Let's Get Blamed For Love and Beauty

Almost any classroom you walk into in the States is going to look like Sesame Street threw up information all over the walls. Letters, numbers, pictures and posters of anything and everything. But, here in South Sudan, due to limited resources and a climate that destroys paper quicker than everything besides the termites, most of our classrooms have very little academic information on the walls to help the kids easily access the basics of what it is they’re learning. The alphabet on card stock paper hangs on a string line in one classroom, but it is missing a few letters and the rest of the pieces are becoming so worn out that you can hardly read them. There are no number lines and the few pictures around the rooms are fading chalk drawings of tools that are regularly used here or a shape or a flower. I’ve been mulling over ideas of what can be done in order to allow things to last; some ideas to help live on for a few years, at least. So, I grabbed some paint and a few of the older teenage guys and we hopped into a room, beginning with upper and lower case letters before moving onto a number line, days of the week, and the months of the year. We’ll soon add sight words, shapes, animals, flowers, crops, and who knows what else to all of the rooms.

As one of the guys etched the first set of jet black letters onto the baby blue wall paint above the dusty chalk board, I was overwhelmed with the beauty of what was happening and I hollered out, “Robert, I’m going to blame you when these kids become better readers.” He turned around and smiled. We both smiled. In that moment, I was held captive, motionless at the weight that this young man’s hands and a bunch of neurons in his brain were indirectly going to change the future of the children in our school and this city and this nation. He will, without tangible knowledge of which ones, be blamed for them becoming better readers.

Let’s become people who get blamed for bringing out the beauty in the world. Let's aim for that.

Chapter 1: Tropicana Orange Juice and a Missionary Pilot

          

