November 30, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 4 Comments
Yusufu Simon is the director of the compound. He heads the medical and spiritual life. He has chosen to serve Jesus in this way rather than take a high paying government position. He is a wonderful, wise man.
The moths beat against the single light bulb in the Praise Hall nestled in the midst of the buildings on our bush compound in Nigeria. I looked around at the precious friends we had made from our trips to this needy land. They were mostly the workers on the medical compound where we lived, and their families. They were tired from tending to the needs of the throngs of people that came for miles seeking help for their many ailments. Sickness was rampant in this desert land: malaria, typhoid, Aids, leprosy. The list went on and on. Just the other day Yusufu brought me an 18 inch worm that had been removed from a child. These were my brothers and sisters, dedicated to the work of bringing both physical and spiritual life to the bush of Africa.
Most evenings we gathered in the Praise Hall to sing and read the Scriptures together. It was usually just the medical compound people but at times a few would come in from the village, like the Snuggler. I called her that because she always came to me. She would sit beside me for a little while but soon her little dirty, gray body would be snuggled up against me and there she would often fall asleep. Her body was a dusty gray from playing in the dirt of Africa all day and never bathing. She was bout 6.
This is the Praise Hall under construction. It was used for classes of many types during the day but almost every night we gather there to praise and study the scriptures.
Just as we were about to proceed the door opened and an old woman burst inside. A low gasp whispered through the room. The old woman crouched beside the door, her eyes darting about the room. Her appearance was more like an animal than a human. With the strong witchcraft in the country all my warning bells were going off. I pulled Snuggler close. Gordon stood and welcomed the woman and then began the singing. The old woman squatted by the door. We sang long and hard. I tried to keep my mind focused and not look in the direction of the door. At the end of the singing Gordon asked, “Is there anyone here who needs healing tonight?”
Like a cat the old woman sprang to the the center of the room where Gordon stood. My breath caught in my throat. Then Gordon turned to me, “Come, Emily, and pray for this woman.” My heart began to pound. “Jesus, help me!” My head was screaming,”This is not something for me to be doing! She is way too much for my faith!”
I pulled away from Snuggler and slowly came to the woman. She was still crouched and her eyes were riveted on me. I stood beside her with my hands clenched and began to beg Jesus to show me how to pray. A peace settled over me and Jesus filled my mind with a picture. I saw the old woman standing at the junction of two paths that crossed. The paths were deep with dust, as it was dry season. People were hurrying down the paths from all directions paying no attention to the old woman. I then noticed in the dirty path lay the old woman’s heart. It was being kicked, stepped on – battered, bruised, bleeding. The old woman stood looking helplessly at her heart. Then Jesus walked down the path and when He came to her He reached down, picked up the heart and so gently began to clean it off. “How precious,” I thought. “He will clean it up and put it back in her.” But no, very tenderly Jesus slipped it into His pocket and from another pocket Jesus brought out a brand new heart that had never been stepped on, never been kicked in the dirt, was not broken and bleeding. A brand new beautiful, clean heart Jesus held in His hand. Then, very carefully He slipped it into her chest.
When I looked up, her eyes were fastened on me and I was not afraid. I told her about the picture and I asked her if she would like Jesus to give her a new heart and she said, “Yes.” There, with the moths battling against the light bulb we prayed together. She gave her life to Jesus. When I looked up, a big tear was running down her wrinkled, dirty face. Jesus had given her a new heart from His pocket.
November 18, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 2 Comments
Another Christmas in Nigeria had passed and we had just a couple more weeks before heading home. What a shock to our systems that would be…from this terrible heat to below zero weather and piles of snow. I gathered up my shopping bags, hat and water bottle. Gordon was getting the truck so we could head to market in Jalingo, 14 miles from our compound.
Shopping day was a great adventure once a week. My list was always long and I never knew what would be available at the open air market. The sprawling stalls covered almost a square block serving as the local Walmart for the one million people of the city. Perhaps today there would be flour and I could keep on making our bread. Vegetables would be piled on the old wooden tables or on mats on the floor, lots of tomatoes, onions and peppers. I had learned my lesson in asking the merchant to grind some tomatoes like everyone else did. The sauce was so hot from residue peppers in the machine we couldn’t eat it. Perhaps there would be fruit: oranges, mangoes, pineapples. That was such a treat. Yusufu brought me fruit raised on the compound, bananas and papayas. Gordon would help me carry my groceries or I would hire a boy with a wheel barrow at the entrance for a few coins. I would bargain for my purchases. I loved that. I would go to my favorite merchants and we would haggle over the prices. They enjoyed it as much as I did. They always got more than the regular cost, but I gave them a good run for their money and they respected me for that. A big grin would spread over their faces when they saw me coming. I loved mixing with these people and had made friends over the years.
