Made it to Mali

From Senegal Salle to Mali Bamako! After the retreat in Salle we had an opportunity to go to Mali. Finally. The cliffs surrounding Mali are gorgeous. Waterfalls emerge from the rocks and flow down the sides of the red and sand colored walls. In Bamako, we enjoyed the hospitality of fellow teammates stationed there. We only had a very few days but we managed to pack up the rest of Alex’s house and visit some very delicious restaurants.
We also had the opportunity to attend the translator class to see what it was about and whether we could get one going in Guinea or one of our other West Africa locations. Ms. Glenda asked me to tell my story to the class in English (Duh my only language) and then she would test their comprehension. This worked as a dual lesson; for their English and for my understanding of how to speak so an African can hear me. It went something like this: “Vickie will you please share your testimony with the class now? Wait, Testimony… Let me write that on the board” Wipes off board, tries to avoid showering the students with chalk dust, scratches the word “Testimony” on the board. Me: “Okey dokey.” Glenda: “Well that’s a southern saying! Okey Dokey! Has the class heard that one before?” Smiles all around the room. Then I tell my story from childhood to the moment of surrender in my front yard. And I say things like “When I was a child my parents were blvrs but I was not,” I learned that one in training. In Muslim countries, you do not become a Muslim you are born one. I want them to know that I was not born a blvr. I said things like, “When I grew older I realized I not only needed to be saved but that Gd wanted control of my life.” And “After I gave Gd control it has been a step by step journey that brought me here, He never spoke to me with words but rather he guided me little by little.” I completed the story and looked up awkwardly at Glenda to see what she would say. “Did you hear what she said about when she was a child class? Was she a blvr?” A blvr in the class answerers with an excited smile, “No, she was not, her parents were.” And then he tells the class you have to give your life to Him. Then Glenda writes these words on the board, “Give Gd Control.” “What does this sentence mean? We know what all the words mean but what do they mean together?” As the discussion follows, things are pulled out, other words emerge, like “will.” Gds will, my will, surrender. To give Gd control, is to surrender your desires, your will, the things that you want, and instead desire what Gd wants. Really? Is there all that meaning in those three words? Did I really do that? That sounds a lot harder now than it did a few minutes ago when I tripped over those three words and claimed I had done them. “And then on the night when I was thirteen, I gave Gd control of my life.” I felt embarrassed as the class continued to discuss the words, that statements seems so final and resolute. What about this morning, when I woke up and my roommate was rushing me to walk out the door and I knew it was “God’s will” that I should answer calmly and with kinds words but instead I snapped and scowled… I did what I wanted to do. Liar. Yes, I am a liar, I lied to that class, I live a life of lies. And I lied to the one that matters most to me. I said, “Gd you do whatever you want with me, I am yours,” but then I say, “well I didn’t talk to him because I don’t really know him that well” or “I tried to be nice but did you hear her tone of voice?” Could I really ask these people to do what I have been unable to do myself? They understand the meaning of these words better than I do. “I gave Gd control of my life.” No it’s not right at all, it should be, “I am giving Gd control of my life” or “On that night I started giving God control of my life.”

I wrote a song about this once, do you want to hear it? Well I’m sorry I get too embarrassed so you’ll just have to read it and imagine my squeaky voice praying it to my God.



I say I’m going to save the world
But You know that I don’t mean it
I pray like a warrior
But I act just like a baby

I pretend to know Your ways
I make the world think I’m okay

But I’m a failure, I’m a failure, I’m a failure

You put this passion in my soul
But my fear lets it grow cold
How often do I choke back words
That needed to be heard

You can tell me not to fret
That I’ll save a sinner yet
But I know I’ll just turn away
Just like I’ve done every other day

Chorus: Cause I’m a failure, I’m a Failure, I’m a failure

When will I do right
God in your sight?
When will I prevail
Make my God’s heart swell

I want to save the sinners heart
Give them all new starts
I want to speak Your name loud
And make you proud

Chorus

The good I want to do
I do not
But my sinful desires
Control my mind
What a Wretch!