 
As the wheels touched down, coming to a stop on a strip of red stained mud in the outskirts of Yei in South Sudan, I was taken aback by the gaze of a stone-faced man with charcoal gray skin, standing what seemed to be a mile tall with an iron warship-like physique. We stared at each other, my eyes fixed, with intrigue, on someone created no different than me, but living an extremely different life in a land completely foreign to mine. 
           My mind shifted, then my eyes, to my backpack I had squeezed between my shins. I unstrapped my seat belt and pulled myself away from the back seat of our single propeller Cessna; cautiously I plotted my way down, aiming for the driest patch of soggy earth. Taking a step for the first time onto the soil that I had, at the age of six, said I would one day embrace, felt invigorating. A surge of energy ran through my body as I said to myself, “You’re here. Twenty-five years in the making, but you’re here.”
          A tan Toyota Land Cruiser, with its hood ornament hanging on by a thread, pulled up and out jumped two of my new comrades that I would be working with for the next six months: Mr. Maurice and Lance Klepp. Lance’s parents, Dennis and Lilly, are the founders of Harvesters Reaching The Nations in South Sudan. Feeling in 2001 that God was asking them to sell everything and give it to the poor, they started a journey that has since saved the lives of hundreds of South Sudanese children.
          “Welcome to South Sudan!” announced Lance as a smirk came sneaking out of his thin but full beard only missing the moustache. I would later come to find out that it would have been thicker and wild like mine, but his wife didn’t approve. Then, Mr. Maurice, a tall and thin Kenyan man, greeted me with a smile and a handshake, and in an accent that is to be envied for its grace and melodious rhythm he cordially chirped, “Good to see you again, sir.” Grasping his shoulder as we headed back towards the plane, I thanked him once again for the opportunity to come and serve alongside of him.
          I had met Maurice and his wife Susan a few months earlier during their first visit to the States. They stopped through Kansas City to share stories, their heart, and their gratefulness with a church that is a large support base for the kids and the campus here, in another town up north named Terekeke, and most recently in the Rhino Refugee Camp in Uganda, which is home to nearly 1.5 million Sudanese men, women, and children who have fled their homes.
          My enormous smile dimmed slightly, becoming much more serious in nature, as I headed toward the few men that exited a building, joining the war machine I had initially laid eyes on. They were dressed from head to toe in bedraggled camouflage with a South Sudan flag patch resting boldly on their left sleeve, bicep high, which took some of the attention away from the AK-47 that was being wielded over shoulder by each of the men. This image brusquely reminded me that my smile and kindness were welcome, but there were two sides that were still very much at war, and the privilege that I had been born into, was not packed on this trip.
          After skipping over large puddles to gain hold of multiple packages of brittle eggs and frozen chickens that had been additionally stuffed tightly into the back of the plane with our bags, we loaded the SUV and headed to the terminal, a cement building no larger than a back yard tool shed, with a patio and awning for those stuck waiting hours for the opportunity to take off. Flight delays are not only for the western world. In remote areas like this, almost anything can hold up your flight for hours, and that’s if the plane you are expecting shows up at all.  
          Earlier that morning we ran in to this issue in Uganda, as low clouds and heavy rain moved in just before we were going to fly out. Unlike the wait in Yei, which is long and void of any entertainment besides that in nature, we were able to wait out the long storm in the comfortable seats of a nearby hotel café. As I sat drinking cup after cup of black coffee, watching steam rise up out of my mug as the rain fell, I thought of all those in my life who invested so much of their time, energy, and resources helping me to reach that moment. Tears of joy and gratefulness filled my eyes as I thought of God’s goodness in my life, bringing me through so much, faithfully directing my steps as I plotted and planned in my heart.
          I returned my phone to my pocket after texting and emailing thank you notes and then asked Ron, the pilot-mechanic helping us that day, “In all of your time as a pilot, what is the most amazing thing you’ve had happen where God directly intervened in the midst of your normal work?” Ron told me earlier that he grew up as a missionary kid in Sudan; his father was a pastor that traveled around planting Bible schools throughout the nation, so I figured there had to be some miraculous stories locked away in his memory vault.
          Most often when I ask people to share stories of their work, they shy away from the long version, but Ron dove right in, highlighting with much depth. “I always loved planes and flying, but I didn’t think I could be a pilot and still be a missionary,” he began. “Also, I didn’t think my grades would be good enough to get me into flight school. So, in order to stay around planes, I did the closest thing I could to flying, I became an aircraft mechanic.”
          “You didn’t originally start out as a pilot?” I responded with intrigue.
          “I thought I would just be a mechanic,” he proceeded and then paused, checking a message from our contact. “Still heavy rain there, but they’re saying the clouds are heading south,” he mentioned to our pilot.
          “Where was I?” he asked.
          “You thought you were just going to be a mechanic.” I reminded him.
          “Oh, yeah, I was just going to be a flight mechanic. Well, this part deep inside of me still wanted to be a missionary, so I enrolled at Moody Bible College to gain more knowledge of Jesus and what it meant to follow Him. In that process, for some reason I took a test for their missionary pilot program, and the professor came to let me know I scored so well that he wanted me to enroll in the flight school. I knew I didn’t have the money, but when I was home on holiday, I told my parents about the program. I figured it wasn’t possible and would never happen, but I half halfheartedly and with little faith, told God, ‘If you provide, I’ll do it.’ A week or so after that, two old missionary women knocked on my parents’ door. They said that they had been informed about my father’s work (because of his friendship with the Sudanese president, he was the only Christian pastor at that time able to plant bible schools). They said they were going to give him five thousand dollars a month, and also wanted to know if any of his children were in mission work because they wanted to support them as well.”
          Ron went on to tell me that his father explained his position with the flight school, and they told him that all of his schooling would be covered. Amazed and confused at all of this, he inquired how two old missionary women could do such things. They shared that they had been put in charge of the tithe money for the Tropicana Juice Company.
          I laughed in disbelief at the incredible way God had provided for him and his family. I was about to chime in with another question when Ron started again, “Well,” sitting up and looking off into the distance as if finding himself back in the cockpit, “one time I was flying solo, and my oil pressure gauge shot from its normal level, straight over to zero. No warning lights or anything, tack just went straight over to zero. By the book, I had four minutes of flight time before my engine would give out and seize up. As I hastily scoured my maps, I told God that I needed at least twelve minutes to reach the nearest strip I had found, which was located in the Congo. Mind you, at the time, they were at war. As I started my descent, I saw huts ablaze and tracer fire heading in all different directions, so I pulled up and, for the second time, pleaded with God for twelve more minutes to get to the next closest strip.”
          I interrupted him: “What were you thinking?”
          “As far as I can remember, not a lot. I just kept praying, asking God to get me there. So I flew on to the next location and as I aimed the plane down toward the strip, I was again not able to land as the grass had become so overgrown that I knew I would be wrapped up in it and roll the plane.”
          “So you were now twenty-four minutes into what should have only been the four which was allotted?” I asked, trying to clarify what seemed impossible.
          “Yes, I wasn’t sure what was going on. The thought left my mind that God was somehow saving my life, and I now figured I was having an instrument issue.” He expounded that it didn’t make sense to be flying that long without it being some problem with an instrument. “I radioed to my team and told them my original flight plan was back in order as it must have been some strange failure with the gauge.”
          “That’s ridiculous and amazing! And you obviously made it,” I chuckled, thinking the story was ending there.
          “Oh, the story isn’t finished,” he smiled. “I flew twenty-eight more minutes to my original airstrip, and as soon as I landed, the engine locked up on me and black smoke came pouring out of the motor. It was toast.” 
          “No way! That’s insane!” I exclaimed while shaking my head, humored by what a crazy event that had to be. 
          “The best part is, it’s the same plane you’re flying out on today . . . With a new engine of course,” he assured me with a smirk.  

