Mom: On Mother's Day | Adventure to the Extreme
Solar Eclipses, Arnold Schwartznegger and Used Clothing
As the heavens have opened to create sustenance and beauty for a craving Zambia, so does the earth open its mouth to the abyss of time that belches out the birth of another kind…creatures. Bugs. It is not just rain season it is also bug season. Bug of the week. Unimaginable, flying, hideous, let's make a science fiction movie, come from everywhere and nowhere type of bugs. After a good rain had drenched the earth and the sun begins to rest, the earth opens in pockets and flying insects of never discovered variety flutter to the air in search of the eternal porch light…any light…every light. This week it is the flying ants; ½ inch long ants with delicate wings appearing from everywhere and nowhere by the millions. From the distance, it looks like the wind blowing dandelions after they've seeded in the summer. Fluttering whiteness filling the sky. Your windows are closed; all your screens are secure. But that doesn't matter. These creatures don't need an opening; they need only to see the glow of light emanating from inside the security of your home. But security in Africa is relative. They seem to march toward the light in a focused determination, moving through obstacles by osmosis, never dissuaded from their destination. Light. They flutter in your kitchen and you check the windows. Sealed tight. "Where did they come from?" you ask in bewilderment. They belong here. This is rain season and you are the intruder. So, you turn off the lights to discourage their needs, but they wait on the walls, quietly mocking your resolve. They know that they can wait longer than you can stand the dark. So, you turn on the lights and they flutter once again to their purposed destinies. You wave towels and fly swatters at them, but it is their Africa and they will not go quietly into the night. Then as they night wanes, they lose their wings in piles on the floor and they begin to crawl; crawling on top of each other in a hideous mating ritual. You stomp on them and sweep them up, but now they are coming under the doors. So you give up and turn out the lights. "Go to bed" you say and forget about this. "You'll get used to it," you promise. Sleep is fitful. You remind yourself that Africans have been dealing with this for years, and quit being an American pansy; they're only ant-like, oil-filled, monstrous creatures of the night that lose their wings and crawl on your floor! Somehow you don't feel any better, but you fade to sleep and dream about giant bugs as they chase you through the night. In the morning there is only piles of wings as a memorial to the previous night's encounter.
The next week it's Termites. The same thing repeated in a sardonic melody as a tribute to this Dark Continent. Only this time, there is a kink to their providence. Instead of fighting them off and disdaining their very existence, something new is happening. The Zambians are waiting by their firelights in expectancy and eagerness. Now, instead of discouraging the creatures, Zambians are flocking to streetlights, building their firelights brighter and more inviting. Bringing with them a flat pan of water they carefully set under the light like a fisherman casts his lure. The flying termites can't resist a puddle of water, so they dive to the source…just one small drink and it is back to the light. But in a twist of fate, to the Zambian's giddy delight, they touch the water and instantly their wings argue against the weight. They remain trapped, though alive. They cannot move. They pile on top of each other, every termite insisting his fate will be different than his predecessor. Just one drink and back to the light. But they never return to the light. After a good night at the streetlight a diligent Zambian can carry away 4-6 pounds of these unsightly creatures. But to them, they are not bugs they are relish. Food. Grub. "Inswa" they call it. They are placed in a hot frying pan and with a spatula or spoon they are kept at bay, unable to crawl out. When all are dead they take them out back and thresh them into the wind, as the wings are blown away. The carcasses remain. They bring them back inside and super heat them again until they are cooked into a delectable snack. Like popcorn. Or as one American Missionary put it, "Like Rice Crispies with an extra CRUNCH." So, I began to alter my thinking. Here God has placed a people in the searing sun for nine months a year with just one season of rain. The rain signifies harvest and life. Continued plenty to last another season, sustaining the people for generations. Then, almost as a sign of life and celebration of the rains, God brings manna from heaven that instinctively flies to the firelights of His creation. Delivered to the doors of the hungry as a gift of love. Falling into the very puddles the rain has created, the victims are trapped with no effort from the predator. A gift. A season and a time to look forward to all year long. God's sustenance for a wayward people He loves.
With the rains come the breeding of another creature; the evil one; the dark side of Africa. Malaria-carrying Mosquitoes. Mosquito season is Malaria season. Fevers and chills; sweating and shaking. And the granddaddy of them all; Cerebral Malaria. Coma. One can fall from perfectly healthy to coma in 24-30 hours. This is the most dreadful sickness I have ever seen. My usher and my friend, a man that calls me his father and says I treat him more like a son than a church member, lays in the hospital fighting for his life. Just 26 hours before, we were talking and he complained of a rash on his arm, but felt fine. His name is Gideon. We found him in his house (hut) on his bed in a coma after he failed to attend service at church. A service he never misses that he claims to be the highlight of his life. We picked him up and rushed him to the hospital. They began a Quinine drip immediately. Of course this is Zambia. We had to provide the Quinine, the drip, the syringes and peripherals, but nonetheless, he got immediate care. Now, 8 days later he is out of his coma. He can't talk yet, but he is recognizing us and has fallen in love with MJ's cooking. He sees her, and then points to his plate and smiles. He should be talking soon and the doctors say he should make a complete recovery. This is good and a great burden off my shoulders. Now I get to talk to him in another way. A way a minister always feels inadequate. An issue there is no study for, no classroom, no testing, no preparation and no answers. An issue I can't even bring my mind to begin to plan the words I will say. You see, the day we picked him up and rushed him to the hospital in a coma, his wife died of the same thing at a different clinic. She is dead and buried, the funeral is over and the relatives are gone and Gideon doesn't know a thing. Now that he is gaining his strength, it is unanimously up to his Pastor to tell him the news; break it to him gently as the cliché goes. Like a father to his son, the words escape me. Even in prayer, they escape me. I am secretly hoping he will instinctively know, that somehow it will be easier, that somehow I will get through this. Africa equals death. You can never be desensitized to it. It is too real. Malaria victims, AIDS victims, under cared for victims are dying and filling the cemeteries daily. Shallow graves are being dug to bury the newly dead on top of the older dead. This is the reason I am here. This is the urgency, the calling, and the need. The saving of a nation; a nation that can't save itself and doesn't even know it's dying. This is where destinies are claimed, callings are confirmed and purposes are discovered. All else is trivial. We have a job to do; and do quickly.