Chorus

What a Wretched man am I?
Who can rescue me?
Thank God through Jesus Christ
His life has set me free

Mandingo

“Who is the most unreached people group in Liberia?” The answer rung forth from a dozens of blvrs all over Liberia, “The Mandingo.” The Mandingo? They were not even on our list… no they were not there once but twice and neither entry said “Mandingo.” Errors are made while collecting information about people groups, each group has several different names for themselves, some people groups have sub-groups who cannot even understand the original dialects, some groups go by the name of their language others do not. It gets confusing, and sometimes people make mistakes. But what a mistake to make! To write off an unreached group as reached or to allow them to be forgotten because you mistook their language name for their tribe name and then entered a non-existent group on to your files. That’s a pretty sad mistake. I pr we are diligent in our work, for those who come after us, for those who glance at stats to find out where Gds work is needed. The Mandingo live in the north-eastern section of Liberia. They migrated there from bordering Guinea. They are Muslim, staunchly Muslim. The native Loma tribe in the region welcomed the enterprising Mandingo’s in gradually. Slowly they migrated down, married Loma women and then asked their fathers for field to provide for their daughters. Soon the Mandingo people owned large portions of land and now are considered one of the 17 tribes of Liberia. Since the Liberian civil war there have been tense relations between the Muslim Mandingo and the surrounding “Xian” tribes. We met with some Loma pators in the north-east and they told of us the past “massacre” between the Loma and the Mandingo. Through a series of misunderstandings, and a missing person hunt, things were said, rocks were thrown and in the end several Mandingo Muslims were killed inside a mosque by their Loma neighbors. This event brought in more Imams and stauncher Muslims from other countries to help fortify their brothers. Since the event which occurred in 2010, all outreach to the Mandingo had stopped. “We were afraid to speak to the Mandingo, but we are not afraid anymore. We need to teach them.” The pastors in Voinjama know it is their duty to teach the good news to their neighbors. A young evangelist has begun to set up preaching points in the Mandingo villages. “They want us to come, the older people say, please come and teach our children and build them schools and build a church. All the surrounding villages have churches and schools, why shouldn’t our children?” The young evangelist, John, speaking at 5 different villages, he goes to a different village each Sunday and teaches the good news. But because he is just one person and the villages are spread out, he only makes it to each village about one Sunday a month. John does not speak Mannya (Mandingo Language)as a result many Loma Muslims living among the Mandingo have come to faith but very few Mandingos. In all the 50,000 Mandingo people, the pastors we spoke with could only count less than 20 Mandingo blvrs. Many times, when older Muslims hear the truth, they understand and they know it is true but all of their heritage and family is tied up in their old beliefs so they refuse to change but many are willing to allow their children to be taught the new way. One of the local pastors in Voinjama has started a primary school in which the truth is being taught, he is proud to be teaching both Loma and Mandingo students about the Way. The Mandingo need to be taught the way in their own language, I am pr that Gd sends more people to teach them the way. I am pr that Gd sends them someone committed to teaching them the truth in their own language.

