The Rebel South of Pogo – revisited
Posted by Glenn...

On May 10, Linn wrote a blog or journal message about the rebel South of Pogo (see the journal of that date). She ended by asking the question, “will we ever see him again?” The answer is “yes.” I am writing this from Bamako where I have a few things to attend to including getting some suspension parts for the van that were damaged in our trip to Toubgo (see Linn’s From "Pecos" to "Jacob:" or How the Gospel Got to Tougbo). On the way up we purposefully looked for Abbas or Rudolf at the barrier. Sure enough he was there and came over to the van, greeting us with warmth and enthusiasm and telling everyone in hearing distance that here was his pastor!! I asked him if he was still reading the Bible and he said yes and that he felt so different inside – God’s forgiveness was beginning to sink deep. He told us that he wanted to come to see us and that he wanted to attend our church. Pulling off the road, I spent a few minutes with him going over Romans 5 and 8, important passages that clearly tell us that whoever is in God’s family through Jesus, is now made right and innocent before God’s eyes because of what Jesus did on the cross and his resurrection. Romans 8:31 (New Living Translation) What can we say about such wonderful things as these? If God is for us, who can ever be against us? 32 Since God did not spare even his own Son but gave him up for us all, won't God, who gave us Christ, also give us everything else? 33 Who dares accuse us whom God has chosen for his own? Will God? No! He is the one who has given us right standing with himself. 34 Who then will condemn us? Will Christ Jesus? No, for he is the one who died for us and was raised to life for us and is sitting at the place of highest honor next to God, pleading for us. 35 Can anything ever separate us from Christ's love? Does it mean he no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or are hungry or cold or in danger or threatened with death? 36 (Even the Scriptures say, "For your sake we are killed every day; we are being slaughtered like sheep.") 37 No, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us. 38 And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from his love. Death can't, and life can't. The angels can't, and the demons can't. Our fears for today, our worries about tomorrow, and even the powers of hell can't keep God's love away. 39 Whether we are high above the sky or in the deepest ocean, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. What a powerful promise to someone who has robbed and killed! Abbas told me he was there to be a witness to the other rebels as well and sure enough about four other guys stood around as we talked and I explained clearly that Jesus was the only road to God. One of them asked for a Bible, which we did not have, but we gave them a tract and I will buy some French Bibles here in Bamako to take back and give to them. God’s Word is powerful and cuts deep to these guys who has seen and done so much evil! Pray that their hearts will continue to be receptive to the Holy Spirit’s drawing them to himself!!

From "Pecos" to "Jacob:" or How the Gospel Got to Tougbo
Posted by Linnea...

After seven hours on the long, winding, decrepit dirt road, we finally arrived in Tougbo. All nine of us (in our seven-passenger van) breathed an exhausted sigh of relief and piled out into the dark night and the delighted welcoming outstretched hands of dozens of people. They got a small generator going for lights, sat us in chairs, invited us to eat rice and sauce, showed us to the "dorms" (floors of empty houses) where weary bodies could try to sleep . . . We were in Lobi country, 170 kilometers east of Ferke. The next day (Saturday, June 17) we would witness the ordination of Pastor Jacob Kambou. As the most eastern outpost of the Ferke district of Baptist churches, this town is near the borders of both Burkina Faso to the north and Ghana, farther east. Since it had only taken three hours the last time that Glenn had driven to the edge of the game park, near Tougbo, he had originally planned for us to leave bright and early—5:00 a.m.