Gordon pulled the little pickup into the post office before we headed for the market. Enoc was with us and he needed to check the mail. When he returned, he handed Gordon a letter. How exciting! We rarely received mail. Then my heart dropped as I saw the writing on the back of the envelope. “Gordon you read this first and then tell Emily.” Gordon saw my face. “We’ll read it when we get home,” he said and he tucked it into his pocket. My mind reeled! What could have happened? Was it my folks, a friend? I knew it was bad news, and we were so far away it would be old bad news. It took two to three weeks for mail to reach us, if it arrived at all.
Shopping was a blur. All I could think about was the letter. When we finally arrived home and had dumped all of our purchases on the table, I turned to Gordon and begged, “Please, Gordon the letter!” ” Calm down,” he said. “Let me read it.” I stood biting my lip as I watched his face become tense. His eyes narrowed and he groaned. Then he turned to me and stated calmly, “Our cottage burned to the ground Christmas night.”
Cottage and shop
A wave of shock spread through me. “How can this be? What happened?” Gordon finished reading the letter then shared the sad news. The weather has been very cold, 35 degree below zero for over a week. Our live in secretary had spent Christmas day with friends and while she was gone a neighbor came to stoke our wood fire. The fire was too big and caught the chimney on fire. No one was home and a man passing by reported the fire. When our secretary returned at 11:00 pm, the fire department was there just finishing with the fire. Everything was covered with ice as the water froze from the fire truck. Friends went in and removed a few things then decided to wait until morning to remove anything else that was useable. At 4:00 am the fire exploded, a raging inferno. The fire department returned but it was too late. It burned to the ground.”
“It is gone, honey,” Gordon whispered as he pulled me to him. “Our apartment, my shop and all my tools, it’s all gone.” He held me for a moment and straightened up and said, “Let’s praise the Lord.” Still holding my hand he began to sing to Jesus who had given it all to us. Tears coarsed down my cheeks and I struggled to join him. In between sobs I squeaked out a few words. “Thank you, Jesus. No one was hurt!”
People began to drift by and Gordon explained what had happened. They extended their sympathy but looked at me and my tears in a strange way. I felt so foolish. How could I explain. We still had a great big house full of stuff and several people living in it. Yes, the cottage had been full of my treasures, the many things I didn’t want to get broken or damaged by all the people that lived with us. It was my hiding place when we returned from traveling. I could close the door and be still for a while. These wouldn’t understand why anyone would want to be alone. I was so ashamed. I still had so much compared to the poverty they lived in and here I was with tears I couldn’t check. My wedding diamond that I couldn’t wear here, all of Gordon’s mother’s antiques, my new painting I had just finished, our wedding photos, all drifted through my mind. “I’m so sorry I’m crying, Jesus,” I whispered. I felt His comfort settle upon me. “It is ok,” He replied ” I will restore it. It will be different, but it will be lovely.”
I wish I could say that was the last of my tears. It wasn’t, but I knew Jesus would be with me once again. When we returned home a few weeks later we were greeted by a pure, snow white slab where our home once stood. Friends, neighbors had come in and cleaned all the debris away. We didn’t see all the awlful destruction. Later Jesus said to build again, but that is another story. Out of the Christmas ashes came a beautiful Chalet that was far better than what we could ever have dreamed. An expression once again of His great love for us.
New Chalet
November 8, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 4 Comments
Michael with my hat.
Some times the biggest smiles come from the darkest places.
Gordon lit the oil lamp and the darkness faded to the corners. I heard a scurry overhead and figured the upstairs rat was beginning his day, probably a raid on the new corn pile in the old abandoned house. I was glad everything was safe in tins in the tiny kitchen. It was beginning to cool a little and I hoped the gentle breeze would overtake the hot Nigerian day and allow us to sleep. I could hear voices in the distance as people returning from our time of praise and scripture reading were settling into their homes for the night.