Two Black Water Tanks and a Miracle

Upon arrival at our campus two weeks ago, everything was advanced beyond what I had in mind. I had these ideas in my head about what it would look like here, but fifteen years of great people, hard work, and a focus on Christ has made Harvesters’ campus in the sticks of Yei, South Sudan, beautiful and very well put together and sustained.

Included in this well-put together beauty on our campus, is the water situation. They have drilled a well that allowed for a hand pump and also a borehole that has an electric pump that must be manually turned on and off.

Everything with the water seemed to be running fine, water was being forced up from the pump to two black tanks, with the capacity of holding about 1,500 gallons each. (That would be 3,ooo gallons, together. This will be valuable information later).

At some point last week, something on the pump went south. We pulled the pump up and found a large cut in the pipe, expelling a lot of water out of that spot, so we had to cut off nearly 30 feet of the 150-foot pipe.

Through amateur engineering we figured out that the pump was pushing about 15 gallons a minute. We put the pump back down the hole, minus the 30 feet of pipe we lost, and were able to let the pump run for about 10 minutes before it was sucking air. Our aquifer or whatever it is that the bore hole reached, takes about 50 minutes to refill, then allowing us to turn the pump back on to push water up again. Because of this change to the pipe and pump, I was going to the pump house every hour, manually turning on the power, getting about 150 gallons of water up to the tanks in that ten minutes. To conserve water, we decided to only open the hoses that headed to buildings, three times a day. This process kept our water level in the tank at about 300 gallons or less when I would turn the pump and water off for the last time before heading to my room. When keeping an eye on the tanks, I had not seen the water get over one-half way up in even one of the tanks. 

So, to reset the stage here, we are only getting water when the pump is manually turned on (by me or one other staff member), once an hour, for ten minutes, giving us about 150 gallons each time, which is then mostly used up through the day, leaving us with about 300 gallons or less at the end of the day.

All week, as I walked to the pump house and climbed the ladder, I would just thank Jesus for the water we had and ask Him to continue to provide what we needed.

Fast forward to two nights ago when we had such little water that there was so little pressure that we were barely getting a trickle out of the faucets and shower. I went to bed that evening, slept like a champ, and then got up early the next morning to turn the water on at the pump house. When I turned the switch on, I didn’t hear the water crashing down in the tank like I had for the last week, and I thought, “Ah, crap! The pump’s not working." Going even further I thought, "I hope it’s not busted.” I quickly exited the pump house and climbed the ladder up to the tanks, where I found not one, but both tanks, completely full. Overnight, 3,ooo gallons of water miraculously made its way into our tanks. They were both filled to the top.

As I pondered this event, that we would normally call miraculous, over the last few days, I felt that what I saw was:   
If we understand that God’s nature and character are love and goodness, and if we understand that Jesus came to save us and give us new life filled with love and goodness as a representation of God, then any miracle done is only to deepen our relationship with Him by glorifying the Father and to show us how deeply He loves us. Positioning ourselves to receive, in faith, the good and beautiful love He wants to share. 

I believe that is the only logical reason for an illogical occurrence.

SAMUEL

As I walked to the cafeteria to fill up my coffee, I interrupted a few of our young men talking and laughing while sewing up a couple pairs of pants.

We laughed and joked for a few minutes before I questioned one of them about how old he was now, and how old he was when he came here.

He replied, “I am 19 now, and my father dropped me, my brother, and my sister here when I was six years old.”

I asked hesitantly, “Will you tell me some of your story, Samuel? I want to tell your story.”

He somberly looked up and said, “I’ve heard before that stories are what change people.”

“I agree,” I replied smiling. "Can I share yours?" I asked.

“My parents,” he began, then his arms motioned impromptu sign language for a word he couldn't come up with, so I hopped in and said, “Split? Did they split up?”

“Yes, they split up. You see that guy up on the wall?”

I turned to face a bold, but off center picture of the man who originally led the revolution for South Sudan’s freedom.

“I lived in his barracks with my father. He was in the army with that man.”

“So your mother? She left?” I inquired.

“Yes, she left. I don’t remember when," pausing as if returning to that last moment he saw her.

"After a little while my father then brought us here, because that military life was very hard. Hard for us all.” Closing his eyes and lowering his head, speaking in a hushed, unstable voice, he forced words out again, “It was very, very hard.”

A moment of silence, seeming to last a lifetime, left us hanging there before he looked up, chin trembling, and began again: “My father was killed a few years ago. I never saw him again after he dropped us here.”

"Killed in the war?"

"No, by some of his friends that ended up not being friends."

Silence again bought the moment. I sheepishly gave him a look of sadness, trying to mutely communicate that I understood without being able to understand, and then muttered hesitantly, “What happened to your mother?”

“We didn’t see her until 2013. She thought we were dead. That whole time, for many years, she just thought we were dead.”