—on Saturday morning. That, he thought, would surely give us plenty of time to arrive by 9:00, when the ordination service was supposed to begin. But Pastor Donyon, the Ferke District president, came early in the week to warn us that the road was worse than we thought—that we should leave midday on Friday. So we did that. Our car was at capacity, with seven of us packed in and a huge wooden pulpit tied on top, a gift to the Tougbo church. The speaker, Pastor Keo (director of the Bethel Bible Institute), rode with us, as did Pastor Fuhoton from Tiepogovogo. Moise (on my translation team), his wife Valerie and my friend Sali made up the rest of the crowd. Valerie and Moise were the only ones who had been to Tougbo previously; they would direct us past the various forks in the road so that we would make it the 102 miles to destination. Glenn has now calculated that we averaged 24 kilometers an hour (14.5 mph). No wonder -- it was raining, and the road has not been graded or repaired for at least four years. There were times when we thought about turning back but we had already gone so far . . . so we passengers would get out of the car and walk ahead, praying that Glenn would be able to navigate the maze of rock, deeply eroded ruts, sand and mud to the better stretch just beyond. After a couple of hours of this, conversation was beginning to turn to awed comments on Glenn's amazing ability to drive the van! Then we were flagged down by two women alongside the road as we passed through the village of Kafolo. At first glance we thought they must be rebels in olive green pants and jackets. Suddenly we recognized two wives of other pastors from our town. The two couples had been traveling by motorcycle and had left Ferke at 8 a.m. only to have a serious problem with blowout, no viable replacement to be found. So we packed two more people into the van, and another into the community health pickup from the Baptist Hospital that pulled up behind us while we discussed options. The next day would be soon enough to come back for the motorcycle, hopefully with a new tire bought in Tougbo. The important thing was to get to the ordination. It had become night by the time we took the fork north towards our destination. Valerie optimistically guessed at one point that we had about 15 miles left. Thirty slow miles later we finally arrived, cramped and laughing at our own impatient discomfort. Glenn got a lot of mileage out of the trip, though. As the only missionary man to be able to come, he was the designated mission rep and would have to give a speech. So he worked in lots of illustrations about difficult roads, and how similar they are to the Christian life – as well as underlining the importance of perseverance and of hope, essentials for helping you make it all the way to destination! He even admitted that Tougbo seemed a little like heaven by the time we got there. :) The Tougbo church story, about how the gospel got to this isolated town in the eastern wilderness, was worth the trip. We heard most of it at the ordination the next day; the rest of it was filled in later by Valerie, who helped me understand why it is an extremely important one to her and to Moise. It was a sunny day, but cool after the rains. The crowd sat in the shade of nine mango trees facing the chartreuse pulpit with red-orange trim – the gift that had ridden on our van during the long trek. The dignitaries (including Glenn, Pastor Donyon and Pastor Keo) and the seven deacons to be consecrated, sat in armchairs covered with bright African cloth, facing us. Pastor Jacob and his wife were ushered in from the side, escorted by the youth choir singing a rhythmic Jula Christian song. They sat in chairs of honor at the side. We heard singing in several languages, including Lobi (the ethnicity of most of the Tougbo church members) – accompanied by Lobi dance, a kind of chest-vibrating dancing Glenn and I had never witnessed before. I confess I was thinking it was a good thing God had not sent me to Lobi country as a missionary; I don't think I could have learned to do it! (My son Bryn, on the other hand, would be a natural.) Piecing the story together from the several sources is probably my best bet in trying to summarize how God grew this church out of a small group meeting into 400+ people, in 22 years! A Lobi family named "Da" moved from Tougbo to Ferke around 1970 to look for work. Their children grew up in Ferke – the woman named Natalie Da (sitting in front of me in the Tougbo meeting) had gone to primary school with my friend Sali, and they had both had their first Bible teaching from Glenna Bigelow(a CB missionary who lived in Ferke one year) in an