Road to Voinjama

After spending several days in Monrovia, we set out towards interior. Our destination, Nimba county, a border county with Guinea. We were in search of the Mano and Gio who resided there. To our joy we found that much evangelical effort has been focused on the Nimba county in the past twenty years and the Mano and Gio benefited greatly because of it. Everyone we met with said the same, “The need is not for churches but discipleship.” Also everyone we asked about the unreached people groups spoke the same names, “Mandingo, Gola and Vai.” All three groups have migrated into Liberia from neighboring Muslim countries and hold on to their traditional African religion with thin layer of Islam sprinkled on top. The Mandingo especially are feared by their Christian neighbors. There is fear in Liberia like in Sierra Leone. The young adults, late twenties and early thirties all grew up during the bloody coup and subsequent war that lasted until 2005. They know the depth of hate and cruelty that man can have. They stood over holes dug by hand with their sons and jumped in whenever they heard a helicopter, afraid they might force their children to fight. The atrocities that ran rampant during the Sierra Leone war were repeated in Liberia. And more recently there has been hostile uprising in the north between Christians and Muslims. Liberians are hopeful about their futures but there is a sense of humility ingrained in them. Their country was broken, they had to flee and hide and an entire generation missed their education because of the war. So there is hope but many seem pensive. Scarred. Like Sierra Leone, they are scarred by their history. We left early on a Sunday morning, we needed to make it to Voinjama. It was drizzly but it’s rainy season so we were glad it wasn’t torrential. We drove an hour outside of Ganta, we had 7 more to go before Voinjama. Ropes in the road ahead…. A police stop? “We are working on the bridge it will be about 3 hours.” In Africa time, 3hours could mean 3 days… we could go back to Ganta. That would be the safe thing to do. Or we could try a back road, that would be fun thing to do. In about 20 minutes I’m standing over a canyon in the road shouting “don’t do it, you’ll fall in the rut!” I throw one log into the pit before Rita floors it and attempts to climb the side of the embankment and not slide into the rut. It doesn’t work she slides in, but miraculously bounces back out. This road is so rough Alex and I elect to walk portions of it so that we don’t turn into scrambled eggs in the cab. Eventually we make it out the other end and on to the main road. We are cruising now. It’s getting close to twilight, we check the GPS mileage, 10 miles to Voinjama, perfect we’ll get there just before dark, hey what’s that? Up ahead on the road, is that a traffic jam in the middle of nowhere? There’s a truck stuck in the road ahead. The rains had turned the road into a muddy slip n slide. We can see 10 or 15 cars lined up in to rows (blocking the entire road) waiting to see if the truck would move. Dozens of people stand around and watch the show, dozens more slide ankle deep in the mud some shoving some shouting. After 30 minutes are so the truck is free and lurches to the side. A split second after that everyone is running to their cars as fast as possible to try and head everyone else off. Little 4 passenger cars with overloaded roofs go careening into mud pits that we wouldn’t even attempt in our 4x4. Stuck, everyone is stuck again. We shake our heads and return to our vehicle, there is no Red Roof Inn, even if we back tracked hours there would be no guest house and now it’s definitely dusk. What is to be done? We drive a bit back to the last village we saw and ask for the chief. He is bathing (on the front porch, awkward), but he will see us after his bath. After hearing our dilemma he offers us his own bed! Would you do that for someone you’d never met before? TIA. We three girls all sleep in the double bed. Neither Alex or Rita like to cuddle and they put me in the center… jerks. I role on my side and my knee taps Alex she scoots closer to the edge I try to make amends by backing up a smidge my elbow touches Rita she promptly squiggles closer to the edge. I think I could have owned the bed if I had just thrown my arms around one of them. The next morning we wake up early to brave the road. The road is free from the collided cars but what about the mud? It had rained all night but somehow that stretch of road looked drier. We still fishtailed our way through it but in under 20 minutes we were finally in Voinjama.

Dandelions

I wrote some poetry while listening to sermons at our retreat in Senegal. That is when I do most my writing, when I’m supposed to be listening… guilty, or while I’m driving alone in the car on backs of receipts.

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I caught a hold of something I thought new

Turns out my grand-parents knew it too

A single thought griped my longing soul

That Christ dear life could make this sinner whole

This flow of grace my heart could not bare

He gave His life to keep me from deaths snare.

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For the next one, I wrote these first two stanzas while in college for a poetry class. The lines have swirled about my brain and I was waiting for the thoughts to be completed. The first two parts I wrote in view of the dandelions that used to grow in swaying masses in our back field in Locust Grove.  