I was just ready to slip out of my clothes when I heard the muffled cry of a child. Crying children weren’t unusual, but this was different. It continued from the direction where there were no homes, down by the the Praise Hall. “Gordon, listen. There is a child crying.” Picking up the lamp, Gordon said, “Let’s go see what’s wrong.” I grasped his hand as we ventured out into the black night. You never knew what might be happening in the Nigerian bush in the night. The soft cry led us back to the locked Praise Hall. There leaning against the door was little Micheal, locked in. “I’ll go get a key. You stay with him,” Gordon directed.
Precious little Micheal, no one missed him because he didn’t belong to any one. I remembered when we left he was asleep, curled up on the floor under the table. Oh, Yusufu and Mary fed and clothed him, but he really wasn’t theirs. A distant relative had stopped by a few days before we arrived asking if he could leave Micheal with them while he traveled on to visit his dying father. Very reluctantly they agreed only to learn a short time later that the father had suddenly died and the mother was long gone. They were stuck with another orphan. This was the way with so many of the families. Jonathan and Rebekka had Paul and Margret. Paul, the oldest of their children was the son of a dead brother. Margret, a shirt tail relative they had bought back from a witch doctor. Then she was stolen and they bought her back again. Precious children.
Margret
Micheal whimpered and I talked to him though the screen. He couldn’t understand a word. Finally Gordon came and opened the door. I took him in my arms and wiped away the little tears that still rested on his black cheeks. Right then Micheal became my boy! He belong to me! Whenever I left the house, Micheal was at my side smiling up with with his big, wonderful smile. “Thank you, very much!” he would say over and over as we walked hand in hand. I tried to teach him to say other things but all he would proclaim was,” Thank you, very much!”
One morning he came pounding on my door. There he stood in a new green school uniform. We think he was 5 years old. Now he was going to school with the other children. What a privilege for him! Off he ran down the dusty road to catch the other children, shouting, “Thank you, very much!”
The car pulled away from our little house and our wonderful friends. It would be the last time my eyes would see our little Nigerian home and these beloved people. There with all the others stood Micheal, tears running down his face, waving his little black hand crying, “Thank you, very much!”
With my own tears soaking the front of my dress, I whispered to Jesus, to Micheal and to them all,”Thank you, very much! Thank you, very much!”
October 30, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 2 Comments
Gordon and I had only been in Nigeria a couple of weeks and Christmas was coming up fast! How would we celebrate Christmas in this very foreign place! All of our traditional American ways must be put away and we must focus on the true meaning of Christmas without all our trappings!
A few days before Christmas Jonathan came to me and asked if I would cook Christmas dinner for the families on the compound. This was overwhelming, preparing dinner for 30 people of a different culture with very different food preferences. The Nigerians like it HOT! It doesn’t matter what you eat, it all tastes the same: FIRE HOT! They prepare a soup with some type of meat and dip a ball of pounded rice or potato into it with their hands.
Of course I agreed to cook for them. I began baking breads and a big chocolate cake ahead of time. The children came to the window over my little counter and, with their noses pressed against the screen, watched with wide eyes. This brought them the reward of licking the bowl. The day before Christmas Jonathan came with a huge chicken. This was to feed us all! Rebekka graciously took it from him and cleaned it for me. Into a big pot that Mary brought me went the fat chicken. It was to become curried chicken on rice. I figured I could stretch the chicken a long ways with sauce and other vegetables. Mary would make a pot of rice and another dish. All the while I asked Jesus to make this a blessing for them.
In the afternoon Rebekka came and asked if I would go with her to the Christmas Eve program at the church. When the church bell (an old tire rim) began to ring, Rebekka and some of the other women arrived to walk with me through the village. It was not safe for me to be off the compound at night, but the women would protect me.
The new church was packed! The people had worked so hard to have it finished for this time of celebrating our Savior’s birth. All evening and late into the night the people sang and danced, preached, preformed skits. It was a great time! Around midnight the people formed into groups to go into the surrounding area to sing and preach. They would be out all night. Rebekka and I scurried through the dark village back to our home. Rebekka was nervous and held tightly on to me. Once I was delivered safely home, she returned to one of the groups for the night.
The old tire rim church bell rang on and on trying to arouse the all night evangelists. The Christmas celebration would begin at church with a lot of singing and preaching. Then would come the visiting of friends and family to bless you and receive a little food. In between all of the activity I scurried about to complete Christmas dinner for all the families on the compound. After removing the meat from our prize bird, I looked at the pile of bones. “Now what do I do with these?” I pondered. The skinny old dog that lay in the shade of our tree popped into my mind. She could surely use a Christmas treat! I tossed them out the front door to her and she gobbled them up!