after-school Bible class. Natalie's brothers, including the one improbably named "Pecos," became very close friends with age mates who lived nearby, Moise and his older brother (who was not yet blind at that time). When Monsieur Da died and his wife went back to Tougbo for the traditional levirate marriage to his younger brother, the children elected to stay on in Ferke where they had friends and were in school. Pecos eventually went away to Bouake for teacher training, and while there he became a believer in Jesus. When he came back to Ferke to teach, he led Moise and his big brother to the Lord too! He was extremely active in the Baptist youth group, and many young people came to know Jesus through him. He could strike up a conversation with strangers easily, and turn the talk to spiritual things – a real gift of evangelism. But Pecos kept thinking about how his hometown had no church and no missionaries, no way to learn about Jesus. So he asked the national school officials to transfer him there, and in 1984 he and his wife moved to Tougbo. Soon he began a small prayer group in his home, and soon six believers were meeting there. As others joined them they moved to a classroom, then got permission to build a small church. Pecos' younger brother came to join them in the work. Then Pecos got news that he was going to be transferred to another town. So he went to the Ferke church to entrust the continuation of the work to them. And so their first mission outreach began. They sent Cissoko (a youngster back then – now a Ferke pastor) first of all. His own Muslim background probably helped him to form cordial relationships with the Muslims who governed the town—the Tougbo chief commented that, thanks to Cissoko, the church has brought Muslims and Christians together from the very beginning. Cissoko spent a few days a week there, commuting from Ferke, and began a strong evangelistic outreach in the area. In 1988, the group held their first baptism, with Pastor Moussa Diakite (also from Ferke, also with a Muslim background) officiating. In 1994 the Ferke church was finally able to send a pastor to live in the area. Two filled the post in turn until 2000, when Jacob Kambou went, and stayed. There are now seven churches in the area, with one other pastor helping to shepherd them. The Tougbo church counts 400 members, with 286 in the outlying churches. And all because a young layman brought the gospel back home, and the national church where he spent his youth faithfully followed up his work! Pastor Jacob had been born in Daloa (far off in western Côte d'Ivoire) in '69, but met the Lord in Ouangolodougou (in the northern Ferke district) later on and was discipled there. His parents were fetishers. His father became a believer in Jesus in '79, and Jacob went along to church like a good son following his father. It wasn't until '87 that he realized that he needed to commit himself to Jesus, for himself, rather than in the trail of his father. Then his life changed. He admitted that he had suffered from such shyness that he could hardly speak audibly. When he began having a long series of dreams that pointed him toward a vocation as a pastor he was not initially pleased – how could he speak in front of people? He finally asked the Lord to make the dreams go away, if they were not from him. And in '96 he gave in, going to Bible school in Burkina Faso. God worked the miracle for him, giving him the ability to preach so that people would actually listen! As Glenn said in his speech, the Jesus Road is not always a paved highway – it is full of challenges. Just getting to Tougbo took dedication, out of a strong desire to participate in what God was doing there. It took that kind of commitment for Pecos to ask to be transferred there, and for the pastors who followed him into ministry among an ethnic group much different from their own. But if it had not been for their perseverance, the gospel would not yet be in Tougbo. Instead, the Kingdom is growing in a spectacular way among highly responsive people. The trip back home was nearly as long and difficult as the one to Tougbo. The van ended up with several new noises, needing some parts replaced. But we were deeply grateful that we had been able to get in on this story of a church grown from indigenous passion for those who do not know Jesus yet!

Field Trip - a day in the Tiepogovogo Church Fields
Posted by Glenn...