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One thousand swaying suns

In a dark green sky

Each beam a separate petal

Which will change its form and fly

Across the dark green ocean

Into the dust to die

Forming one more sunshine

To sway in dark green skies

Dancing in Your fields

Can I not just stay here?

Do you have to hound me?

I’m panting as the deer.

Your heat is beating on me

My brightness fades away

I do not understand you

You turn me soft and gray

And then you break my strength

You draw me to your mouth

I’m longing for a kiss

You breathe and send me out

Lord plant me in that ocean

With not a speck of light

But remember all my trouble

As I’m growing in the night

Open up new petals

I see your son awaken

You’ve given me good soil

I know I’m not forsaken

Wonderlust

     I miss spelled “wandering” in my blog yesterday; my Mom pointed it out to me. Wandering, wondering, it’s really all the same to me. It’s the wonder that make me wander. And she’s the one that taught me this wonder. Everything I brought to Mom was wonderful and interesting. The slugs on the front porch, the shooting stars we waited out late for in the frost, and every person my Mom met seemed wonderful to her. And every new idea or bit of information was a time to sit and wonder, to sit and think and study it. And I, as a nine-year-old, wandered all over our field and forest off that dirt road in Locust Grove Georgia, and I felt the awe of God’s creation… the wonder.  And, as a 13 year old, sitting on Jackson Lake I thought “nothing could be better than this.” And God smirked and said, “You think so?” God loves me when I awe at His wonder.  He takes me places just so I can look out and be struck by it, by Him. Standing on a riverboat at 18 years old, I was consumed by the massiveness and beauty of the churning waters and the curved trunks stuck out like snorkels. “God I didn’t know something so big and gray could seem so majestic.” He smiled at me, “Do you think so? What about this?” At 19, I stood staring over endless red roofs, from a castle, a real castle. I was struck by awe. “God could You create beings to have such ingenuity?” I could feel His pleasure. He could create them and He did. When I tell people my tales of travel, I try not to smile so broadly but I can’t help it. They look at me and say, “You must have a good deal of wanderlust in you!” Yeah, I guess so wonderlust. Going out to eat with my parent’s I meet a creature full of wonder at the sink in the bathrooms. She is small, her eyes are beaming, she can’t reach the water, I pick her up, and hold her to the stream. She doesn’t know me, but she doesn’t care, she splashes her hands through the stream and laughs. More joy in that laughter then a person should be allowed. I didn’t mean to be a wanderer, His wonder drew me out. I meant to marry young and settle down. But here I go still tripping along. And I sat down with Him, I told Him “You are wonderful.” And I sang to Him on our hill top in Jackson Georgia. He said, “Follow me and you’ll have no place to lay your head.” And I thought of comfort and security, of wealth and self-sufficiency but it did not compare to His wonder. So I packed my bags and I’ve kept them packed, I’m just a wanderer, searching for His wonderful country.

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“In speaking of this desire for our own faroff country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

Liberia

It was a bright day filled with anticipation. Rita’s faithful truck Sahara had taken us from Sierra Leone back to Guinea to greet friends and pick up our teammate Alex and then back through Sierra Leone again and now we were on the back roads of S.L. searching for another border crossing which would take us to Liberia. We were filled with anticipation but also weariness, two back to back border crossings in two days is not exactly a day in the park. This border crossing took us into the Gola rainforest with thick underbrush on both sides and many many potholes in front of us. The way was blessed ahead of us, no rain on the dirt road. We gasped and pointed whenever we saw the littlest twig move certain we seen a Hippo or a Lion… just another squirrel.  After another prolonged border crossing, we finally made it to Liberia. The road stretched out in front of us, paved and beautiful just as soon as you cross over and there to greet us, a rainbow arched majestically over our way.  In Sierra Leone, Rita and I had entered into a starvation diet, neither of us was a fan of the hot pepper soup which is apparently the staple in S.L.  We’d both thinned up a little , which neither of us regretted. But as we entered Monrovia our hearts rejoiced at the sight of real restaurants.  P.A. Ribs, love.  Real ribs… there are a few restaurants in Conakry and like one in S.L that offer “American style” food but it’s never really the same. P.A. Ribs is the real deal.  

