Wednesday, February 21, 2018

It started with his flight out of Germany being late.  Real late.  Then it moved on to his connecting flight in Paris that would bring him on down to Cameroon being delayed by a number of hours.  And the frosting on the cake was discovering upon arrival that his suitcase did not make it here!  

He drug his exhausted body into Shiloh at 2 a.m. Tuesday, with just his computer and a carry-on bag.  After too little sleep he took a shower, put back on his rumpled travel cloths and came on downstairs for breakfast.  The seven pastors from Chad and Central Africa Republic who had been at Shiloh since Sunday evening were delighted to see him, rumpled cloths and all.  And nobody minded how he looked when they launched into their bi-annual conference.  But he was feeling the lack of clean cloths and hoping against hope that the lost would be found when the Tuesday night flight arrived. However that was not to be.   

The unofficial word is that if the airlines misplace your luggage when you come to Africa, you are entitled to purchase the cloths and incidentals that you need to tide you over, and they will reimburse you up to a certain limit.  True or apocryphal, he was obliged to go shopping and buy the essentials.  Sadly, his luggage still has not arrived in country.  He's returning to Germany in five days.  Will his luggage show up before he leaves?  It's any man's guess.  

We've lived out here in Darkest Africa for going on 27 years.  This is not a new story.  We never take anything for granted.  Except for the True and Living God.  He's 100% reliable 100% of the time, no matter what.

Monday, February 19, 2018

The reservation was made at least three months ago.  Twelve men coming to Shiloh for a week long conference.  Seven sleeping here.  All showing up for breakfast each day and staying through supper.  Meetings in the library.  Morning and afternoon coffee break.  

Being our normal highly organized selves, menus were decided on  over two weeks ago.  The big shopping took place a week in advance.  Perishables were purchased on Saturday.  All was in readiness.  

The first five arrived from the Republic of Central Africa on Sunday evening.  Two more joined them from Chad mid morning today (Monday).  The two Westerners are coming in tonight on the late night flight from Europe.  And the conference starts in the morning right after breakfast.  Bring it on.  We're ready!

In all our careful planning and meticulous preparations, it was the one thing we neglected to consider, or even thing about.   It never occurred to us.  Never even entered our minds. And yet it happened. You see Francis our cook, the one who runs our kitchen, who knows endless details about practically everything, the one we all lean on when it comes to feeding groups, has fallen sick.  Not just sick sick.  Francis is REALLY sick.  With typhoid.  Very communicable.  Easily transmitted to others.  Kitchen help are forbidden to even think about working in Shiloh's kitchen when typhoid visits them.  Strictly enforced rule. 

As we scrambled to come up with plan B, we began finding ways to give thanks to Almighty God for ever so many things.  Forever and always He does all things well. We put our confidence in Him as we follow His guidance into this amazing week where we get to watch Him take care of us at every turn of the road.  We know beyond all doubt that this has not taken God by surprise.  His far better plans were all worked out a long time ago. 

Saturday, February 17, 2018

It's been a long time but yesterday it finally happened again.  We plugged in two additional refrigerators and filled each freezer compartment to the max.  Having already filled our large upright freezer and ample freezer compartment of our main fridge, we were desperate.  Thankfully we found creative  ways to squeeze in every last thing that has to be kept frozen until needed.  And then we pondered how to put something (anything) in the two newly plugged in lower (refrigerator) part of the fridges.  We decided to fill all fourteen water carafes and turn one fridge into the "water fridge".   And the other fridge became the "veggies fridge".   As we progress through this week, if it  becomes necessary, we still have one more fridge that could be plugged in.  That would be the little dorm room size fridge that discretely lives in a corner of the dining room and functions as the "guest fridge".  It's never a good idea to let our guests mix their food in with ours, for a lot of good and valid reasons.