Glenn comes from Mennonite farming stock; my dad is an amazing gardener. Somehow Glenn and I missed out on those green genes. But today we joined the Nyarafolo believers from Tiepogovogo for their lihere (lee-eh-reh: “group work”) at the church field. An old man, a believer from the nearby village of Neduulo, had given them the land so that they could use the proceeds from farming it to help support their pastor and church projects. (The pastor shepherds the group at Neduulo, too.) The field covers at least 20 acres, not all of it yet cleared. The rains seem to be coming in earnest, signaling the entry of serious cultivating season, so the church has declared Monday as their work day. We arrived early, this first Monday of the season, so Pastor Fuhoton walked us around the outer limits, identified by certain trees and termite hills. Last year the church had put in some grafted mango and cashew tree seedlings, and today Kurugodihe (Koo-roo-go-dee-eh) went around checking them, pulling off mango leaves that were from the original plant and not the graftings. It was disturbing to find the top half of many young cashew trees broken off by cows wandering through. Evidently cows particularly like to use that sapling as a head-scratching post. Corn had been planted between the trees last year, but since the field is at least three miles from the village it cannot be guarded, and monkeys had eaten all the corn. The plan today was to clear more land and take out the weeds that had grown in the farmed area. This time they will plant millet—which monkeys don’t care about. The believers will use their oxen to till the field when it is time to plant (the churches pair of oxen are still too young – next year). Today it would be people who did all the work. By the time everyone arrived, there were 15 to 20 men and women hacking at the green growth that had sprouted furiously all over the area. They carefully left intact any trees that would produce useful or edible fruit: karite for the nuts that yield precious oil, nere for the beans. A beautiful old wuodiige, with bright red nut cases cracking open to reveal the fruit within, might be left (I hope so – an old, rugged tree is a precious thing around here) or might not be. The men had arrived first, around 9:30 am. Each one brought his own machete or tangbo (a short handled hoe), which apparently is the understood protocol. Even Moise, who went with us from town, had assumed that since we were going to the village there would be plenty of tools. We were all wrong. So Moise and Glenn occasionally gave one of the men a break (Moise more than Glenn!), but otherwise helped haul cut branches or stood and watched and talked. The next time that we go we’ll know better, and take the three tools that we have at home. Moise went into clown mode, something at which he excels. He remembers the traditional fieldwork songs from his youth and began singing them. Soon the men were laughing and singing back to him. He was inserting their names into the story lines and making fun of them, friendly insults being approved humor. Some of the songs contrasted really hard workers with the lazy ones; some were songs about men trying to steal one’s fiancee and what might happen to them! (Group work is often done by peer groups of young men joining each other to work in their future father-in-laws’ fields, as part of the arrangement for getting their bride). Sikaaci eventually sang back at Moise, and the fun went on. Next time we’ll take a drum and Moise can fill the role of the cheerleader, the drummer who makes it sweet to work fast! The women came around 11 am, having spent the morning cooking. On their heads they carried basins of kabato (solid corn mush), green leaf sauce, and some water. Mari was accompanied by a little girl, her babysitter, who took the baby from Mari once they arrived and stood watching, the little one tied on her back. Another young mother kept her six-month-old on her back and began wielding her hoe. I was even more impressed as I watched the woman who is at least seven months pregnant, not in the least impeded by her state as she went after some hardy bushes, cutting them down and dragging the branches to a growing pile of brush. The women had laughed when they heard that we were coming. “So Linn, do you really know how to use a tangbo (tahng-boh: “hoe”)?” No. I don’t. And I didn’t. I would only waste the valuable work time. I went into field trip mode and noticed as much as I could, took notes, took pictures, watched, laughed, had a great time – and came home eager to write it up. It reminded me of a fun day in fifth grade, my first year at boarding school in Bouake. One day our teacher, Miss Elaine, took the eleven of us that were in grades five through eight on a long hike on paths in the brush surrounding the school. It was rainy season, and the wilds were lush and green. Back in class, we were asked to write an essay about our