A missionary friend of mine made a profound statement to me the other day that will forever go with me. "The safest place in the world to be is the place where God has put you." Only there will his full divine protection be complete. This is the promise and premise I build my faith on. My family is safe because we are in the will of God. We are blessed with American missionary doctors just 45 Km away. Doctors that make special provisions to take care of missionary families like mine-A fully stocked clinic with American-trained personnel. God has gone through pain-staking effort to assure our safety. That is why we are all healthy, happy and doing fine. Please don't ever think otherwise. The church is growing and I am experiencing the greatest revival of my life. In just nine months we are numbering over 500 people in service every Sunday morning with exciting mid-week services as well. Lives are being changed; saved. Saved from sin and saved from violent, irresponsible immorality that equals death in this country. No margin of error. An immoral choice in a country that realistically has a 40% AIDS problem means an early grave. And so many young men and women are changing as God is changing them. They are making responsible decisions that will save their futures and the future of their nation's very existence. This is no small task, no small ministry, no small decision we have made to come here. We are literally shaping the future of a nation based on the same principles that shaped America's past and made her great. If I had any questions about my decision to have come here they have been quickly swallowed up in the great commission at hand.
Thanks to all of you for your prayers and support. I have an incredible family and I love and desperately miss each one of you. When somebody asks what your son or brother does for a living, there is no need to shyly mutter under your breath, "he is a fanatical missionary in Africa." But stand proudly and with a bold heart say, "He is helping to shape the future of a nation. He is a missionary in Africa." God bless you all and until next time.
TOM
At this point I feel I must warn you. There are NO fences at a game park, no viewing platforms and no animal keepers; I repeat-this is NO zoo. That being said, I will continue with my story. We saw the Rhinos and immediately stopped the vehicle. To no avail, we were hanging out the windows, sitting on the door jam; all in vain trying to get a picture that looked like we are actually close to them, but, they remained a safe distance from the vehicle. Of course all game park animals know how dangerous it is to get too close to a moving vehicle, this they have learned, so it seems, from their weekly safety briefings. So, frustrated and not willing to give up, I asked my wife for the camera and proceeded to get out of the car (a game park no-no) and a nervous hush fell over the entire park. Amidst pleadings and cries of warning from the other game-viewing members, two of us got out of the car and carefully made our way into the field to get a real "Safari-like" close up view of the Rhinos. I walked within 10 meters of the Rhinos (that's 30 feet for you and me), which were quietly grazing, not even seeming to notice us. I took several pictures and, satisfied, turned around and walked back to the car. About 2 meters from the car, I heard some weeds rustling as if someone was walking through the brush and thought, "What is that?" I turned around to see all four Rhinos in single file following me out of the brush! As I turned around, they were RIGHT in front of me. Thank God I had the "stupid American that thinks he's in a zoo" presence of mind to snap this picture that I attached with this email. They were literally three or four feet behind me, walking so quietly that I didn't even know they were following me. The other people in our group had seen them coming and had rushed back to the car, but I was oblivious to their plight. After I snapped this picture, I quickly jumped into the vehicle and they turned peacefully (remembering the game park rules that all animals should stay a safe distance from the vehicles) onto the road and across to the river to drink.
So, this is evidence and proof of my first "close-encounter" with African white Rhinos. I hear they can move quickly (up to speeds of 35 miles/hour) and could have stomped me into the African sand had they wanted to, which also is strictly against game park rules, but thank God they didn't. I thought I would share this incredible experience with you which ranks right up there with the time we got a flat tire at the only water hole in the park at dusk (drinking time). Take care and I think of you often. God Bless.
TOM
Click on image to see full size
So we have met these Zambian people that have existed over the generations in almost a state of suspended animation. They are still living as if the last 1,000 years hasn't happened. If it weren't for the foreign interests in this country and economy, I really think there would be absolutely no technology at all! I mean it! I am trying to give you my perspective so you can see this as I do. Most my church have no electricity, none have phones. The only reason they have running water in their neighborhoods (one tap for about every 6 or 8 houses/huts) is because someone came and put it there from water works. Today, as I was teaching 10 of my young men in church how to play basketball, I said, "wow, what time is it?" As soon as I said that I knew how silly it was, cause none of these people wear watches. They come to church by the sun, arriving for 10:00 AM service sometime between 9:45AM and 10:45AM. Just casually walking in, not realizing they are the least bit late until they see the service has already started, then, "Oh, the time is not with me."
Yet these people are the most awesome, gentle, laid back and curious people I have ever met. They are so careful to treat each personal interaction, each interpersonal communication as if it is the last and most important event ever to take place. When I go visiting in the village (which I am famous for, because no white preachers do), each hut that I arrive at is so flattered and blessed that I have come. Instantly they tell everyone in the family (which could number up to 10), then they fish around for enough wooden stumps or stools to sit on, arranging them deliberately, then they ask me to please sit, then they reach over and greet me, shaking my hand, bowing and curtsying (SP?) with the utmost respect. Each member of the family must greet each member of my party (usually 2 members of my church). The pleasantries are so sincere. Then they ask me to pray for them and could I please speak the Word of God to them before I go. So I give these little short teaching serminettes everywhere I go. It is a preacher's paradise.
