. When I slip and fall, my only choice is to get right back in the saddle like Grandma did.

Forty-seven years later

I said odd things were happening in my life right now. Let me tell you it is only continuing... Since my first blog post I’ve been wondering what the second post should contain, and only because I’m overwhelmed by the number of stories to be told, and the various possible ways they could be told. Honestly, it felt nearly impossible to decide how to take step two of this blogging journey, but God kept gently saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what to write when it is time.” This evening (Sunday) was to be my next writing time, and late last night I got a big clue about what in particular I’d be writing about…

The clue actually arrived on Friday with my weekend visitor, but I didn’t discover it for more than 24 hours. My visitor’s name is Solveig, and she and I recently purchased tickets to travel to Cameroon, Africa, in January. Until Friday night, however, Solveig and I had never actually met. Mutual friends, knowing of our individual wishes to visit Cameroon, connected us, and we began to make plans by phone and email – trusting that we would be compatible travel companions. (After a weekend of chatting and hanging out together we have no worries.) Solveig spent five years as a missionary nurse in Cameroon in the 1960s and currently volunteers in the Minnesota mission office of the same synod (Lutheran Brethren) that sent my grandparents to Africa in the early 1900s. Well…Solveig brought some documents from my grandparents’ mission office file, and around midnight last night, after she had gone to bed, I decided to simply glance at the small, curious stack of papers, before calling it a day. An hour and a half later I was wide awake and in total awe of God’s workings.

Before I tell you why, however, I need to take you back to early May. Shortly before my call to write was solidified, I found articles that were published in November 1963 – about one month after my grandfather died. One of these articles, talking about my grandpa’s last months, said:

“But even if he was confined to his bed…he was not ready to quit working. He asked if he could not get some help to write his memoirs of his life in Africa for the benefit of his grandchildren and other young people. Therefore the Board of Foreign Missions provided him with a stenographer to whom he dictated many interesting experiences from his long life in Africa. Thus, as long as there was any strength left, he continued to be a tireless worker in the interest of our African mission and for the salvation of precious souls.”

I remember being so excited to read this in May that I couldn’t wait to ask my mom where the memoirs he intended for me, one of his three grandchildren, were located. Sadly, she told me that Dad and she had never seen them; in fact they understood the planned dictation hadn’t really materialized or at least had not resulted in memoirs, as expected.

Okay, back to last night...
I began sifting through fascinating documents - letters written by Grandpa discussing his scoping out of a mission territory, for example. And then at the very bottom of the pile, I found it: a 24-page typed document that Berge Revne, my grandpa, had dictated shortly before his death in 1963. In the very early hours of this morning – Aug. 15, 2010 – I began reading a message from my grandpa, and this is how it begins:

“Not long ago I received a letter concerning my granddaughter. One Sunday during her Sunday school class, Jeannie [this is my - Annie’s - sister] was asked to tell about my work in Africa. She said she was sorry she hadn’t taken more time to sit down and have me tell her about my work in detail. But, it was I who was sorry for my own negligence. More children should know about the different fields and the work that goes forth on them. It is this thought that prompted the idea of writing in detail on our work in Africa.

I would like to dedicate these missionary stories to my grandchildren and other young people who are interested enough to read it.”

Oh Grandpa... I’m finally reading the document you left for me! Though I’m no longer considered a young person (except by my mom), your words are not too late to read and share. I will help spread the stories of God’s faithfulness to you, and to me, and we will discuss together someday in heaven.

I will close today by emphasizing that I know that no one intended to keep this document from us. It was of course assumed we had a copy. Solveig was shocked to learn I had never seen or read it. So why does it show up now, and through a person I had never met face to face until Friday, and one who just happened to pull it and some other documents out of a file cabinet and bring along with her this weekend? I can only imagine, but with a fair amount of certainty, that today is the very day it is meant to be shared. It’s no coincidence that I’m writing about it here, and it’s no coincidence you are reading it. I hope you choose to return here, for the stories I will post from my grandpa’s new-found memoirs. And thank you to each who has already visited! This is a partnership, dear family and friends. I would not want to travel this journey without you. Thank you for all the encouragement.

