Whatever the cost

It has been a difficult week--not surprising for it to follow fast on the heels of a God-glorifying wedding. We obviously encroached on Enemy territory and the retaliation came rather quickly.

Details and convoluted stories are sometimes better not shared. Our pain this week came from an unexpected, previously supportive person. Rather than ask Phil directly about an issue, it was taken to other people, complained about, fanned to grow out of proportion and finally reached Phil through a third party. Praise the Lord for dear Joe who saw the cross of Jesus through it all and chose reconciliation. He stood in the gap between two brothers in Christ. He wrote us and told us about the resentment and resulting anger. Reading the misunderstandings, the twisted spin and finally false accusations was very painful. Through the years Phil has been the champion of transparency and Truth. Ironically, this is what he was accused of betraying.

As Phil’s other and more emotional half, I certainly shouldered more than my share of the pain. I was supposed to take it all to the foot of the cross and leave it with the other burdens that have been deposited there through the centuries. But no, I chose to haul it around for a few days. It was heavy, had sharp edges and didn’t smell too good.

Then this morning, Isabel, my precious girl showed me this prayer by Tozer:
Heavenly Father: Let me see Your glory, if it must be from the shelter of the cleft rock and from beneath the protection of Your covering hand, whatever the cost to me in loss of friends or goods or length of days let me know You as You are, that I may adore You as I should. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
(The Knowledge of the Holy)

It spoke directly into my heart--or whacked me on the side of the head. Take your pick. Whatever the cost, I desire to know God as He is so I may love Him as I should. Sometimes the cost is high relationally, but God is our goal.

On a hopeful note, after Joe’s intervention, Phil was able to contact the “party of the first part.” Phil apologized profusely, took any blame in the issue, and reiterated his desire to serve all concerned. His apology was accepted and things are on the mend. But the process is long in Africa where so many issues blow up over cultural miscommunications. Sometimes things are not over that seem to be over. Prayer fodder.

Another minor disappointment was arriving at church to teach SS this morning and having no one show up. Not a kid, not a teacher-in-training, no one. I waited for 45 minutes, packed up my lesson and biked back home.

It has been a tough week.

Lopez and Joana tie the knot

Here is the happy couple. He is 59, she is 49. They are an anomaly in this culture: neither has been with another spouse in all these years. They have had eleven children together, six are living. (The other five died before the age of four.)


Here they are with four of their children. (The oldest has gone to South Africa and has not been heard from in years. Another son is high schooling in Maputo and could not attend.) From L to R: Jimmie, Lila, Varuca and Felismina. Jimmie and special friend have two children. Lila is married and has a daughter. The other two are still single.


One angle of the wedding banquet under shade cloth in front of their house. The neighbor kids are all sitting on the edge, waiting for the food that isn't eaten at the table to be shared out. Plenty for everyone. Let me tell you about the heat. It was so hot in the church that my official job as witness (bridesmaid) was to fan them! I didn't wipe the sweat dripping from their faces, but I did supply they each with a clean white hanky. We don't look at thermometers here, just aggravates the situation.


Here they are holding the pile of presents. Most gifts were money and are in the basket on top of the gifts she holds. Present giving is a lengthy part of the process and people come up, dance around the chair, and put their money in the basket.


Here are Phil and me with the happy couple. We were their witnesses and are supposed to guide them in wisdom and supportive advice. It feels funny, since they have been together longer than we have. They are so excited about their kids following their example now.

As African weddings go, it was dynamite. Plenty of singing, dancing, interaction, you name it. Their son in law translated the Portuguese into Chuabo for the locals, embellishing with witty jokes. Pastor Elias dragged out the "does anyone know of any reason these two should not be married" section so long that the blind man got up and made a comment for which he was thanked and ignored. (I couldn't hear him.) This aspect of the western ceremony has taken their fancy, so it receives extra emphasis. Elias kept mentioning the time and that he would not give them another chance, so they had better take it.