hike. I remember the thrill I felt as I decided to write about all the red leaves I had seen, the young leaves flashing with unexpected fire--maroon and true red and bright salmon--at the tips of many green trees, bushes and vines. I was ten again today, out in the sun in the African bush. I snapped pictures of the reds and anything else interesting (shiny blue beetles, orange butterflies) whenever I could. But I was also in Nyarafolo linguistic mode, asking everyone what the names and uses of some of the wild plants were. They began to take it seriously, showing me any leaves or roots that had medicinal applications or were edible. The trick was naming them. This is a part of Nyarafolo culture that could well be lost, dying with the old women who knew that specialized vocabulary. Fortunately, Wanenyaa (Wah-neh-nyah) knew all but one, having an interest in such things. We have a booklet in process, at the Nyarafolo Literature Center (our office!), that will identify such useful plants and the names for them. I also took pictures of the workers. We’ll print some for them to enjoy. Since no one really expected me to be much help, they accepted my alternate mode and just went on working, laughing when they noticed the camera pointing their way. At noon we townspeople asked for the road (the way you signal you are ready to leave, in Nyarafolo), and they told us we could have it, but should eat first. So we washed our hands and squatted around a basin of kabato and a bowl of green sauce. Parifoli, our hostess, overturned some basins for us to sit on, to make it easier. Normally a woman should eat separately from the men so I mentioned this problem to Fuhoton, who was joining us around the common pots, but he said this time it didn’t matter. So four of us worked together on the delicious picnic, scooping out mush with the fingers of our right hands, dipping it into sauce, lifting it to our mouths. Then we took the road! Fuhoton had offered to uproot a particularly lovely vine, the vinime that sprawls like ground cover and has lavender orchid-like blossoms, for me to try planting at home. So on our way he uprooted five for me, and grabbed another armful for his wife to cook up – the leaves make a sauce that she particularly loves. I keep thinking that maybe, if we try to grow the hardy stuff that thrives in the wild instead of the vegetables we’re used to, we might actually have a successful garden! The dirt in our courtyard is not great, but we do have nice sunny spots that need groundcover. They are now planted, a bit of the bush brought home. It will take a while for the cash-poor church to get much profit from their field, since it will be several years before the trees produce fruit (although there will be some benefit from the grain). I couldn’t help but think of all the farming illustrations used by Jesus and by Paul—especially about how patience is required. And some may prepare the soil, some may plant seed, some may be there to harvest. But meanwhile they are reaping the rewards of working hard together, sharing in a common goal. The team-building in itself is extremely valuable. Someday they will be preparing cashews and mangos for sale, and finding it possible to fulfill more of their vision for their pastor, and for reaching Nyarafololand.

Thirty-nine Years Later: Gbinzo II
Posted by Linnea...

May 27, ‘06 Today, sitting in a rented tent with a couple of hundred other very hot people, I heard a story about the long, slow, wonderful growth of a work of God. Many WorldVenture missionaries (at least these: Evelyn Patz?, Jack Swinborne, Chuck and Joan Dudley) and national colleagues (Kolo, Ngolo) had parts to play in turn in the unfolding of that story. Now the first Gbinzo II pastor was being ordained, and it was time to celebrate harvest! It all started in 1967 in a northern Ivorien village called Gbinzo II. (If you take the wrong road trying to get there, as we did, you could end up in Burkina Faso!) The people speak Gouin, or “Gbin” as they say it – a non-Senufo language within Senufo territory. Bakwe Philippe, now pastor of a church in the nearby city of Ouangolodougou, gave a summary of the story. Back in ‘67 an American missionary woman that they knew as “Awa” (Evelyn?) used to come visit them. Sitting in Soungalo’s uncle’s courtyard, she would sing songs and tell stories. Lots of children hung around, mostly to get the candy she would give out. Bakwe Philippe remembers it well, since he was one of them. He says that many adults made professions of faith in Jesus back then, until Awa told them that this meant they could no longer participate in fetish worship. Most then turned back from their decision, saying they could no longer follow “American ways.” After that, a missionary couple continued to teach there, and many young people converted. Soon the rest of the townspeople thought of the Jesus Road as a children’s religion. In 1977, when Jack Swinborne was the one