The curry was finished and all the other goodies were collected. We were ready to feast, a very different feast from what would be taking place back home but, never-the-less a feast. I felt quite pleased with it all. Friends arrived and we carried everything to the praise hall, the little round building with screen windows and a tin roof, built especially for our coming and the meetings that would be held. More folks arrived bringing more food. The little gifts we bought for the children were hidden away. It was a grand time and we ate until every morsel was gone. I stood beaming over the great success of the evening when a little girl pressed against my side. With big dark eyes looking up at me she shyly asked,”Where are the bones?”
“Bones?” I stammered. ” Why, I gave them to the dog.”
“Oh, they are the best part,” she whispered loudly. The whole room broke into gales of laughter! I had given their most delicious treat to the old dog!
A few days later I spied the little girl standing outside my house chewing on a big chicken leg bone as if it were an apple! She ate the whole thing! I couldn’t believe my eyes. After that I saved all my chicken bones for the children. They were delighted! No more asking,”Where are the bones?”
October 18, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 0 Comments
This is a nice church. Most are just grass roof and no wall.
Gordon’s face dripped with sweat. He tossed his bag and water bottle on the table. I stood waiting to give him a kiss. “Boy, are you glad you didn’t come with me today!” he proclaimed. He had been in a distant village to give training to some of the men under his care in this very remote part of Nigeria. He collapsed in the hammock stretched across our large screened in porch. ” A cobra attacked us in church today!”
“What!” My mouth stood open as I listened in horror. “Yeah, the men were waiting when I got there. We had to chase the sheep out of the church before we started. The men sat on my left as usual and Philemon’s wife and baby sat in the front row on my right. Before I started Philemon called her, ‘Come and sit with me so I can protect you.’ Of course, everyone laughed but she obeyed him.
“The little thatched church stood with open sides. That was great so the breeze could blow through. The people sat on those little twisted poles barely ten inches off the ground, and I stood in front of them. Soon after I started teaching I saw movement out of the corner of my eye on my right. The people started screaming and shouting. A huge cobra was headed right for us with it’s head about a foot off the ground and it’s mouth wide open. It was mad! People ran and I jumped up on the poles they were sitting on. Big deal! It was only a few inches off the ground. I was crying out, ‘Jesus, Jesus!’
“You remember when we arrived here and I learned that Philemon and his family had lost everything in a fire? I gave him a pair of slacks that were too hot for me and a pair of hard soled shoes. He had them on today and he leaped on the snake and began to stomp on it. He stomped and stomped trying to get its head. It struck him twice but only got into his pants. Finally, he pinned it’s head and we killed it. If his wife hadn’t moved to sit with him, it would have struck her before we could have done anything to help her.
“Cobras are so fast! Remember when I went to the river with the kids last year and one was stretched across the path? I couldn’t tell which end was the head and when I struck it with a club, it came back across the path like lightening. This cobra was just that fast.
“I saw Yusufu when I returned and told him what had happened. He just shook his head and said, ‘It was a miracle. Philemon could be dead by now. God delivered you all!’
“See, you are very glad you didn’t go with me today!”
August 14, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 0 Comments
As we waited in the hot, little arrival room of the Kono airport on our first trip to Nigeria I brushed carefully at the little mosquitoes that buzzed around my bare legs. How glad I was that we had started taking our malaria medication 2 weeks earlier. As an extra precaution I had put on mosquito repellent before we left the plane. The horrible tales of missionaries dying of malaria attacked my mind. “No!” I assured myself we would be fine!
Nigeria was a land of so much sickness and death. Almost daily someone reported the death of a friend or relative. I had seen the effects of horrible diseases all around me: leprosy, deformed bodies, little children lying on mats in the shade with high fevers of malaria, jars of long worms taken from little bodies, long lines of sick waiting in the hot sun to receive precious medication. Mothers, replying when asked how many children they had, “Seven, three living.” “Eight, two living.”—on and on such sad replies. But we had remained quite healthy and now the trip was over and we were headed home.