I had a recent movie outreach and I posted up about 100 posters and handed out some flyers in the village. Well, nobody has TV's, VCR's or even electricity for that matter so a movie is big business. 2500 people showed up with 650 people giving their lives to Christ. Wow, can I have some more please?
Some of my guys come over to my house and they are thoroughly shocked by how different we live (translate: well). They think we are incredibly rich. I tell them I just got by in the states and it blows right past them. They can't comprehend in the least what that means. I fed one of them spaghetti for the first time. He was looking at it, trying to copy how I eat it. Then he said, "I must tell my wife that I have eaten long, long things." The other day a few of my guys and I were doing some business--talking to a carpenter about some church benches we need built and I saw a little stand in town that actually sold popcorn. I said, "wow, popcorn. Have you guys ever eaten popcorn." Well, as you would guess they hadn't, so I bought each man a bag. There were 3 of them. I turned and I'm talking to this carpenter, trying to get his price lowered, when we agreed, I said, "What do you think guys, good price?" As I turned and looked at them, they all had their mouths stuffed, I mean stuffed with popcorn. It is falling out of their mouths onto their shirts and the ground. They are munching this stuff trying to swallow so they can respond to me and they are spitting it out--their hands still filled with another handful. It was the funniest thing I ever saw, it was like I had caught all 3 of them in the cookie jar. I call it the popcorn business meeting. Hilarious.
We brought 30 delegates to conference and I tell you, it was like getting 30 kids ready for camp. All they had to bring was a plate, a cup and some bedding. Everything else was provided: transport, shelter and food. I get them on the train finally and they are ready to leave when a man comes up to me like he just lost his wife and says, "Pastor....pastor, I forgot my cup." "Oh" I said, "Did you bring your plate?" "Uh...no, pastor." "OK, did you bring your bedding." "Yes Pastor," he says, "I have everything." Well, not everything, but OK. Sometimes they would rather tell you what you want to hear than to risk disappointing you... That, they can't take!
The family is doing wonderful. The kids are really adjusting and even beginning to enjoy it here. We have a saying when we see something ridiculous..."The TOP 10 THINGS YOU WOULD NEVER SEE IN AMERICA." That is always fun. A hat, or shirt or a certain way something is done, etc. My car engine is missing and I need spark plugs and spark plug wires. Well the spark plugs are here, but no wires for my Suzuki. So, I may have to travel 4 hours to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe to get spark plug wires. Now there is something new. Anyway, I really should write a book and title it, "How to eat rat Tombuka style." Now there is a certain way you cook a rat, that the entire thing, meat, bones, eyes and all are edible and they LOVE it. Some of my guys can eat 30 rats at a sitting. I saw them cooked but didn't try one, couldn't get past the smell. So, here is your cultural enrichment class for today. From Alaska to Africa, I am educating you on the extremes of the world. You MUST join me for a visit.
Well, I have taken up a lot of your time. I have attached some pictures of Victoria Falls from the Zambia side. I have taken these myself and am happy with them, being a lousy amateur photographer and all.
Love ya,
TOM
Talking about the swimming pool---the weather here is something else. We are in "HOT" season. When they say "HOT" season they are not kidding. 45° to 60° Celsius and Hotter! I mean it. We have a thermometer that tops out at 120° F and it has gone past that, on around, past the zero and up to the 20° F mark on the other side. Do the math folks, that's 140°-150° F. I have never been so hot in my life. Sometimes you just sit and sweat, or smolder (if that's a word). Don't worry we have plenty of sunscreen for sitting by the pool (which isn't filled yet, still being repaired, in Zambia that could mean a while). The next season is the rain season. We have gotten a few thunderstorms and light rains, but nothing major yet. The thunderstorms have been violent, yet they tell us "just you wait, they get much worse." Just remember, I am here by the blessing of God, to educate all of you unadventurous yuppie career types on the extremes of the world. Africa, it's where in the world you want to be!
Speaking of extremes, our tent has arrived. This is the tent we will use as a church building. It is very large and can seat 1200 people. We put it up in one day, and then took two days to cinch it down. The very next day was church service; our first church service in our new tent. Remember, we were squeezing 250 people into a little schoolroom, anxiously awaiting this tent's arrival. Here we are, ready for our first service and a violent, button-down-the-hatch, run-for-your-life thunderstorm hits at 3:00PM. The winds pick up to monsoon proportions and service is starting at 5:00PM. Our tent men have two days training and have no practical experience in this. How many of you studied "tent science" in school. See what I mean? So they are holding down the sides, being lifted into the air. The side poles are pulling out of the loose sand and the sides of the canvas are becoming air born. Brave Zambian men are holding on for dear life thinking they will land somewhere in Zimbabwe in a few days. The center poles are swaying, but so far all is holding. Then they hear a snap of metal and the canvas comes down on the left side bringing two Zambians and the entire line of lights with it. The other two poles are holding. The men are all right, even feeling brave and heroic in all of this. This is their church and they have saved it. The only thing that gave way was that cheap South African chain that holds the canvas up. Now we have 1½ hours till service and all we have to do is find a chain somewhere in Livingstone that will hold 1,000 pounds of canvas. Yup! You guessed it! There is nothing anywhere to be found at any of the three hardware shops in town. The best promise I got was 3 weeks. So I get back to the tent only to find the canvas raised back to its original state. "What-how is this possible?" I asked. "Don't worry Pastor, we have found a chain and now we can have service!" Turns out a little boy that attends our church took the chain (a rather large one) he uses as a leash to tie up his dog and gave it to the church to use in our time of crisis. Everyone pitches in to make it work in Africa. We had our first service and had great success. We have now been in the tent for 2 weeks and have grown by more than 150 people. Last Sunday, we had 410 in service. We just finished our first 3-day crusade with Pastor Fabian Talamante from the USA and it was attended by more than 1,000 each night with 300 making decisions for Jesus Christ! This is a Pastor's heaven I tell you! We are already thinking we need an extension on our tent and we are still only 6 ½ months old as a church.