Why all this fuss over freezer and fridge space?  Good question!  This very evening they will start to arrive.  Five come on the night flight from Central Africa Republic, and the rest will join them on Monday evening, coming in from Europe.  This does not count the two flying in tonight from Chad who will sleep elsewhere but eat and attend meetings here at Shiloh.  Nor does it include a handful of refugees in their group who live in exile in Yaounde and will be included in the meetings and the meal count.  This is a great group of African men.  They come to Shiloh once a year to hold their conference.  The European missionaries who join them have become good friends down through these many years of our acquaintance.    Feeding them three meals a day plus morning and evening coffee break will keep us out of mischief.  We've brought in extra help for the occasion.  Last week we were in preparation mode, meeting ourselves coming and going.  Everybody has today (Sunday) off to attend church and recuperate.  Well everybody that is, except Papa Jim and Mama Alice who live at Shiloh and will be on deck this evening to greet our guests and install them in their rooms.  

So if the Old Folks start looking a little ragged around the edges as we move though this new week, you will understand why!

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Saturday's funeral was one to remember.  It wasn't the burial itself that stands out our memories.  It was the aftermath.

We were five in our group:  Papa Jim, Mama Alice, Francis our cook, Doris our domestique/cook's assistant, and Eric our favorite taxi man.  The trip out to the village took a bit longer than we had anticipated.  And were it not for a funeral banner, we would have driven right past the last turnoff and would probably still be wandering around out there somewhere.  

Did I ever tell you about funeral banners?  They are all the rage.  This  newest addition to the growing list of "must have" for Cameroonian funerals consists of a plastic banner that is tied to whatever telephone pole or tree that is available, and then stretched across the road to a corresponding pole where it is tied off.  With a colored picture of the dearly departed at each end of the long banner, and important information written in-between such as the name and birth and death dates, it's actually helpful for knowing which road to turn down.  All burials take place in villages.  So it does have a function, but it is also another expense that even very poor families have to bear at the time of the loss of a loved one.

We intentionally arrived fashionably late and were ushered to the VIP seating area.  We greeted others sitting around us whom we know:  Guy's Aunt Evelyn and two of her adult daughters, Guy's mother Mama Katie, our Pastor and three men from our church who were with him.  Guy is part of the leadership team at our church, so they came to support and encourage him.  

Since Doris speaks a neighboring language and therefor understood much of what was being said, she was our interpreter.   It was nice to be able to ask "OK, what's happening now?" when a group of women jumped up and ran towards a man who was speaking and began dancing and shouting in a disorganized group around him.  Or "Why do those people have dried banana leaves tied to their heads, and what are they chanting?"  While understanding most of the words, she understood none of the cultural significance, but she was still valuable to us.

Funerals last all day.  There are many parts to the occasion and each part must be completed in it's turn.  Throughout the day people are doing a lot of drinking.  Predictably, before long those who have singing, speaking, or dancing roles are becoming increasingly inebriated.   The results would be funny if the emptiness of their lives weren't so sad. 

As things were finally winding down, the large crowd of "in-laws" sitting across the clearing from us were presented with two goats.  Doris informed us that Marie's father never fully married her mother.  And now at the time of his burial, the mother's family must be appeased.  We don't really know all the details, but we do know that they never had a church blessing.  So the goats were given to keep the "in-laws" from starting a drunken brawl.  And they were slaughtered right there in the clearing in front of our amazed eyes.  Have you ever watched two tipsy men slaughter a goat and cut it up into equal parts for distribution to all the various clans with nothing more than a machete?  It's  probably not something you want to put on your list of "must see before you die".  Again, it would have been funny if it weren't so pathetic.

When the last of the last of the burial event was finished and the casket was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt, then it was time for the funeral feast.  Many people show up for burials just to be well fed and to get drunk.  We were invited into a specially prepared room where the VIPs were fed.  And we discovered in the process that we were the most VIP of all the VIPs.  We helped ourselves to fried fish, fried chicken, and baton de manioc, plus boiled plantains.  And we were offered our choice soft drinks.  We took our plates back to the VIP tent where we had been sitting and began eating.  Village dogs, whose ribs could easily be counted and who had never seen a veterinarian in their lives, were wandering around,  taking full advantage of any morsel of food that dropped on the ground.  Village dogs are never fed.  They, along with pigs, chickens, and goats, must scavenger for their meal.  