The return trip to Kono was not so frightening and we had arrived early in the morning from the hotel to board our beautiful new British Air plane. We waited eagerly in the waiting room with all the other excited passengers. We waited and we waited. Finally around noon an announcement was made that there was mechanical trouble with the plane. Sodas were served. Gordon complained of being tired and tried to rest his head against the wall and sleep. We waited. When he stirred, he looked flushed. I felt his head and he was very hot, but that was not a wonder as the room was very hot and the people very restless. Late in the afternoon another announcement came that the local mechanic could not solve the problem and a mechanic was being flown in from London. Everyone groaned and asked for drinks. Shortly, hot Cokes came. Gordon continued to grow hotter and now complained of a headache. About 11pm we were informed we were to be taken to a hotel to be fed and spend the night. We were herded on to buses and driven off into the unknown. A meager meal awaited us and a filthy room, but we slept.
I awoke to Gordon’s hot shivering body next to me. “I am really sick,” he whispered. ” What can I do, honey?” I questioned. “More blankets,” he requested, but there were none. I held him next to my warm body and prayed. At 4:00 am there was a pounding on the door and we were informed that we were to return to the airport. “Come quickly to the lounge”. We threw our clothes on and hurried out hoping we would soon be on our way.
At the airport again we waited until almost noon when at last we were loaded on the beautiful new airplane. Soon we were headed home, even being fed. But Gordon was worse. Now diarrhea began and he wouldn’t eat. But we both slept. As we neared London, Gordon murmured, “I am so very weak. See if you can get me a wheelchair when we arrive in London.” The stewardess was very helpful and assured me a chair would be waiting. “Just wait in your seats until everyone has disembarked.”
At last Gordon was loaded in to the wheelchair and we were headed for the transfer desk. The young attendant took off at a quick clip and I struggled to keep up. I was so very tired. ” Help us, Jesus, help us!” my heart cried out. Gordon said at the transfer desk as we waited our turn, “I am so very tired. I must have some rest before we continue on.” When it was my turn, I explained to the attendant that my husband was sick and we needed to rest. Would they please supply a hotel room for the night and send us out in the morning? ” No,” came the crisp answer.
I was not very happy! “You have kept us waiting in very poor conditions with little food and water for a day and a half. You provided a filthy room for a few hours of rest and now you won’t supply a hotel where we can recover!” I was angry!
“It is the policy that you continue on the next available flight which is in 6 hours.”
Gordon groaned,”Can they book us in the morning and we will pay for a hotel?”
“Yes, that can be done and I will book a room for you. That will be $100 for the room.”
I was fuming! By the time we waited on the freezing London street for our shuttle my head was throbbing and I was burning with fever also. We fell into bed, neither of us wanting to eat, so very weary. Surely this would pass if we could just sleep, then the diarrhea and vomiting started. We took turns rushing to the bathroom. ” Oh, Jesus, how will be ever get to the airport, board the plane and fly home?” All I wanted to do was get home!
By a miracle of God things settled down and we boarded a plane with many empty seats. Gordon took a whole middle row of 5 seats and I did the same behind him as close to the toilets as possible. The stewardess immediately saw we were sick and began to bring blankets and pillows. They nursed us all the way to Houston where we entered the country to make connecting flights home. As we descended in to Houston, Gordon came back to me. “Em, you can look tired but you can’t look sick. We have to get through immigration. We don’t want them to quarantining us somewhere.”
Right, how am I going to do that? I had been throwing up for hundreds of miles. There was nothing left but dry heaves, a racking headache and fever and chills and I was so very tired. The plane landed and we were the last ones off. Slowly we made our way to the huge Customs room with its rows and rows of people waiting to enter our wonderful country. As soon as I got into the room my stomach began to toss again.
“Gordon, I have to go to the bathroom!” I cried. ”I am going to be sick.”
“Over there,” he said as he guided me to the door. And I was sick. I heaved and heaved. Though nothing came, my body was racked with nausea. When at last my body quieted and I made my way to the door. There before me was an empty room with Gordon standing beside the counter of a large, black Immigration lady. “I can be tired but I can’t be sick,” rang in my mind. “Help me, Jesus, please! Help!” my heart cried out. When I reached the counter, the sweet lady patted my hand. ” You’ll be all right in the morning, honey!” she comforted. Oh, how wonderful! We were in America.
Slowly we made our way to the waiting room of our next flight. It seemed miles away. The attendant there informed Gordon that since we had changed tickets in London we would have to return to the main counter and get new boarding passes. I thought I would cry. “You stay here, honey,” Gordon responded. “I’ll go. It is a couple of hours before the plane leaves. I’ll be back.”
