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...