About a month ago, we loaded up the car with some of the guys from my church and my lovely wife of course and set off for Mwandi-a little town/village in the Western Province. Lozi country. The Lozi are a very traditional, very proud tribe that once dominated most of Zambia. The majority of my church members are either Lozi or Tonga. The Tonga, however, have only survived at the Lozi's discretion; the Lozi having conquered them some years ago. There is even a language that is a mixture of the two tribes called Tongaleaha. The Lozi are a very respectful and reverent people. When you greet a Lozi, you bend a bit at the waist, cup your hands in front of you and clap quickly twice, then, holding your right wrist with your left hand, you reach out and shake their right hand, then quickly cup your hands over you heart and say, "enshaw". I do this when I greet some of the older Lozi's in my church and they get such a kick out of it, I just love it. They even say I must be part Lozi because I do it so well.
So here we are, on our way to Mwandi scouting it out as a possible place to do a future crusade. The road is so bad that it takes us 4 hours at 10 km/hr to get there. This is our first indication that we are really in the bush. I badly dent 3 of my 4 aluminum alloy rims and puncture 1 tire. But we get there safely. Our contact (a man that comes to my church whenever he is in Livingstone on business) is there on the side of the road to meet us and show us around. We are off to see the Wizard (no wait that is another story), but that is what it feels like. He is showing us the central location of Mwandi as we are off to see the surrounding villages that dot the Zambezi river throughout the region. As we are driving on no more than a sand-filled cattle path, weaving in and out of the villages, I notice a brush fire off to my left. This is not uncommon as many times they burn the brush to chase out the bush rats that they use as food. I thought nothing of it. We are driving farther and I see a brush fire off to my right. "Uh, guys, what do you make of this fire?" I asked. "It is OK Pastor, just somebody burning the brush." I explained that in the USA when it is 100° F, dry and windy, a fire in the brush is something to be concerned about. But I was just being a silly "mozungu" (white man) and we continued on our way. The fire got larger and closer. Soon it was on both sides of my car and a large pillar of smoke is in front of me. "The village is just up ahead" our guide explained to me. We went about 200 meters further, when he said, "stop here Pastor, please." Well I thought we must be at the village because he stopped me so matter-of-factly. He and one of my men got out of the car and walked ahead to survey the road (path!). I told Marjean, "I don't want to be naïve here, but I don't see any village all I see is fire and smoke." We definitely had a situation here, all the alarms in my brain were going off. The alarms that have kept me alive my whole life-the ones that say, "You are a real idiot Cunningham if you drive any farther." My brain is refusing responsibility if my body insists on moving ahead. These are the alarms that I'm getting. The men come back to the car and get in. "Pastor, it seems the road is blocked ahead by fire as far as we can see, we'll have to turn back." I'm not sure if they are being calm on purpose or if this is how a Zambain panics, I don't know-but turn back? Now we're talking. So I turn my little Suzuki Nomade around and to my complete surprise all I can see is fire. Gosh this looks just like the other side. In fact, the only place that isn't burnt is the round patch of pathway we are currently on. Now things are getting exciting. There is a skinny pathway in front of me where the fire hasn't quite closed in yet, so its time to take charge here. I put it in 4-wheel drive and said, "Hold on guys we're getting out of here." And we jammed through the smoke, fire on both sides of us, dodging little trees and brush and patches of flames, heading for the blue sky. Well, needless to say that was a harrowing experience. As we got safely away from the fire, the guide said, "Should we eat first or go on to Mwandi?"
In Mwandi, there are some huts, some houses and shanties, a few small shops and a grand palace in the center of town that houses the Lozi chief. The Lozi Chief has the respect of most of the populous of Zambia so the politicians cannot ignore him so he is well taken care of. They used to be called Kings and the tribal name for the Chief means, "Little God." The town of Mwandi has about 80,000 people and they mostly live at the pleasure of the palace. Sitting on the bank of a wide curve in the Zambezi river, Mwandi has some of the most beautiful sunsets in the world. We pulled up next to the riverbank to get a closer look at the scenery when a man comes running up to our car telling us we can't park there; that it is Palace grounds and for security reasons, we absolutely cannot park there. In my own character and ability to turn any situation into a good chance to laugh, I said, "I am here to see the Chief. Tell him that Pastor Cunningham is here to see him."
"Oh no, you can't see the Chief without an appointment, he doesn't see anyone unless they have cleared in advance."
"Well then, we'll just have to look at the river then." I said with a smile keeping my car where it was.
"It's OK then Pastor." He said, exiting into the Palace.
When we finished looking at the beautiful river, we returned to the car and standing there is the same security man. "The Chief will see you now." He said matter of factly. "This must be your lucky day, but he said he would love to talk with you."