After eating we decided to have our picture taken since our team was altogether and everyone was dressed nicely.  As Papa Jim and I turned from the picture taking event and headed back towards the car, it hit me like a ton of bricks.  I grabbed his hand and announced that I felt like I was going to vomit.  We managed to get me inside the car and soon were on our way back to Shiloh.  I knew it would take us an hour and a half to get back home.  I was feeling miserable and just kept praying that I wouldn't be sick in the car.  About a half hour later we pulled off the road and I opened the car door, hung my head out, and lost everything I had eaten that day.  Feeling much better, the trip resumed.  I was finally able to talk and interact with people.  All but the driver began dozing off.  When we were about two minutes away from Shiloh, I came to vomiting violently inside the car, all over my dress, the back of the front seat, the floor, my shoes, etc.  It was dreadful.  There was no point in pulling over.  The damage was done.  Not soon enough we were at Shiloh and I was being helped out of the car, inside the house, up the stairs, and to our bedroom.  I went straight to the shower and then to bed.  For the next six hours I could keep nothing down.  Even a spoonful of water came back up within the hour.  Papa Jim, my cheering squad leader, kept saying "That's good!  You need to get all that food poison out of your system.  You'll feel better when it's all gone."  I couldn't even moan let alone throw a shoe at him.  But finally it happened just as he said it would and I fell into an exhausted sleep.  Sunday was spent in bed.  Lots of sleeping.  Drinking water.  Cautiously adding in mint tea.  Eventually having  a bit of yogurt.   And then Monday I woke up fit as a fiddle, having lost weight.  We have terrific weight loss programs out here in Cameroon.  If we could just find a way to market them in the U.S., we could get rich, right?  When Francis came to work yesterday he announced that it hit him on Sunday morning.  He spent a long and miserable day being sick too, but was back in the pink of health in time to come to work on Monday.  So we won't be forgetting this particular funeral any time soon!

Friday, February 9, 2018

We arrived on time, not knowing when it would really start.  Our favorite driver was with us.  We don't  go anywhere by ourselves.  The car was parked across the road from the hospital morgue.  Following closely behind him, we wound our way through traffic and inside the gate.  

Suddenly we found ourselves swallowed up in a sea of people, some seated but most milling around.  On closer observation it became apparent that they were in various groupings.  Scanning the crowds, we searched in vain for "our" group.  Recognizing nobody, we continued our slow advance towards the building.  

Finally our driver decided that "our" group must be the one inside, so we slipped into the room as unobtrusively as we could.  We were just in time for the conclusion of the brief "removal of the body" ceremony. But alas, the dearly departed was not "our" dearly departed.  We stayed at the back of the crowded room and tried to be invisible. Being the only two white people for what felt like miles around, it was an unattainable goal.  But we tried.  And we quietly and solemnly filed out with the wrong group of mourners.  

Once outside we again tried to recognize somebody, anybody, in the mass of grieving mankind.  Finally it was decided that we would remain in one location and our driver would move about and hope to learn something.  He could more easily blend into the crowd and perhaps discover where we were supposed to be.  

We reminded ourselves that we shouldn't have to be finding them.  Our people should be finding us.  After all, we are the ONLY white people in the village of Eyene, and have been the only white people attached to that village for twenty years.  We are well known.  People we have never seen before know us.  And in their cultural context, they should be coming up to us, greeting us, helping us.  So where were they?  

No matter how many times our eyes scanned the crowd, we could see nobody whom we knew.  Mind you, by now everyone was looking familiar.  But nobody was anybody whom we really knew.  With no visible person in charge, no information booth, no posted list of which body was coming out when and in what order, mass confusion reigned.  Or so it seemed to us.  