teaching in Gbinzo II, the young man named Soungalo became a believer. When Bakwe Philippe went off to Bible school to train for the pastorate in 1984, Soungalo took over leadership of the group of believers. And people kept on coming to Christ. A critical juncture came when an older man became very ill, and the Christians prayed for him. When he was healed, other adults began saying that maybe this was not just a children’s affair. The fathers of several of the children became believers, and now the group has both youth and adults. Back in the beginning, there were perhaps 13 believers. Now there are over 80! Soungalo Jonas OUATTARA was thirteen years old when he entered the Jesus Road in 1977. Six years later he was baptized. He became a leader of the group, along with Bakwe Philippe. Although he tried several other kinds of jobs, he kept yearning to become a servant of God. Finally, he went to Bible school in Burkina Faso, and has been pastoring at Gbinso II during the past five years. He has shown his commitment to his vocation, and today he was ordained. His passion for the Lord is something several of the speakers underlined. That very passion got him in big trouble, earlier. His story reminds me of Daniel’s, in the Bible. Being passionately devoted to following the Lord put him in great danger, but he came through it all in such a way that Jesus was glorified and Christians were viewed in a whole new way! First of all, in the mid-80’s (when he would have been in his early twenties), his father could not understand Soungalo’s refusal to cooperate in certain marriage rituals when his older brother got married. These involved dances and rites with ties to spirit worship, and Soungalo would not join in even though the other young believers in the village did so. His father was felt that he had been humiliated in front of everyone and threatened to kill him. Soungalo ran into the bush, sleeping out in the wilderness all night. In the morning he woke and began to think about the problem of breakfast, and where to go. He went to a nearby river to wash his face and think. Bakwe Philippe and his wife (in Ouangolodougou) heard about the problem and prayed for him all night. In the morning they took “bouillie” (a porridge) out to the bush, wondering how to find Soungalo. The Lord led them to the river where they found him washing up. He was deeply relieved, and they cared for him. Meanwhile his father had been having second thoughts. He finally came to Soungalo and told him he had changed his mind, and that if any of the other villagers threatened him, they would have to answer to him! Then someone devastated the village by making a powerful fetish, a specially treated dog’s head, putting it in the well. It poisoned the water, and the people were enraged. To find out who had done this they went to a diviner, who gave them a potion which everyone in the village was supposed to drink. If anyone got sick from it, he would be the guilty one; if anyone refused to drink it, he would be admitting his guilt. Soungalo refused to drink it, wanting to have nothing to do with the whole fetish system. This made it look pretty bad for him. People in the village began dying. Scared, the villagers decided to consult yet another seer, this time a renowned diviner in Mali. He also gave them a testing potion, but added that there was a young man in the village, one with light skin, who was going to refuse to drink it. And that would reveal his guilt. Without sharing this prediction, the village leaders asked the people to drink the potion. Sure enough, Soungalo (who is a little lighter-skinned than many) refused to drink it. This time many people were angry. “Go ahead,” Soungalo said. “Kill me. But I will not drink it.” His father stood with him this time. Later, Soungalo said, many of the people realized that Satan had done the evil thing, and began to look at Soungalo differently. In fact, they thought so much of his character that they elected him the treasurer of the youth cooperative in the village! There is no longer any ill will between the villagers and him. In fact, the chief and other elders were there today to witness his ordination. His father, who had once wanted to kill him, entered the Jesus Road before he died. His mother insisted for a time that she was going to go her own way, and follow her older brother by being Muslim, but she too eventually believed in Jesus. Today she was sitting in the front row, beaming. “You see,” Soungalo said as he finished, “it’s God who knows how to make things work out.” It may have seemed a risky proposition to stake everything on that belief, back when everyone was against him. But now he can testify to the Lord’s faithful care for him – and celebrate the fulfillment of his dream, to serve him as a pastor. And it all started when a lone missionary woman kept going to Gbinzo II to tell the Story . . .

The Time of Dangers, Part 2
Posted by Linnea...