Not one to miss an opportunity, I agreed. My Lozi church members were worried because if they have an audience with the Chief they are expected to kneel and bow to "Little God" and as Christians they knew that wasn't right. I assured them that I had no intention of kneeling and bowing and that I was going there to represent the "Big God." Secretly I was a little worried about meeting a traditional Chief. What should I expect? I pictured a witchdoctor with a robe and feathers and a mask of sorts. Marjean and I were escorted into his veranda to wait for his arrival. The security briefed us on protocol. He would come out and we were to stand, then he would introduce himself, then we would be introduced to him, then we would sit back down as he does. But no need to kneel and bow. After about 20 minutes of waiting, out steps a balding 40 year old Zambian wearing a silk shirt, khakis and sandals… "Hello," he said in perfect English "My name is Chief Inyambo." As we sat down, he added, wiping his brow, "How can you guys stand this heat! I've lived here all my life and I can never get used to it!" It turns out that Chief Inyambo is a Swaziland University Law graduate with aspirations of (and a good chance of) being the next President of Zambia. He is delightful and we spent the next hour talking about leadership, integrity, the direction and future of Zambia. He gave us the green light on a crusade in Mwandi and told us that the Palace was at our disposal for anything we needed. I prayed with him and for him and left him some literature on our churches, etc. What a day.
We got to see the Victoria Falls from the Zimbabwe side. At the height of its splendor, the Victoria Falls spills 9 million Liters per second over the side, but in hot season, the Zambian side is left with a trickle. In the various seasons, the volume of water in the Zambezi goes to 1/25 its normal size. Zimbabwe however retains the largest volume of water during this season. The falls are spectacular as you get a view from further away.
On the road to Botswana the other day, it started to rain. The rain poured to the point where I thought I would have to pull over to the side of the road and wait it out. When the rain subsided I saw the most spectacular sight. Of all things, 30 or 40 elephants on the side of the road sucking up the water from the puddles. Mommas, Pappas and babies. We sat there for a long time waiting for them to lick up every drop. The big ones would move away and we would start to pass, just to have a baby elephant bound back across the road like a puppy licking up a spot he missed. Then, of course Momma would venture out towards us just to make sure we didn't interfere with her babies drink. It was amusing and magnificent. We laughed out loud and watched like little children. I'm telling you, I have experienced more in a 6-months than most people do in a lifetime. We are truly blessed.
Well, I have more to write, but will write later. The kids are doing well as is Marjean. All are healthy. Ayron has had some kind of heat rash for a while, but it is under control. All the kids say they are not ready to go back to America-not yet. There is too much wonder here. Some things even McDonalds and Burger King can't satisfy. By the way, somebody, anybody, please send coffee. We are out of FOLDGERS! Some things are a must in life. Those little paper vacuum packs (13 oz or so) can be sent for little more than a dollar and it would mean a lot here.
Take care, and I'll write with more soon.
TOM
Zambia has its charms, one of which is no real technology to hassle with. The other is, no real link to the outside world. None of us knew it was mother's day until reminded of it by a South African friend of ours who told us it was mothers day today in South Africa. Without the media and the commercials and the newspapers to remind us of American holidays it is hard to stay in touch. However, I have found the redeeming information in time. Unfortunately my Internet provider is down and there is no link to the outside world. I was going to send you an electronic mothers day card, but I can't get online. I am sending this letter in hopes that it will find its way to you AND you check your email before too much time goes by. I will try to call you later, but we can only talk for a moment at $4.50 a minute.
Please know that I love you and appreciate all the tiresome things you have done for me over the years--and you have done so without complaint. You have taken care of the small things that made my growing up so normal and entirely pleasant, without incident---and because of Jesus Christ and His love, our relationship now is stronger than it ever could be. Our family is healthy and very, very close in bond, if not in miles. I honor you this day with my love and my respect. You are a wonderful mother and an incredible example of what it means to put family first. Through the tough times you were able to make our lives seem so emotionally and perfectly stable, even when I know it must have been very difficult to do. It is no small task to make everything warm and cozy for your children while your world seemed to be coming apart, but you did it...
Because of you we are all successful in our own ways, trying desperately to be the parents to our children that you were to us--an impossible standard it seems, but none-the-less we will try. You have raised the banner for our family to stay in touch and stay together, always thinking of the small details when we come home that make us feel exactly like we should---that we are home. And it doesn't matter the geographical location of home, it is the touch you put on it that makes it so. When I see you, for a moment, I feel like the child I was while growing up and I want to cry again, just so you know I still need you.
Africa is difficult and mysterious and even frustrating, but none the less, the accomplishments we are seeing is because of the life you have given me; the understanding and the caring, even when I seemed like the black sheep, you made me the most important black sheep in your life. Thank you for being the mother you are. Zambia is blessed--they are receiving the best care I can give them. They are hearing the gospel and I am pointing the way to Jesus Christ. I am also shepherding this flock with the finest of detail, making them feel loved and cared for and...home. Why not? I am, after all, my mother's son.
All my love,
TOM
Things are going very well here. The ministry is thriving. We are missing home, however, as we approach our 1-1/2 year mark. I have had a chance to write down one of my latest experiences, thought you might like it...
If it were possible to draw upon and catalog experiences from childhood into usable categories in adulthood practice before they are needed, we would all be better equipped to handle the sundry adventures that life often throws at us. Life and experience often throw a dialogue at you, nana-seconds before you need it, when a couple of hours of astute preparation are actually necessary. Here is an example of a conversation I had with an outlying memory a split-second before the impending experience was quite literally in my face…
LIFE: “Excuse me, remember that time when you were 4 years old and you drifted too far from the shore at your brother's swim lesson in that water-hole?”
ME: “Uh-h-h, I think so.” (totally bewildered)
LIFE: “Come on now, stay with me here-we have about 4 seconds for recall and reaction and a lot to cover…”
ME: OK, I’m sure I remember that experience.”