We got to Monrovia at dusk, we didn’t have any contacts yet, just a piece of paper with outdated phone numbers for the Liberian Baptist office. So we did what we do best, we wondered. Finally we wondered past a building with the word’s “Baptist House” written on it. It was probably 8pm. We stopped and chatted with the grounds keeper, who made numerous calls and finally completely exhausted, still starving (we came in too late to try the new restaurants and hadn’t eaten all day), we  arrived at a Guest House which had been suggested previously. We were too tired to notice that much of the Guest house was still being finished or care that there was no running water, or take note that the holes in the mesh Mosquito nets were too big to keep anything out. Alex slept immediately; Rita and I ate Tuna at like 10pm and then crashed. The next morning I awoke to discover that rather than keeping the Mosquitos out, the net had let them through and then trapped them inside for their Vickie feast. Every Liberian I met after that gasped, grabbed my arm looked at me with great concern and then asked if I took Malaria pills. I do every Monday, Melfoquine Monday. The person most concerned about my bites was the temporary Guest house keeper, she was watching the place while the owners were away. She embarrassed that the net did not work, her name was Nene. After two nights in the mosquito hotel (I bathed myself in bug spray the next night) we got a lead on a cheaper place owned by ELWA, another GCC. Our new friends from CAPRO ( a Nigerian based outreach), drove us to the ELWA compound, right on the beach, real beaches, not Guinean beaches, white sand beaches. The only thing separating the Guest house from the beach was a small road. We sat  down on the couch and waited for the keeper. “Yes, the manager, Nene, will be here soon.” Really? No this town isn’t that small… is it? It was. The same Nene from the other guest house strolled in just as surprised to see us as we were to see her. After some awkwardness we expressed our desire to move into this new location, she smiled and assured me that there were not mosquitos on the beach. Quite times on the beach, beautiful.

We took a day of needed rest and continued our journey of looking for the unreached people groups of Liberia. Our first stop was to the statistics office to get up-to-date census for the people groups in Liberia and a more detailed road map. We had 6  people groups to locate and research in three area, in 2 ½ weeks. We started in Monrovia by visiting anything that looked mildly evangelical. We stopped by, Samaritans Purse, CAPRO, Baptist Offices, Theological Schools, ELWA, Churches, Bible Translators… the works. Everywhere we went we asked about their work, who they felt the most unreached peoples were and also asked what they knew of the people groups who, according to our 20 year old information were less than 2% evangelical.  In all these offices we found a commonality, each organization expressed a desire for unity among believers and an urgency to reach out to the remaining unreached people groups of Liberia and their neighboring countries.

Liberia has a unique history. Back before the civil war occurred, there were freed slaves and this posed many social issues for an America still backwards with slave states and slave trade. Some of these freed slaves had become highly educated and wanted to return to Africa. There were other slaves who were freed on the condition that they leave the states and return to Africa. But these former slaves were no longer African, they were African American, many of them had white American fathers.  Many were born in America and had adopted American culture and received an American education. This is pre-civil war so obviously American culture did not accept or embrace them. So some time in the 1820’s they this new people group landed in West Africa and founded several colonies, they named them things like Maryland and Greenville North Carolina. The settlers which became known as Americo-Liberians, knew little about West African culture and found themselves surrounded by the indigenous peoples of West Africa which they (following that American model set for them) deemed inferior. Soon the Americo-Liberian settlers were exploiting the indigenous peoples and had set up a government that excluded voting rights for the native population. This segregation remained until 1980 when a war spurred mostly by the inequality of a ruling people (Americo-Liberians) who made up only 5% of the population, suppressing the rights of the majority.  A coup occurred, surprise, surprise this is Africa, and in the 1980’s the first none Americo-Liberian president was “elected.” Fhew! Did you keep up with all of that? I don’t know how I did, I got bits and pieces of the story all along the way. In Monrovia, a local pointed to their oldest Church building, a Baptist church, and proudly proclaimed that their declaration of Independence has been signed their in 1847. Liberian culture has not only been entwined with American culture but also Baptist and evangelical culture since it’s foundation. The Americo-Liberian settlers, much like the original European settlers in America, felt it their duty to convert the surrounding tribes. Evangelical congregations are spread throughout the country. But as is common in Africa many of these new believers though they call themselves believers are at best nominal and usually still practicing traditional African religion along with Christianity.  Though the country is considered a Christian nation, still before the coup in the 1980’s (which dispersed most of the evangelical work) there were still 6 of the 17 people groups considered unreached, with very few believers and almost no congregations.