We have attended many, many "removal of the body" events since the inception of this ceremony.  Back before there were any morgues in Cameroon, they didn't do things this way.  But we live in modern times so we are no strangers to this kind of thing.  However this level of chaos was new to us.  It was our first time to be at this particular morgue.  

There we were, highly visible in the masses of mankind, watching one casket after the other being removed and brought out to the waiting vehicle, for transport to some village somewhere.  Each grieving family is given fifteen minutes inside the room to view the body and have whatever ceremony is appropriate in their tribal tradition, and then the casket comes out, making way for the next one.  And on and on it goes, all day long.  Fridays are the official day for the "removal of the body".  

Finally, when all hope was evaporating, our village landlord appeared out of nowhere. What a relief to finally see a familiar face.  He was deeply touched that we would join with them in their great sorrow.  He thanked us again for letting them put the coffin in the living room of our village house.  And he let us know that the large bag of rice we had contributed was greatly appreciated.  Then he informed us that when the group inside was finished, there would be another one, and then it would be our turn.  As he moved away to rejoin his family, we were relieved to finally know what we were supposed to be doing.

And thus it was that for the second time we filed into the room for the "removal of the body" ceremony.  The difference was that this time we recognized a few faces.  And the dearly departed, though dressed to the nines in a western style wedding gown, looked familiar.  When the traditions had been faithfully observed we slowly filed past the open casket and on outside, keeping more or less in our group.  It is very common for a few ladies to begin wailing and falling to the ground,  and our group was no exception.  Others come rushing to the aid of the distraught person, trying to calm them down and sometimes literally dragging them off to the side.  It's a pretty awful thing to witness.  

While waiting for the casket to come out, an old village grandmother whom we recognized came over to us.  While her French is extremely limited and our Manguisa is all but nonexistent, we had no trouble conveying warmth and love.  Her delight in our being there made it all worth while.  After the hearse drove through the gate, our landlord came over and thanked us for being there.  

We returned to the car with a prayer in our hearts that God would use our brief time with this grieving group of Manguisa from Eyene for His honor and glory.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

We have three of them.  All here at once.  It's never happened like this before.  Boy are we enjoying ourselves!  

There's the seventeen year old who sits down to the piano when his busy school schedule permits.  He plays by ear and he's good.  Plays and sings.  Only Christian songs.  What a blessing to have his music floating throughout Shiloh.  And the best part is that he lives here, so we get to enjoy his music regularly.

And then there is the twenty something who is here for a handful of days.  He's applying for a tourist visa to Canada.  Hoping, dreaming, optimistically planning on being granted one.   Like so many others, his greatest desire is to discover life in the outside world.  He manages to find time each day to play the piano.  Largely self taught, and still learning, he is nonetheless blessing us with his music.

But the frosting on the cake is a thirty something missionary who is here this week with his family.  A more talented pianist has never sat down to play our piano in all the years of  Shiloh's existence. He pulls music out of that piano that nobody ever imagined was hiding inside.  Time stands still when he runs his fingers over the ivories.  Notes chase each other up and down the keyboard.  And the music goes on and on and on.  He loves to play.  Music is oozing out of his pores.  It's in his blood.  It's how he relaxes.  And we are blessed beyond description.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Word reached us this morning that 76 year old Mama Clair fell gravely ill yesterday.  One of her numerous sons came to Eyene with a car and transported her to Sa'a to the hospital.  She was put on oxygen and kept over night.  Upon examining her today, the doctor said his hospital was not equipped to treat her condition.  He recommended that she be taken to one of the government hospitals here in Yaounde.  By the time the family was able to make all the arrangements and she actually arrived at the hospital here in town, it was too late in the afternoon.  All the doctors had gone home for the day.  The hospital would not admit her, but rather instructed the family to bring her back in the morning.  And so she is spending the night with another of her sons.  The family can only hope that she will get the medical care she needs at that time.  (To which we say "Welcome to Cameroon!")