LIFE: “Good, now remember how you were bobbing up and down in the water-light then dark, surface then water, remember that?”
ME: “Yes, I quite remember that feeling…I was only four and…”
LIFE: (interrupting) “yeah, yeah, no time for reminiscing, just recall. Now, one time you tried to take a breath for survival and you didn’t quite break the surface, so you took in some water and your chest exploded in coughing and gasping?”
ME: “Yeah... I remember.” (getting very nervous)
LIFE: “Well, remember what you learned from that, you're gonna need it..."
ME: "Wait--I..."
Not even a second later, our 12-foot raft containing 7 people hit rapid #16-A, B and C in the Zambezi River, appositely called “The Terminator”. Our raft, now seeming like an inappropriate vessel for water travel hit “Terminator A”, with a ton of water reserved only for washing machines. It came upon us, blindsiding like a baseball bat so that our raft flew horizontally in the air, crashing down with vigor. Spiraling sideways now, we slammed into “Terminator B” with a negative G-force and an upward thrust; we flipped pitifully in the air. I heard a pathetic scream, the kind that only occurs in car accidents and murder scenes, only to realize later that it had come from me. As the raft flipped, turning slowly at the crest as if gathering strength for the crash downward, I faintly remembered something about a safety rope on the side of the raft that I should hold onto to “avoid becoming a long-swimmer” and something even more distant about waiting before I breathe… My feet are hanging in the air now, no raft underneath, as I lamely felt for the safety rope…there… “Now hold on, no long-swimmer,” I remember telling myself. “Long-swimmer” is a term the white-water rafting companies piously use for someone who is separated from the raft in the middle of #5 rated world-class rapid that causes them to be dragged violently down the river and thrown limply into the calmer water to the awaiting crocodiles that proceed to devour their piteous, life-less, should-have-hung-on-to-the-safety-rope-you-idiot, body. Holding on to the rope, remembering somehow to take an incredibly good, last breath of air---my body with the raft somewhere above me now came crashing through the surface of the water into the surreal environment of brutal rapids, threatening whirlpools, but no sound. It seemed like an eternity of churning water, eddy tugs at my feet and legs, bouncing precariously along until my life-vest pulled me back to the surface. Seeing daylight and realizing that I could still survive this, I went to take another deep breath of air when I vaguely saw myself as a four-year old child in a similar situation---a faint glow of sunlight somewhere above me, above the surface, and how I tried to breathe--air and water both catapulted into my lungs and in that memory, I thought… “Wait for clear air” and continued holding my breath. Immediately, another swirling rapid ambushed me with the force to take me under again. Had I attempted a breath, I would have been coughing and sputtering under water. Drawing on a life-experience as a four-year old saved me once again. The second time I approached the surface, we were safely out of the “Terminator” series and well on our way to the “Three Ugly Sisters”--if that is any real consolation. I took a deep breath and started looking around for my raft mates.
Patrick, one of my visitors with a ministry team from the UK, had been so scared of flipping over that he had actually vomited over the side of the raft before we even hit any rapids simply in anticipation of this kind of thing happening. He was big and scared and not the kind to enjoy the water. Having taken time to assess the situation and depress the emergent panic in my chest, with plenty of air, I looked around and started shouting Patrick’s name. Our Zambian guide, Fast Eddy (now you get the picture), was already on top of the overturned raft and was shouting orders to the other mates who were now starting to emerge from the depths. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. I called to fast Eddy, “Check for Patrick, I don’t see him and he is the one that will need our help.” Eddy pointed to my right and smiled. I looked over and about 20 meters behind us was Patrick clinging unsteadily, white as a ghost, to the front of the safety Kayak that follows all the rafts through the rapids looking for “long-swimmers”. Then unexpectedly, there was a tugging, grabbing and swatting at my legs that were still dangling in the Zambezi because I was still hanging onto the safety rope at the side of the raft--and for an instant I thought of the 7-meter crocodiles I had seen earlier in the Crocodile farm. I jerked my legs out of the way of the object, kicking hard at another one when the surface of the water broke into a red-face gasping and panicked raft-mate of ours who was trapped under the raft when it went over. In trying to get back under the raft and to the outside with the rest of us, he had run into a sea of legs that were all suspended there, so he began pushing our legs aside to get to the surface before he ran out of air. In pushing and grabbing at our legs he had been kicked in the head by several of his more suspicious raft-mates. By now we were in the calm water, the raft was turned right side up again, Bill Clinton was still in office and we were on our way to the “Three Ugly Sisters."
After a few more successful rapids with less spectacular adventure, but incredible thrills, we came to an area of extreme calm. The Batoka Gorge on the Zambezi River, about 25 Kilometers after the Victoria Falls is one of the most spectacular sites in the world. It reminded me of the unbelievable majesty of the “Resurrection Bay” off the coast of Seward, Alaska. The Zambezi cuts its path out of solid rock and snakes its way at will to the Indian Ocean. Cliffs ranging from 100 to 1000 meters high run along its banks, leaving barely discernible white-sand beaches, 3-5 meters wide that sit before the cliffs like patches of paradise large enough to throw the raft onto and sit in the sand and sun forever. It was along one of these banks that we arrived at our mid-trip swimming hole. “Who wants to jump in?” Fast Eddy asks with a wry smile. Well jumping, swimming and diving are as much a part of my make-up as milking cows is to a dairy farmer---so I jumped at the chance. We followed the Kayaker up the gorge, one rock at a time, farther and farther up the cliff. I got to a point and looked down, “Not bad,” I thought, “I used to do this all the time at Dover Pool about 100 years ago.” I looked back up and the Kayaker is still climbing, so I followed. We got to a ledge about 7-8 meters high (that’s 21-25 feet for you and me) and he pointed to a natural diving platform cut out of the rock. “Here you go, the camera’s running…” So, with unjust cause, insanity running through my blood, this Zambian Missionary, still-thinks-he’s-18, ran and jumped with all his might into the sunny afternoon sky---falling, falling, falling, hey-somebody-let-the-water-out-on-me, falling, splash---“Ugh... OK, that was fun, seemed farther than it looked, but I’m still alive.”