Kamiendo

          After Bafodia we took our little party of me, Rita and Michael onward to Koidu-Sefadu, diamond capital of Sierra Leone and star city of the movie Blood Diamond.  Koidu is where Michael grew up and where his father stayed while the rest of the family fled back to Mali. We met with some of Michael old friends just as they were leaving the mosque from midday prayers. They invited us over to a rather large house with nice tile floors. The owner said, “It took three years to rebuild this house (after the war). Some people hid diamonds in their walls so every building, every tile on this floor, was smashed by people looking.”  

   From our base in Koidu we drove out early one morning in search of the Northern Kissi. We studied the map of Sierra Leone and asked local where they thought the true Kissi villages were located and then struck out again on the back roads of Sierra Leone.  We had a few key villages marked on our map and as we passed each one we tried to guess how long it would take us to get to the village called “Kissi Town” on the map… we figured that was a “nah duh” type of name and we should check there first. Somewhere along the way we lost our way and we stopped passing our marked villages. We stopped in a village and met with a chief to ask about the surrounding villages and if they knew where the Kissi were. After a talk and gift exchange, they told us they were primarily Kono but the very last village (Kamiendo) on this road was all Kissi. They warned us that we would not be able to go that far because the road was too steep just before the village. They suggested we stop at the next village up which was part Kono and part Kissi. Never tell Rita she can’t do something… it only eggs her on. In another 30 minute or so, we came to the infamous hill that blocked are road… they were right.  Rita didn’t care, she prayed out loud for God to push us up the mountain and then put it in gear and floored it. After rolling back down twice, the third time was the charm and God pushed us over the mountain.

 At the top of that hill was the most picturesque village that could be imagined. Dark brown roofs seem to be stacked on top of each other, each house perched snug on the hill. From one side of the village you could see into neighboring Guinea from the other a beautiful view of a Sierra Leone valley. The people here were happy to see us though we did not meet the Chief because he was out in his fields. They said they only see two vehicles at the most each month. Their village is so remote that they cannot even trade in Sierra Leone but have to walk on foot and then ferry across a river to trade at a Guinea market across the border, a woman displayed for us her Guinea Franc to prove the claim. Though the village is remote the people are far from simple, they have a functioning Catholic School and the local nurse was proud to give us a tour of their clinic. They had detailed records of all the sicknesses in their village. But they did not have any evangelical influence. My heart was sad to leave that pretty mountain with their enterprising spirit.  They were full of hope and potential and ready to move forward in their world. But I wonder who will come and teach them about our true hope and future. Those friendly faces, that loving teacher so proud of his classes. I saw, I loved and I left. Just a few hours in their villages, long enough to tour the school and the clinic and then back on the road again. As we left the teacher said to me, “Fatimata,” (That’s my African name). “You did not speak much today, next time you come you will speak a lot?” I hope so. I hope the next time I come I will have the pleasure of saying many things and that I will have the honor of introducing truth and light and other people who will continue to teach  our Father’s way.