The time of spiritual dangers continues, and the prayer requests we hear are evidence of the pressures that believers feel. In the past three days the following two stories have gripped our hearts. We’re also reminded that many others are feeling the heat, and we just don’t know about it. Fatou (fah-too) is a middle-aged woman from the village of Tiekpihe (check-pea-eh, where we participated in the evangelism outing a week ago) who walks to church in Tiepogovogo each Sunday, along with one other woman. This Sunday she asked the believers to pray for her, since she is currently under much pressure to undergo the initiation rites for the women’s Sacred Forest. The Poro, or Sacred Forest, is the name for the organized arm of Nyarafolo traditional religion. Not every village has a sacred forest, a dense clump of trees consecrated to certain groups and rites. Fatou’s village participates in the rites at Parawalakaha (Pah’-rah-wah-lah-kah’-ah). There the men’s initiation groups have been visible during the past month as young men were initiated into the men’s group. Now, in a separate sacred forest, the time has come for middle-aged women to undergo a second round of rites under the tutelage of old women specialists. The first round takes place when they are young girls, and involves excision (“female genital mutilation”). These rituals are deeply integrated with spirit worship, and Christians know that they cannot take part. This is difficult for other villagers to understand or tolerate. In this case they have threatened Fatou with what, for them, would be the worst kind of ostracism: that if she does not cooperate, her own children will not be allowed to be initiated. Her children are not believers—not yet, anyway. So although she may not wish them to have to participate, she risks their anger too. Her husband, however, does not seem to be pressuring her. We just heard the previous stories that explain why. He is the son of the village chief, and his mother had become a believer in Jesus six or seven years ago. She died a couple of years ago, but before her death she talked to Fatou, her daughter-in-law, and told her that she herself would be going to heaven, and if Fatou wanted to be able to continue the close relationship that the two of them had, Fatou would need to believe in Jesus, too. So Fatou announced her decision to enter the Jesus Road then, with her mother-in-law’s last word to the family being her request that they allow Fatou this choice. The matter was put to strong test shortly thereafter. Fatou’s co-wife (her husband had two wives) died in childbirth, and everyone was saying that Fatou was responsible. They assumed she had used some kind of fetish or potion to kill her. The “goriyiliwe” was called – a special diviner who interrogates the dead to find out why they died, and who had killed them. Fatou spent the day before that ceremony in prayer and fasting, asking the Lord’s protection. When the diviner came and pursued his interrogation, everyone was waiting for her name to be pronounced. (They often are understood to use the “common knowledge” of the village in their pronouncements.) It never was. This became a huge testimony to everyone, for they understood this as demonstrating that Fatou had obtained some other kind of protection. They kept asking her what she had done so that her name would not come up, and she kept praising Jesus for helping her. As the only believer in this family, Fatou is without support – but at least her husband and father-in-law are holding back out of respect for the wishes of their deceased mother and wife! Another kind of pressure is on Moise, who is a member of our translation team. He is also the only believer in his family. For over twenty years he has been witnessing to them, hoping that they would come to Jesus, but they continue to be deeply involved in animism. Moise’s older brother is blind, so is not considered capable of taking on the responsibilities usually associated with the oldest male. Therefore Moise is often called on to come mediate family disputes. He says that every year at this “time of dangers” for the past five years, he mother has asked him to mediate quarrels that have put him in an impossible position. Each time, the traditional way to make things right again would have involved a fetish, and particularly sacrifices to the “logo,” the spirit in charge of land areas. Moise, as a believer, cannot prescribe such things – he does not believe that they resolve anything, and he will not associate himself with them. He sees them as merely increasing the bondage of each person to things of Satan. This year, his younger brother’s pigs once again got out of their pen and were on their way towards the marshland rice fields of a cousin. Fearing devastation of his crop—but without trying any other solution—the cousin shot and killed the pigs. Both Moise’s mother and the cousin’s mother (the two aunts) are angry, and everyone wants Moise to mediate. He was called on Sunday to come play his part, and he listened. He advised his younger brother to keep fewer animals, selling off some each year and only keeping those he can safely keep penned. But when he reiterated his inability to do what they wanted him to do and prescribe some kind of sacrifice, his mother once again was furious with him. She sees him as a son who will not assume his responsibilities. Remember the key word that characterizes belief in Jesus for Nyarafolos? It was protection. Protection from evil, protection from spirits, protection in a dangerous universe--a protection that brings freedom. As their families and friends watch Moise and Fatou, may they finally understand that God himself is their Protector, their strong shield and defender. And may they finally understand why there is no way the faithful would give this up to return to the bondage of the old ways! "Do not worship any other gods besides me.” (Exodus 20:3, NLT) “All you who fear the LORD, trust the LORD! He is your helper; he is your shield.” (Psalm 115:11, NLT)

Hard Stuff
Posted by Glenn...