Always,
Annie

Stepping outside

“The lazy person claims, ‘There’s a lion out there! If I go outside, I might be killed!’” Prov. 22:13

I’m finally kicking off my blog, and it’s to try to win something I already own - tickets to the Don Miller seminar. Like many things in my life right now, I'm not surprised by this oddity. It's actually in good company with several others. This one’s roots, however, originated late last year when I picked up a copy of Don's book – A Million Miles in a Thousand Years – and was incredibly inspired by it. You see it got me thinking about my life as a story, and I ended up declaring to God that I want to write a story that brings honor to Him and accomplishes what He would like me to accomplish. Well, that’s about when things began to get interesting...

In fact, I could really say that Don Miller and God are sort of shaking up my life right now, but I do think it’s in a good way. Don doesn't even know me, of course, but that hasn't stopped him from interfering... In fact this morning I was pretty darn mad at him for putting this blog contest out there. My thoughts went from admiring his and/or his staff’s promotional brilliance to being extremely thankful I had already purchased my ticket and didn’t have a blog site, so entering the contest was out of the question. And then it happened... I began to get this crazy feeling that I should enter. I debated it, even tearfully, which made me wonder: "what's up with the tears?" Then I realized what was holding me back. I’m afraid. Afraid to be vulnerable. Afraid to fail. Afraid to do a lot of things, actually.

Yet, you can see what happened... Here I am, blogging happily (well, almost happily – I’m getting there) with the best of them. So what is the story I want to tell? I.e.: Why should I attend this seminar (and am in fact already planning to hang out with the crowd in Portland this fall)?

It’s because I found out a few months ago that God is calling me to write. It's that simple, and that unbelievably profound to me. Specifically, God’s calling me to write about my grandparents who have been dead for more than 40 years, but when alive, they told an amazing story of faith in God. My grandparents were the first missionaries (from any denomination) to northern Cameroon, Africa, arriving there in 1918. Their story never should have happened for many reasons from a human perspective, but that did not stop them, or God. Their story is a reminder of what can happen when God speaks to people and when people answer. It’s a cause and effect illustration, repeated over and over, that needs to be shared with youth and others today, and it seems I am to write about it.

But there’s yet another story... It’s the story still being written in time - the story of me telling their story. It includes the surprising circumstances of how my call to write my grandparents’ story was delivered - via a Cameroon man from the very people group my grandparents shared Christ with so many years ago. Dieudonné Djoubairou is a Moundang Pastor in Cameroon, and I just happened to meet him on Easter Sunday while he was visiting a church in Wisconsin. He’s my new-found brother, now back in Africa, but close in friendship and email.

So you see, once alerted to it, deciding to attend the upcoming conference was a no-brainer for me. I registered early. Any help or encouragement I can get in learning how to write my grandparents’, and my own, story is desperately needed. Entering this contest and kicking off this blog, however? Well that’s another, yes, story. I've resisted personal blog-writing for a few years, but now unwittingly, Mr. Miller, and God (of course, wittingly) has pushed me over the edge to do what I've been avoiding doing for various reasons – with fear of course being number one. (Yeah, there’s a little theme going here…)

If, oddly enough, I should win this contest, my wish is for Dieudonné to be able to come from Africa for the event. However, if that's not allowed by the rules, I would love to invite along a U.S. friend who is encouraging me in this journey.

Finally, Don, and any who read to the end of this – I sincerely thank you, and – welcome to my blog. If you chose to return, we will explore stories from Africa and everywhere, together. And I assure you, there are many thought-provoking stories to be told…

Always, Annie

p.s. If you would like to attend this expected-to-be-awesome seminar or enter this contest, here is more information: www.donmilleris.com/conference/

Living a Better Story Seminar from All Things Converge Podcast on Vimeo.