At the beginning of November my Dad put a random sum of money in one of my accounts. I was slightly surprised by the generous donation, and in my pride said- “Daddy- you really didn’t have to do that. I okay right now.” He responded, I know. I want you to spread it around over there. Do something good with it.
At first I thought, okay, but I’m not going to go put it all in coins and walk down the street tossing coins in the air saying “Merry Christmas!! Jesus loves you!” I’ve been staunch in my belief that Africa doesn’t need more handouts. I don’t claim to even have the slightest grasp on any solution, but I’d tend more towards believing that Jesus, freedom, education, and empowerment are more effective than handouts and unproductive aid. I’ll see what happens Dad, and if not I’ll use to eat a little better than a steady diet of PB&J’s.
During our time in Tanzania, our pastor took us and a one of his 20 person choirs to a village in the middle of nowhere. We took a flatbed into the depths of the mountains. As far out into the midddle of nowhere as I think I may ever get. The truck got stuck several times, of which we had to tug-of-war out of the mud. Deeper and deeper we went. Mud huts got fewer and far between. The pastor looked at me and smiled his gap toothed grin: “Vill-age…hehehehhe.” Uhhh…
We arrived upon the most idyllic village I had seen yet. The huts were separated by potato gardens and corn husk piles. The hills patched with farms, wells, and wooden carts. The children in tattered clothes ran about, squelling in delight to see us. Almost none of them had ever seen white people before. We were the biggest thing to ever happen to them. We brought them red-light, green-light. We taught them duck duck goose by the moonlight. They taught me how to shuck and cut potato leaves and properly tie my khanga around my head.
We were there for five days, much of which I was sick with nausea and vomiting and unable to eat. On the second day like thirty people from the village crammed into my hut, laid hands on me, and prayed loudly and fervently. They would not accept that I would be sick in their home. I nearly started crying, a rare occurence, because the love and affection they were pouring over me was overwhelmingly strong and heavy. I immediately began to feel better and was able to make it to the three services we were having a day.
Aside form the hours of firey and heartfelt worship and dancing they do, the thing that most struck me about this church, the gathering place of the approximatley 100 families living there, was the fact that absolutely NO one had a bible. Some would scribble a few notes on school paper, but when we would preach and ask them to turn to a chapter and verse, they seemed to have absolutely no clue what we were talking about. They’d just stare on, nodding their heads and yelling “Amena! Bwana Asifwe! (Praise the Lord!)”. These people loved, and prayed, and worshipped in ways I never knew were possible, but yet they had no Word of God to look to. Which on the one hand, was kind of amazing. Relationship with the King was all they were going off of, and that was enough. I slightly envied them. But on the other hand, my heart broke for them. That they were missing out on (aside from what the preacher told them) the jewels, the words, and the promises, and the stories of God coming to the earth.
I knew right then. I was to do something about this. I began speaking with several of the pastors, asking about prices and how many families there were that needed a bible. “All of them,” he responded. “No one has one. We’ve been praying for years for some to come, but we are too poor and they just never have.”
My heart completely cracked. The Lord broke it open for these people. I thought to myself, if it’s the only thing I ever do in life, these people will have a physical copy of the Word of God.
We left the village a day late due to a rain storm and our flat bed abandoning us. Getting home required quite a bit of hiking, being stranded on the side of a mountain, and two days of waiting, but we made it.
First thing the next day I went with two pastors and Garrett to buy 85 Kiswahilli bibles! 5 of them were larger with reference information for the pastors. As we were riding home in the matatu, the pastor again began to cry. “You have no idea what this means to them. You’ll never know.”
Even now as I write this I want to cry. He was right. I may never know what it means to them. How it can change their lives, their eternal futures, and their families. But I know what it did to me. It changed me. It made me realize that I really do have the ability to give and change and bless. As my earthly Father gave me an unwarranted gift, not for my own use, but for the use of the kingdom, so does my Heavenly Father give me gifts not merely meant for my own use and pleasure. They are for my calling, for the Kingdom. Will I steward them well? Will you with yours?