It was Elias' first time to perform a wedding--Phil was his support and encouragement. Elias just got married in August. After the ceremony at the church, we processed to their house, about 3 km away. The couple, Phil, myself and a few others were in our smallish car. Everyone else walked and sang. Phil tried to drive at walking pace--not an easy task. A few times we were mistaken for a funeral, so passing bicyclists stopped and reverently waited for us to go by. We had a laugh at that. (It is culture to stop and respect the dead, so all funerals cause traffic jams in town.)

Lopez is a trained cook, so the food was excellent. And there was an abundance of it--which is important here, as everyone expects to fill the belly. As for me, I can say I am acclimatizing, because it didn't bother me at all that around where we sat neighbors and their offspring stared over the interlaced palm branches and gawked as we ate.

Joana works for an American here with an NGO in AIDS work. Stacey is out in the "field" dealing with hiv/aids and the difficulty of treatment and logistics. We brought her and it was her first Mozambican wedding. Joana was thrilled to be honored by her and her daughters' presence. I was blessed by an observation Stacey made near the end of the meal. She noted that there was a sense of love and community in this group of people that she has not witnessed in the various neighborhoods and districts she has worked. She knew it was because this was a church. But it encouraged me because after all the pain and disappointment these precious people have known with three pastors who betrayed them for personal ends, they are still showing the love and grace of the Holy Spirit. Remember Florencio, the last pastor, who sued Lopez and wanted him in jail? Well, his abused wife and five of his kids were at the wedding. I saw the teenage son embrace the bride and groom and there were no hard feelings.

Having someone outside the church notice the love within reminded me that they are special. Sometimes I am so close to their problems that I don't see the work of grace which is conforming them to that wonderful Image of our Lord.

just love gardening

Don't spend enough time in the garden, but every minute I do spend is restorative. Almost like a cup of tea. This is a bee sipping from a fancy amaryllis whose name I cannot remember. (something about apples)

little Evaldo

Saturday, the day our church has Sunday school. Why don't we just call it Saturday school? Who knows.

I am training Dina and Felismina to teach SS, so I find myself there at 8 a.m. and hope either or both of them will show. Kids are always there. Yesterday one of my trainees showed up 15minutes before the end of SS, so I guess it was pretty good. (I did ask her how she was and her answer was "normale" which in this culture is code for: not very well at all, thank you.)

The story of the day was Job, but that is not the story I have for you. Your story is "Evaldo." He attended yesterday. He is about three, the son of the ex-pastor. Chubby, cute, and imperious, he has been used to having an important father, getting his own way (by creating scenes), and being the darling. Almost a year ago his mother birthed Cristina, and he has been in competition ever since.

Combine that with the stress at home of parents who don't love each other, big step-brothers who abuse him and disrespect his mother, and a father who beats his mother and you have a pretty good idea of his mental state. He is the terror of Sunday School. He attends under the supervision of his sister, Raquel, a quiet unobtrusive eight-year-old. He hit other kids, threw shoes (everyone takes them off), beat the drum, and stretched out on the floor for a few improvised tantrums. Each time I explained what was unacceptable and several times picked him up and placed him outside the church door (we meet just inside the door). This was resisted, and he came back in banging wood against the doorpost, but found himself outside again.

The time for drawing pictures came and Evaldo made sure he was inside. He was supplied with notebook and colors. He tried a few offensive attacks, but calmed down. Once he began to shout at Dina and I told him to speak in a respectful voice or head on outside. He actually began to whisper. The change was so radical the other kids started laughing. They had never seen him respond so.

He still had another time out or two, but generally didn't command attention the whole time. At the end of class, I wheeled my bike down the steps. He grabbed the front tire. He likes wheels. So I let him "help" me get the bike outside. Just before mounting the bike, I impulsively asked him for a hug. He gave me a blank stare. (maybe he didn't know the word?) I picked him up--heavy little blighter--and tried to hug him. He was stiff as a board.

"Will you come to Sunday School next week?" I asked. He nodded.
I hugged a little tighter. "Did you like the story?" He put his head on my shoulder, nodding.
"Can you try to learn your memory verse with Raquel?" Another nod. Then his little arms tentatively crept around my sides and he hugged me back.