The rafting trip took all day, running through 15 major Zambezi rapids, 8 of which are classified as world-class #5 rapids. Our rafting team, having let Patrick off to the slower raft, dubbed ourselves the A-team and became quite confident in our endeavors to join the “extreme adventurers over thirty club”. On rapid number 20, we had gotten so confident that before we approached the rapid, we jumped over the edge of the raft, holding on to the safety rope, and let the raft drag us through the rapids while we were bounding along side. Well, here is another adventure in the life of a Missionary in Africa---it is a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.
God Bless you all, until next time. Here is a small highlight VIDEOCLIP (650 Kb) of the adventure...
TOM
How are you all? I have been remiss lately in sending you quality updates of life in Africa. I have several letters started and none finished. This is the story of life, my life actually, but I promise to do better—so, sorry for the delay, but life has been crazy here. A day in Zambia is like a thousand years, wait—isn’t there a scripture like that? The simplest tasks of life here are much more time consuming with the value of accomplishment. For example, when I have to pay a bill, I have to go to the bank and take out money in Zambian Kwacha after I have made the conversions which, sadly, is 3,750 Zambian Kwachas to 1 US Dollar. Then I have to carry the Kwacha to the Phone Company (Zamtel)—sometimes in a suitcase or large travel bag, depending on the size of the bill—wait in line (or queue as they call it here) then pay them. The largest Zambian Kwacha denomination is a K 10,000.00 note — so to pay my last phone bill for June which was K 450,000, I had to give them 45 — K10,000 notes and wait for the cashier to count them, enter the payment into the computer (a feat surpassed only by the building of Rome), print a receipt and stamp it PAID. Then I repeat the process for the electric bill, Zamnet Internet bill, water bill etc… Now, if I desperately need to get hold of somebody in my church, then I have to drive to their home since none of them have phones. When I get to their home and they are not there, I get new directions as to where they might be and I attempt to find them. It is a lot of fun as you can imagine. So, completing a project takes so much more time because of all the running around.
Some very exciting events of astronomical (literally) proportions have happened around here lately. One event I shall personally never forget is the solar eclipse. As you have heard, the pathway of the esteemed shadow of the eclipse runs right through Zambia, causing Africa to truly live up to its name as the “dark continent’. 22,000 tourists, hippies, drug addicts, sun worshippers, apocalyptic doomsayers and eclipse chasers flocked into the country to see this inconceivable event. Not to be outdone by some 1960’s throwbacks, I also made plans to travel to Lusaka for this great event so that I too could be in the center of this mysterious shadow. If you can’t tell already, my expectations were low, my sarcasm high, but a road trip, none-the-less was a road trip. Not to be a total loafer, I aligned my trip to the great eclipse in Lusaka with preaching a revival in Mazabuka. That way, I could be seen historically as doing something useful for the Kingdom of God while getting the opportunity to sneak away to the eclipse center without appearing like an eclipse-head.
Pastor Kevin Hannston, an American Pastor in Mazabuka, his wife Joan and his family joined ours and off we went to Pastor Bowman’s house in Lusaka to catch the eclipse. Eclipse glasses in hand (never leave home without your ‘safety tested for viewing direct sunlight’ glasses) we were ready for a fun-filled afternoon of barbecue and sun watching. As the moon slowly made its way into the path of the sun, the mood was fraught with anticipation, but I personally found a colony of ants carrying a large half-eaten garden cockroach into the jaws of its darkened habitat far more exciting.
Then something startling happened. As the moon made its way to an almost 100% eclipse of the sun, a strange, eerie, aura blanketed over us. I looked at the grass and the trees and although it was daylight and you could see very well, there was sunlight but no glare; an unnatural shadowy tint—as if the whole world was being viewed through sunglasses. An excited chatter rumbled through the families and a peculiar chill fell over us. I found myself cuddling my shoulders to my body and looking around suspiciously as the temperature dropped subtly. It all happened so fast; the gloom rang heavier as the moon raced to the suns corona, birds, not certain what time it was or what was happening dove to the ground and then back to the trees, frantically circling the area in an atmosphere of neither day nor night. Hippos, that had been basking in the sun just moments before, hoisted their mass off the grass and frantically raced to the river, positive that night had fallen on them and they were to be in the water for their evening feeding. The moon reached the suns perfect pathway and the halo of light shown brightly, viewable without the glasses. In 5 seconds the earth's remaining daylight fled away as stars became visible and Zambia, caught unawares, plunged into a surreal darkness. The temperature perceptibly lowered another 10 degrees. The families around us became silent for an instant, the awesomeness of the moment weighing our hearts and stifling our reason. I was reminded of ancient civilizations, which at this instant in history had cried out to their religious leaders for deliverance and salvation from the angry gods that had blocked out the sun. How the witchdoctors and headmen had seized the moment, and at a heavy price, prayed the sun back to the sky when waiting and watching would have been equally as effectual. In a spark of life as if the sun was protesting the overcrowding moon, a diamond shaft of brilliant light flashed through a moon’s crater at the lower left and forced a stubborn glare back into the darkness. The diamond radiated fiercely for a few seconds, and then gave way to an even brighter burst as the moon opened a greater pathway on its way past. Those few seconds brought the pseudo-dark aura back and forced the eclipse glasses back on our faces to protect our eyes from the awesome power of the sun’s brilliance.