Again I waited and heaved in the bathroom. One hour went by, then more and he didn’t come. My mind was wild with imaginations. Had he collapsed in the hall and they had taken him to the hospital? How would I know? What would happen to me? He had the tickets and passports and the money! I found a phone and called home. Maybe they should meet us at the airport with an ambulance. We were very sick. Pray!!
Gordon finally returned just before the flight was to leave with kind of a silly grin on his face. After a long wait at the counter he had become so tired that he rested his head, covered by his big hat, on the counter. The concerned attendant said, “Sir, please wait over on that chair and I will bring you your tickets.” But they didn’t offer a wheel chair and he didn’t think to ask.
No ambulance awaited us at the airport, but loving friends with a mattress in the back of a Suburban. Surprisingly, we felt pretty good. We even stopped and shared a hamburger at our favorite place on the way home. We were going to be fine!! We were home! But not so! The next wave hit harder! “Gordon, we have to go to the hospital!” I groaned, with a higher fever and more pain. ”
“You go and if they find it is really bad, I’ll come,” he murmured.
Bad…malaria, our Idaho doctor discovered. Nothing like this had ever been seen in our little county hospital. Doctors and nurses crowded in to look at these African germs in the microscope. After 6 days of treatment I was released to go home. Gordon had been allowed to remain home under the watchful care of a friend. It took 6 month to regain our strength. Any little thing would simply drain us, but we were home and safe. Would we return to Africa to face this kiss of death again?
Of course! Two more trips taking the correct malaria medication proved successful. The fourth trip found us confident that we would be fine. We had been busy with our work when one afternoon I became very ill. The old symptoms of malaria hit me very hard! They were all worse than before, but I was on a medical compound that was used to treating this enemy that took so many lives. There would be help…but nothing worked. I could keep nothing down and was so very sick. Groups of people began to come into my room, kneel around the edge of my bed and pray, then leave. I really didn’t care. Gordon asked Jesus, “Will I bury her here?” Nothing mattered. On the fourth day Mary, the wife of our director and a good friend, arrived home after being gone some days. When she heard I was sick, she came bursting into my room like a locomotive. She got on her knees beside my bed and put her big, black hands on me and began to cry out to God. Mary reached heaven and when she finished praying I began to feel better. By the end of the day I was up, and in three days I felt as if I had never been sick! Jesus healed me completely. He was greater than this kiss of death!
July 16, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 1 Comment
The Alaska sun slid toward the horizon, but there was still time in the day for a garage sale. “Really!” Cindy insisted. It would be fun and we didn’t have to stay long. Maybe I would find a little treasure to remember this time here with our friends.
It was late in the day and most of the things were long gone. I wandered aimlessly through the stuff while Cindy seriously shopped. Then I spotted it…this wonderful, big pile of blue denim! It was beautiful brushed denim and a lot of it. “Look at this, Cindy!” I cried. “Isn’t it great!”
“Just for you!” she exclaimed. “Get it!” And I did! As our car neared her home, it hit me full force. What have I done?! Gordon would have a fit! This was yards and yards of heavy material, and we were always so careful to keep our luggage light as we traveled. But it was no problem. Cindy boxed the fabric for shipping and the package made it safely home. There it remained untouched for months.
It was time to pack for our last trip to Nigeria. Gordon’s health was making it very difficult for him to handle the extreme heat, so every ounce counted as we carried many things for other people. When everything was safely tucked inside our luggage, there was still a lot of room and pounds to spare. All I could think of was the blue denim. “Jesus, do you really want me to take that denim to Nigeria?” A firm “Yes” came to me, so in it went.
The sewing classes in Nigeria had started almost as soon as I arrived. There were so many eager students. One class of women and one class for girls filled up many hours of my days. There were 12 to 14 in each class, a real handful, but Ladie was there to help so things were going smoothly. Each woman and girl was making something for a child and then a blouse for herself. I had found some pretty material at the local market that would work just fine for them. That morning I had stroked the beautiful blue denim wondering why in the world had I brought such hot material to this country. It was much too heavy for blouses.
The class of ladies was well underway. Some ladies were cutting out their garments and some had begun to stitch when three boys arrived. It was so strange. At each class a small group of boys would come through, raise a little cane and then leave. What was it all about? It had never happened during other years. Today one of the boys sat down by one of the women and watched her intently. My mind began to whirl! They wanted to learn to sew! In my few words of their language I asked, “Do you want to learn to sew?” His eyes began to dance and he nodded his head. “Then come tomorrow at 3:00 and I will teach you.” I had three slots in the afternoon still free…perfect. The three boys left the class so excited!