This world is a hard place. Back home here in Ferké we come face-to-face with the reality of suffering in ways we never saw in Detroit – though I know many suffer there as well. The difference is that for some, at least, there is some degree of a safety net. Here there is nothing outside the extended family and village. Towns and cities are dangerous places for those who have no means. We drove over to Korhogo last week to take advantage of an internet café there and the lower costs (turned out that their connection was so poor that it was almost not worth it). While filling up our van with fuel in Ferke just before we left, I saw two “fou” (“fools,” mentally ill vagrants). One older woman was walking down the main road talking at people – real or imaginary – and making gestures of emphasis and direction. People just kind of ignored her. Another young man with a vacant face, dressed in rags with his hair and body completely unkempt, saw the van from afar and came to beg. I turned him down with a slight shaking of the head and he walked away. Why did I not give him something? Just didn’t. We then drove to Korhogo and I did not think about him until just now. After wasting time at the cyber cafe, we ate at Cent Kedjenou, and then went to buy some vegetables. While shopping, a young albino boy of about 14 years old came begging. His arms were sunburned, he had open sores on his neck and face from the action of the sun on completely unprotected skin, and he was thin and haggard looking. I gave him a little money and just reflected on what he could expect from life. He probably will not live long with a poor diet and daily exposure to the tropical sun – many die of malignant melanoma. For some reason my mind started to think of our son Bryn and I was struck by how much I have to be thankful for – but for the grace of God this young man could be my son or me. The hard stuff did not stop there. Leaving the vegetable stalls, we drove down to the area of the market where they sell cloth and I stayed in the car with the windows rolled down while Linn went to shop (I did not want to leave the van with our computers in it). After a little while I heard a jingle-jingle out my window and glanced down to see a small boy with a metal can begging. I first thought that he was one of the boys that is attached to a Muslim marabout and just shook my head (I don’t give them money as it just goes to enrich the marabout while the boys go begging!). The little guy moved on. Then I really looked and noticed the boy. He looked as if he were 5 our 6 years old, thin as a rail and arms and face covered with sores that looked like he had been burned. Furthermore, he has some physical deformity (hunchback?) and he waked with a shuffling, limping gate, as if all his energy was put into moving one foot in front of the other – probably the truth. Despair was written all over his face and his eyes held no hope. My heart was broken and when I was able to catch his eye as he turned to move back up the street, I called him over and gave him a little money. What could I do? I wanted to scoop him up, adopt him, and give him whatever care I could, for nothing that he could gain begging would even come close to meeting his needs for medical care, let alone his needs for family and boyhood. I was powerless and felt it! Where is that boy tonight? I don’t know and he is but one of many. Let it stop there, God. But no. Today, Mamadou, the wood carver and frog leg seller, came to our house to show me the work he had done so far on a nativity set we ordered. I had already paid for it in advance, but I know he came by to get some help. He told me he had been sick for the last several days and that is why he was not yet finished. We talked awhile and he did not want to ask for anything but I gave him some money anyway to help. He has no means of income other then what he scrapes by with, selling his carvings. He is partially lame and cannot work in the fields and as he is not in a village, there is no safety net for him. The missionary community is pretty much it and there are so few of us anymore. Then there is Souleymane the bread deliveryman: he is a paraplegic and probably gets no more then 50-75 cents a day for all his work pedaling his tricycle with his hands over 4 miles each day. He depends on us to help him with the costs of maintaining his tricycle. Today he needed brakes as his hands don’t do too good of a job. This is a pretty heavy entry, but I needed to get this out. I don’t want to become hardened to those who need help, yet I know that I am limited as well in what I can do. Sigh. It’s hard. But I am also thankful that God has given me the means to help the little I am able. Jesus said that the poor and suffering will always be with us and he did model for me how to have compassion on the poor. So, I’ll just keep on going, and maintain a sensitivity and openness to how God wants me to help.