Meanwhile 81 year old Papa Pollycarp is all alone in the village.  Truly, he is too old to be by himself.  It is our non-professional opinion that even when Mama Clair is by his side, they are too old to be living on their own.  The family is very concerned about their father being alone, but aren't able to take care of him at this time.  We let them know that Ndzana II is in the village until the afternoon of February 14th.  We quickly sent word out to him to look after Papa Pollycarp.  The family was grateful for this help.

While we have no idea what the outcome of this current medical crisis will be, we do know that Mama Clair is safe in the arms of Jesus.  She and Papa Pollycarp walk well with our Lord.  Her future is in His hands.  We take comfort in that knowledge.

Monday, February 5, 2018

We're in the midst of some of the hottest weather we've ever experienced in nearly 27 years out here in Cameroon.  February average temperature is 78.8. But today we hit a high of 93.2.  With humidity hovering around 80%, we're really feeling the heat.  The fan is running on high all night long.  It never really cools down.  Being from Arizona we are no strangers to heat.  So it's OK.  Hot, hot, hot...but OK. 

Friday, February 2, 2018

Her husband brought her to us.  Doctor's orders.  She needed to be in a quiet place.  Away from the children.  Away from the demands of her busy life.  No work for fourteen days.  She's suffering from burn out.  Stress in her life has reached astronomical proportion.  She  cannot continue on this path.  Something has to change.  

In addition to sleeping, and relaxing, and sleeping some more, and eating, and taking handfuls of pills, she's talking with me.  In desperation she began pouring out her story.  And what a story it is.  Every time I think we have come to the end of her story, it turns out there is another twist and turn to it.  Her life is in shambles in many areas.  And yet she is an educated, highly successful, well paid, upper class Cameroonian professional woman.  At the job site nobody would guess her secrets.  If you met her in public you would think she has it all.  She's arrived.  You would be tempted to envy her.

What a high, high honor it is for me to spend time each day with this dear lady.  What a privilege to be the one God has chosen to help her.  She gave her life to the Lord as a twelve year old girl, but has not had good teaching.  She has based her walk with God on a whole lot of false doctrine.  And it's not working.  And her life is unraveling at the seams.  

While I'm no expert, I know the One Who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life.  He is the God of the Impossible.  He, and He alone can transform hopeless situations.  As we meet together, sometimes once a day, sometimes three times a day, depending on my availability, we are looking at her story in the light of God's Word.  She is an incredible lady.  She knows that life is not working.  She is ready, willing, and able to change.  She will try anything.  She's sick to death of the tangled mess that is called her life.  

Shiloh exists for people like this dear lady.  We are here for her.  We are available to to be used by God in any way He wants to use us.  And sometimes we have the great joy of watching God do His amazing work in the life of a person. All Glory and Honor and Praise to our King!

Thursday, February 1, 2018

The call came in while I was in the midst of a counseling session with a dear Cameroonian lady whose life is in shambles.  I apologized for the interruption and answered the phone.  It was our Eyene village house landlord.  Wanted to know if we would allow him to put his mother's casket in our living room.  She will be buried a week from Saturday.  We had already given permission for him to use our house on the day of the funeral.  But they have decided that since our house is much better decorated than their house, it is the logical choice.  Having her laid out in state in our living room means that people will be streaming in and out for hours to view the body one last time.  It also means that our landlord needs to make the room as fancy as possible.  And in this particular case, he wanted our permission to send a painter in to paint the living room.  Plus a carpenter to put a ceiling in the living room.  A ceiling in the living room at our Eyene house??  Wow!  That's an amazing concept.  Of course we are happy to let them use the house and we will benefit greatly.  

Ndzana II has decided that he will spend the entire week leading up to the funeral in the village.  He needs to be there to protect our things.  And he will have many, many opportunities to minister to the grieving family in this time of great loss.