“So where is she now?”

“Uganda,” he replied.

“At the refugee camp?”

“Yes, at the camp.”

With tears in our eyes, I hugged him and put forth the only words I was able to find, “I’m sorry, Samuel. So sorry. But, I am glad you are here. Safe.”

He grinned and said, “I am glad to be here in this place. This is a place of opportunity.”

Kind of Cheesy, But I Believe It’s True:

As I walked into the Amsterdam Cheese Museum, my senses were blasted by the smells and visual presentation of about fifteen different types of cheese scattered along the walls, tables, and counter tops of this small shop. A certain mustard shaded yellow cheese that had been aged for six years caught my eye and as I tasted it, I found it more delicious than I could have even imagined. The pieces were broken off in small and large chunks to be taken as teasers. I normally try to prefer someone else to what is the larger portion, but in this instance I was going big, because I was not going home. (If you didn’t get that joke, don’t worry. It wasn’t very funny). After trying a few more, I decided on a brick about the size of a piece of pie. I thought to myself, I’m in Amsterdam and may never get the chance again to grab Dutch cheese that has been aged for six years and then cut right here in its place of birth and maturation. Plus, I thought again, this will be a great little snack for Sudan, and if I take it easy, it should last me a while. 

Fast forward a few days, now to the night before I leave Entebbe, and as I was packing, I picked up the cheese and immediately thought of Charles, the man who manages the guesthouse I am staying at. The thought crossed my mind, he has been so accommodating, and I bet he would appreciate this much more than I will. I immediately took the short stroll up to the main building, paper bag in hand, feeling a little strange for doing this, but found Charles and said, Do you like cheese? He laughed and replied in an outstanding accent I wish I could replicate, “Did someone on the staff tell you this? How did you know? I love cheese!” We both smiled and laughed and I said, like you told me earlier, “May God lead the way,” and I believe that He did; He knows what we need before we even ask. He gave me a big hug, said goodnight, and as we walked off and parted ways, he said, “I’m going to savor every part of this, Josh.”

As I write this, my prayer for all of us is that we will allow God to lead the way. As we feel the tug on our heart to share whatever it is, whether it be our time or a smile, a glass of water or a block of cheese. May we give with open and loving hands, just as our Father has so wonderfully given to us.

Overwhelmed.

I started this most recent part of my journey, two months ago, with the feeling of being completely overwhelmed. The overwhelming feeling wasn't one that brought fear or angst, but joy and peace. As I began to pack my bags I found a new overwhelming joy, I was brought to tears with the thoughts of those who have played such a vital role in my life; those who have kept me focused on what I sometimes forget is important; they reminded me of the truth inside me, the things I deeply desired. 

I find myself overwhelmed at the support of friends who not only ask how they can pray for my time in Sudan, but who also gave and partnered with me financially so that I am able to go and serve and be a part of the lives of these beautiful people who have had their country and their lives tumultuously torn apart. 

I find myself overwhelmed with the grace that God has given me to see Him in the midst of everything swirling. I see the face of Jesus inviting me into a depth with Him that has cast out all fear and need for control. 

I find myself overwhelmed with hope of what will come in my life and in the lives of those I will soon meet and have the privilege to work with. 

I find myself overwhelmed with the depth of understanding that there is a hope that rules over every evil and every trial, and it comes through the transforming love of Jesus; Emmanuel: God with us, God among us, God in Wichita, and God in South Sudan.

And now, I must pack... 

But, here's an 11 minute and 13 second video for you to see where and what I'll be involved with.

https://vimeo.com/74112271

What I Choose:

I choose to believe that God is good. 

I choose to believe it because nothing else makes sense. 

I wished for years that something would make sense in the turmoil of my soul; I tried to run to what was easier, rather than sticking with what didn't make physical sense. For much of my life I thought that holding on to true sense meant that every piece of every puzzle would fit just how I wanted it to and I would be able to chart that "sense" like everything else we say we can tangibly grasp in this life. As I continued to engage myself in what I believed would come together, I continued to find myself even further from the reality of truth and hope that my soul longed for. The physical things that I thought would bring me joy, were stealing life from me. I was taking the easy route. I was unable to hold onto, or even see, what was really true. I still get foggy at times in the mess of life, that God somehow makes beautiful in its time; I still get lost in what I think I need and what I think should make sense; but, it never fails that the only true anchor of hope is hinged on the true love of God. If we feel that we are anchored to hope, but that vessel to which that hope is hinged, is not Christ, then we ware destined to drown with that falsehood. No vessel, no matter how great or strong, and no matter how well mended, will sink with the devastating waves, or through the corrosion of time. CS Lewis said, "God cannot give us happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing." The only vessel of hope that will truly stand the test of time and the storms of life, is the love of Christ. 

This is what I choose.