I wonder how long it has been since anyone just hugged him.

rare jewel

For two weeks I have been mining the book “The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment.” It is rich. But God isn’t limited to book learning. In this week, four friends have suffered in ways I have never been called. Suddenly my boundaries seem very pleasant. In fact, I am overwhelmed that I have no reason for discontent.

--First Laureen asked for prayer at fellowship. Her baby, Glady, (9 months) was in hospital for a week with malaria. Laureen is a Kenyan Muslim who converted to marry and then was abandoned by her Christian husband. She has found her Lord and will not go back to Islam, even to receive help from her family. She lives in a room behind a “big house”. Her room has a light bulb, a mosquito net and mat, no furniture to speak of. She has a 3 year old as well, Rachel. Laureen teaches English to get by. She has never asked for a thing but prayer.

--Then my Brazilian friend went to Maputo to get a check up. She had prayed for a baby for two years and found she was pregnant four months ago. The check up discovered that the baby must have died and been reabsorbed. Her pregnancy had continued, she grew, the placenta and cord grew, but there was no baby.

--Another friend who has fought several rounds with cancer has been told there are new spots on her lungs
.
--Veronica shuffled up my driveway Thursday morning while I taught Bell. I didn’t recognize her at first, her husband had beaten her very badly. She had blood down her dress front, swollen eye, injured arm, broken spirit. He prophesied that she would get tired of the treatment and run away from him. Her husband is the pastor who was removed from leadership in February because of his adultery.

I don’t believe in comparison, but often get caught in its trap. Seeing the pain these friends are facing, I could scold myself and point out how “good” I have it, and it would be true.
But God is teaching us each different lessons. He also wants us all to find our contentment in him--no matter our situation. Be it cancer, death, abandonment, illness or abuse, He is God in Heaven.
And Heaven Rules.
Remember after Nebuchadnezzar’s rather unusual lesson, he said:
“I, Nebuchadnezzar, praise and exalt and glorify the King of heaven, because everything he does is right and all his ways are just. And those who walk in pride he is able to humble.” Dan 4:37
From the mouth of a pagan king. Wow.

Contentment

I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, to be content.
Philippians 4:11

Wish I could say the same thing. But I am on the right track; I'm learning.

Last week when I was visiting a friend and grumbling (rather more freely than I do in prayer updates and on the blog) about the slow progress with the chronological Bible storying with women and the leadership transition in the fellowship, aforementioned friend bounced out of her chair with a: "Have I got the book for you."

I love books and it's a good thing. Because this one is like a 2x4 over the head. It was published in 1648, which gives you an idea of its timelessness and integrity. Jeremiah Burroughs, Puritan extraordinaire, wrote, "The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment." The theme is the verse I started this post with.

His description of contentment is: "that sweet, inward, quiet, gracious frame of spirit, which freely submits to and delights in God's wise and fatherly disposals in every condition." Then he explains what he means for the next 212 pages. You'll be hearing more from me on this, be assured. It should take me months to work my way through this book.

For me, this little cul-de-sac in Venice would be a great start for a contented frame of mind.

A thought from Dante

I walked through this weekend, having relinquished two beloved family members to the vagaries of Mozambican travel. Luke flew to Maputo (the capitol) to take his SAT test. Return flights were booked for days, so he returned on the infamous "chapa." Phil drove to Morrumbala on roads that must be seen to be believed.

Isabel and I had some great "girl time" safe at home.

Dante's words reminded me that whatever the outcome of the weekend, God was reliable.

"In His will is our peace." Six one-syllable words. But they say it all.

His will is completely secure. Not necessarily safe, by our definition of safety. But in His Hands, we are secure. I lighted on those words, briefly at first, then kept coming back.

If I am not a peace, where am I regarding His will? And if I am in His will, why should I not be at peace? God's will doesn't come with the type of guarantee I would draw up. But it does promise His presence always. That is all I truly need.

Well, the guys are back, safe and whole. But if the scenario had played out differently, God would still be in control, and my peace would still depend upon His will in my life.

Here are some photos of the ferry over the Zambezi River. If you strain your eyes, you might recognize Luke and Bell waiting for the pedestrian embarkation time.



You can also see the type of transport Luke took on his "cross country" trip.