It was over as fast as it started, but was an awe-inspiring if not startling experience. The real benefit going to the Hippos, who got to eat twice that day. Never in my life have I seen such an abnormal-looking natural event in nature. When I realize that things as certain as the sun's daily appearance are taken for granted when they are clearly an act of God gives me a sense of thanksgiving. Scripture makes this same statement unmistakably in Romans 1:18—“For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who suppress the truth in unrighteousness, because that which is known about God is evident within them; for God made it evident to them. For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made (created), so that they are without excuse. For even though they knew God, they did not honor Him as God, or give thanks; but they became futile in their speculations, and their foolish heart was darkened. Professing to be wise, they became fools…”
The second event, of doubtless even greater historical significance is the visit of a renowned dignitary to our humble surroundings—Arnold Schwartznegger and his lovely wife, Maria Shriver. They are staying at the 5-star Sun Hotel, recently built and now standing only 6 Km from me, and only 500 meters from the magnificent Victoria Falls. My church is alive with excitement that some of the luckier ones may get a glimpse of the great man. This is the greatest thing to happen to Livingstone since 1855 when the Chief of the Kololos took Dr. David Livingstone on his first tour of the ‘Smoke that Thunders’ (Mosi-oa-Tunya) later named, the Victoria Falls. My song leader, who works as an electrician at the Sun Hotel, saw Arnold personally and noted with great pride that he is smaller than he looks in the movies and that his Pastor (that’s me) is possibly even bigger than he is.
It is Zambian cold season and we are seeing nights as cold as 45 degrees, with no heat in the house, then back up to 80 degrees in the afternoon. Zambians are bundling up in the mornings and it is quite comical to observe. As you know, the precious Zambian people are really very poor and they buy all of their clothing from outdoor used clothing shanties, erected out of sticks, cardboard and black plastic with piles and piles of wrinkled used clothing stacked on wooden crates. We call it the "Maramba Mall". All of the clothing comes from the U.S. in the form of 'free Aid'. Of course, Zambian citizens have yet to benefit from anything ‘free’. Somebody gets hold of the ‘free clothing’ when it comes into the country and the clothes get sold and marked up all the way down the line. By the time it gets to Livingstone it has been marked up 5 times. When this form of ‘free aid’ first came to the Zambian economy, all saw the opportunity to wear American clothing (an incredible status symbol) instead of Zambian-made apparel. Overnight as the new merchandise flooded the country, Livingstone personally lost 30 Textile and Clothing Manufacturing businesses and Sewing Shops. Manufacturing entrepreneurs soon became nothing more than used clothing salesmen and Livingstone lost a good chunk of its job market and sustainable economy. All because some ‘charitable’ organization decided that since they really couldn’t sell this stuff to Americans, "let’s ‘give it away’ to Africa!" I can’t prove it, but I am certain somewhere down the line the decision to do this was made by Jesse Jackson in an attempt to identify with his African heritage. In my ever-so-humble opinion, 2 weeks living in a genuine African hut in Ngweenya, would alleviate that yearning for good.
The Zambians call it 'salaula' which stands for '2nd hand or used clothes', but literally (in the vernacular) translates to 'choosing something from a large variety of choices'. Containers and containers full of clothing from Salvation Army, Value Village and other American thrift enterprises come rolling into the country—all the stuff they couldn't sell to Americans they ship off to Africa to 'give away'. You can imagine the sort of 1950s-60s extra-wide striped ties and brown polyester suits. Since Zambians have no real visible model of what these clothes are for or what occasion they were designed for, how to wear them, who wears them or when, you get a real treat to the eyes when you see 'salaula' in action. For example, a recent cold Sunday morning, one man came into my church wearing regular clothes, but for a coat he had on a light pink ladies housecoat with a bathrobe tie in the front that an old American woman would wear around the house in the morning but NEVER in public. He wore it proudly with the pink tie in place and never once considered that he might look peculiar—to him, a coat is a coat. Commonly, you will see a man without a shirt, but with a wool suit coat on—or a vest from a 3-piece suit with no shirt or jacket. One man came to church with a new suit on, but his feet were shod in 'tropicals’ (you call them 'flip flops'). He said, "I have the suit, but shoes are a problem." Here, you can get an entire suit for a cheaper price than one pair of shoes. In cold season people wear socks, tied together, around their heads to keep their ears warm. Yesterday, I was driving home and a little girl was sitting next to her mother on the side of the road. She was keeping her head warm with a genuine 'Santa Clause' cap! The funny part about it was, she didn't even know it looked ODD! It was absolutely adorable. Having no social model, Zambian 'career' ladies often go to work in snappy 'to-die-for' red cocktail dresses, slit up to the thigh, or evening gowns with winter coats over them as corporate business attire. In all, a completely different culture, but quite an enjoyable one. Everyone here is doing well. Time is flying. In January, we will have only one year left on our tour and will need to make the decision of whether we are coming back or staying on. I'll try to write more often. We will be traveling to Lusaka for our annual Central Africa Bible conference next month, then North to the Zambian Copperbelt (get out your maps) to preach a couple of revivals, then South all the way to Cape Town South Africa to preach for my good friend Joe Rice. From the majestic ice caps of Alaska to the Mountainous coast of South Africa, I am seeing the world and doing the will of God at the same time.
Take care and I'll look forward to hearing from all of you soon.
All my love,
TOM
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