the Woodcarvers.

We found the woodcarving shop purely by accident.  The visit was a by-product of a contact who saw us as tourists rather than missionaries.  We got off the dalla-dalla (a converted 15 passenger van that holds up to 30 people—trust me, we’ve counted—and acts as typical public transportation) and walked a quarter mile up the dusty highway.  Mattias, our guide, led us along to a group of tin and wood shacks.  He took us into the first one, his own and showed us the carvings there.  We lingered for an hour or so, asking questions and buying small gifts: a pair of earrings here, a set of salad spoons there, a small statue of a shepherd carrying a lamb.

I wandered into the last shop where a young man—maybe my own age—stood with his arms crossed.

“Oh madam, come in,” he said.  “Feel free.  Feel free.”

Before we left, he asked us to pray for the group. 

It was my first encounter with Magnus.

Our contact, a local pastor, wasn’t around very often, which meant that we had to figure out ministry plans on our own.  On our first day of “ATL” (Ask the LORD) ministry, Dan and I headed for the shops.  When we got there, Magnus was sitting on the ground, one foot anchoring a large tree branch.  He held a saw in one hand.  He smiled when he saw us, pulled out an old tire for us to use as a chair.

I watched as the tree trunk in his hands turned into a shepherd.  The tools he used were rudimentary at best: a homemade chisel, a saw with a wobbly blade, something akin to a skinny cheese grater.  Somehow, within a matter of hours, there was a robe, a head, a lamb.

In between, we talked about his family and his dreams of going to university for philosophy.  He’d read Camus and Descartes.  He said things like, “Art is imagination for profit.” 

He took us to lunch at a place he called the “African Hotel” where Mama Killi served us rice, beans and kale for 1000 TZ shillings.  He reminded us not to drink the water.  He said that the next time we came, he would show us how to carve.

It was a few days before I was able to make it back.  When I did, the shepherd had a face.  Magnus handed me a knife and a piece of wood.

“Feel free, Heather,” he said.  “What do you want to carve?   The wood wants to become that thing.  You must help it become the thing you see it is.”

Magnus came for dinner the night I made eggplant parmesan (minus the parmesan).  He was hesitant at first. 
“I never saw this before,” he said.  He was wearing Dan’s red shirt and sat buried in the couch.

He had seconds.

He had thirds.

He had dessert.

For the first time in days, Magnus ate until he was full.

“Heather my friend,” he said one afternoon as I hacked away at what was supposed to be a pendant shaped like Africa.  “Pole-pole (swahlil for “slowly-by-slowly”).  You must draw it out.  Too much pressure will split the wood.  Then it will be nothing.  You must take the wood away slowly-by-slowly.”

His shepherd was almost finished.  My Africa was ruined.

I sighed and started over.

Magnus finished the shepherd today.  It’s beautiful, a real masterpiece of mahoghany, a testament to his talent.  What started as a block of wood roughly quadruple the size it is now has turned into something special. 

There’s a lesson in that, I think.  Slowly-by-slowly, he took something rough and hard and chipped away at the ugly until the beauty came through.

 But I think if you asked him, Magnus would say that the beauty had always been there, and that all he’d done was to help it come through.  And I think he’d be right.

If you want to read another story about Magnus from one of my incredible teammates, you should read "I Got Wood", by Dan Matundan.