See Something More

When we pull up to church in the village of Timbalan, we find that a small crowd has already gathered under the shade of a giant, beautiful tree. Just along the border of the shade of the tree, people sat on the benches, wooden stools, and buckets that they brought. As the balophone started playing and the drum started beating, people got up and started dancing.  They formed a circle in the center and started slowly moving and rotating around the musicians. We danced around and around many, many times, singing praises to God all the while.  When it was time for the message, Caleb got up to speak. He stood in the middle where the dancers had been dancing and pointed to the ground. "When we arrived, there was not a path here," he said. "But now, after dancing, you have formed a recognizable path in the dirt."  Everyone's eyes followed his finger as he pointed to the distinguishable path in the dirt that went around the musicians and around the trunk of the tree. I

With three older sisters, Michael was the youngest and only son.  Therefore, when he took Esther to be his wife, his whole family rejoiced. They all loved Esther and treated her kindly because she was their baby boy's bride.  We sat around a table in the living room of Michael and Esther, who both work alongside us as a part of our national team here in Burkina, but whose names I have changed in the rebelling of their story. We asked them to tell us their story, and so Esther began.  Michael and Esther lived in the village together for eight months before she became pregnant with their first child. When she reached her sixth month, she woke up one morning with a strange pain in her stomach and back at the level of her kidneys. Frightened, she went to the local medical center only to deliver a premature baby boy, who was fighting with every breath for survival. "The baby won't live," the doctors said, "but we can try to transfer the child to another better equippe

Her black, smooth skin fit perfectly over her toned arm muscles. She was thin, but strong. She was  weathered, but beautiful. I noticed this when she extended her hand to shake mine, but then my gaze drifted up her arm and into her eyes.  Her eyes told me that she has a million stories to tell. Stories of life and death, suffering and miracles, desperation and provision.  She bent down low as she shook my hand, a cultural sign showing respect and humility. But really, I was the humbled one.  I tried to place myself in her shoes for just a moment. A grandmother left to take care of an orphaned grandson, her daughter's only child. The joy of being a new grandmother mixed with the grief of losing a daughter. The joy of spoiling a grandchild mixed with the responsibility of having to serve in his mother's place. Add to that the complexity of living everyday in a mud hut with meager resources, always wanting more for your family. Focusing all your thoughts on just how to survive - h

Count Nicolaus Zinzendorf, born in Europe in 1700,  became one of the heroes of missions history. After encountering Christ and giving his life entirely to him, he mobilized and installed his passion for Jesus and the nations into a group of young Moravians, who became some of the most courageous and effective missionaries of that time. ( http://www.thetravelingteam.org/articles/count-zinzendorf)  I don't hear people talk about Count Zinzendorf that often, and maybe it's because he lived by something that he once said... "Preach the gospel, die and be forgotten."  Sometimes I really want to be somebody great. I want to do great things for God and be remembered for those things.  We are taught to live our lives so that we will be remembered.  That's why what Zinzendorf said really stands out, striking me as something polar opposite to how we so often think and feel.   As I look at my life, especially my time in Africa, I realize that I don't really want to be r

Wherever we go, we draw a crowd. That's one of the best (and one of the worst) things about being a white person in Burkina Faso. This afternoon was no different. We stopped by a house to visit the triplets in our program for infants in distress, and within a few minutes, we had a small following of children who stood at a distance and just watched us. One of our visitors from the United States, Ron, remembered that we had a trunk of gifts to give away in the back of our vehicle. The next thing I knew, he was putting a bright yellow t-shirt over the head of one of the boys. "That's that boy whose father is deaf and works in the market," Rebecca said when she saw Ron slipping the shirt on the boy.  A little bit surprised that Rebecca recognized this young man, we all went over to find out a little more about him.  He was covered in dirt from head to toe, as if he hadn't washed or changed clothes in a long time. He did not smile. We learned that he h

It was four hundred thousand versus eight hundred thousand. The army of Abijah versus the army of Jeroboam. I'm no expert on war, but I know that's a pretty significant disadvantage for Abijah if the opponent's army is twice the size of yours.  "And when they looked, behold, the battle was in front of and behind them." (2 Chronicles 13:14) The army of Abijah is already outnumbered, and now they are surrounded on all sides.  The Old Testament is full of battle stories like this: a bleak situation, an impossible task where the odds are not in the favor of the army of the Lord.  So that's when the battle strategy kicks in.  I am no expert on battle strategies either, but I would think that you would gather your best men, strongest horses, and fastest chariots in a situation like this. You would select your best war counselors and come up with the sleekest strategy.  Yet when you read the battle stories of the Old Testament, you will find that that is rarely the c

On the drive out to the village, I felt like I was in Africa for the first time again.  I watched out the window with curiosity and fascination as village life passed before my eyes. People riding their bikes along narrow, red dirt paths to collect water first thing in the morning. Women balancing large buckets on their heads. Children stopping their play to smile and wave as we pass by. A poor donkey, weighed down by a wooden cart filled with yellow plastic square jugs of water. Women bent over in their colorful skirts, sowing in the fields. In their right hand, a daba (similar to what we would call a hoe). In their left, a calebasse (hollowed out gourd, cut in half to form a bowl) full of seeds. In a rhythmical dance, they dig, dig, dig, then use their thumb to spill out three little seeds into the hole. Cover it up. Take one step forward. Then dig, dig, dig again.  We stopped at an open well. I stared down into the well like Snow White, but I could not see my reflection bec