Out came the blue denim. Now I knew what it was for. All the way from Alaska Jesus had planned for these boys! We would make shorts. The denim was tough enough for these wild boys. The next day 5 boys arrived!! Oh, my! And no Ladie! Jesus help! As with every class, I prayed with the boys before we started. They didn’t understand, but God did! Lesson one began: scissors! I gave each boy a piece of cheap material and had him draw lines on it about an inch apart. I then demonstrated how to use the scissors. No problem. The first boy eagerly grasped the scissors and began to chop at his material. It didn’t work. I immediately became their hero as I easily cut the first strip. I had their full adoration and I needed it.
It was wild! They were wonderful, fast and very good once they mastered the scissors, but I couldn’t keep up with them. They lacked the virtue of patience and all during class it was: ”Auntie, help me!” My head was spinning! In the next couple of days as we cut, measured and drew out each boy’s shorts, I became exhausted. There were now 10 boys. That evening Yusufu, the director of the compound, stopped by the house. He asked how the classes were going, especially the boys’ class. I explained how good they were. They were the best, but I couldn’t keep up with them and there was little order.
The next day at the beginning of class, Yusufu appeared at the door. It got very quiet. He entered, looked at the boys’ work, spoke a few words to them and then turned to me. “Have the boys line up on that bench when they need help and wait their turn quietly,” Yusufu stated. “If you have any trouble, let me know.” That was it, not just for their class but for all classes, and peace more or less reigned! I was amazed at these young men. I had thought they were from 12 to 15 but Yusufu told me some of them were as old as 19. Because of the poor nutrition, the children matured very slowly.
By the end of the blue denim there 12 boys and 12 pairs of shorts…just enough. When the last pair was cut out, I looked at the denim and the thought came to me: “pockets”. “Boys, do you want pockets?” I asked. “Pockets!” the boys exploded. “Yes!! Yes!!” So I divided the scraps among them and told them they could design their own. It was wonderful! They each had their own idea: pockets in front, pockets in back, pockets up high, pockets down low – even pockets on pockets! Each seam was stitched three times instead of twice like the women had to do. When the elastic was in the first completed pair of shorts, the young man slipped behind the building to try them on. He came swaggering into the classroom and a cheer went up! Each boy’s shorts were celebrated in such a manner. They were thrilled for one another and I was thrilled for them all. They had stolen my heart away!
My last day at the compound, there on my front porch sat my boys! They stayed there almost all day. What a gift from Jesus they were to me…boys in blue denim.
July 8, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 0 Comments
Two years had slipped by and once again I walked the grounds of the medical clinic in Nigeria. So much had happened since I had left. The directors had informed me that they felt the sewing classes were very valuable to the people and some of the evangelists could gain an income to help support their families if they or their wives could become tailors. A program had been sponsored in Finland to purchase Chinese treadle sewing machines and to hire a tailor who would instruct six students for six months. The students would live on the compound during their training.
The cool wind brushed my face as I hurried toward the tailor class room. I was so excited to see what they were learning. A neatly dress little lady, Mamma Kinkdink greeted me solemnly as I entered the class room. There was Rebekka and a couple of other students I knew, heads bent low over their machines, feet flying. I watched in amazement for a few minutes and then the Mamma Kinkdink took me to a little room next door where 1oo pound bags of cement had been stored during the previous years. There on the walls in little clusters of six were miniature tops and pants formed out of old cement sacks. Each student had made their own set of patterns out of the paper and now they were making real clothes to sell from these patterns. It was amazing!!
When we returned to the classroom, Mamma Kinkdink motioned for me to take over the class. No, no, I didn’t begin to have the skills that she did to teach these students. We found an interpreter and I learned that she had been expecting me, the big white lady, to come and take her job away. I told her what a wonderful work she was doing and that I could not do the things she was teaching. Yes, I could sew but I could not look at a certain style of blouse, measure the lady and make that blouse for her. She could and was teaching her students to do that very thing. I was here a short time and I wanted to teach ladies how to hand sew. She was very happy and so was I.
The next Saturday arrived and Rebekka came to my door. She wanted me to come with her to the village center for it was market day. “What could this be?” I questioned, but followed along down the dusty road. There to my great surprise was a row of four sewing machines under a grass roof. They offered me the log behind them to sit on and watch. The people started to come and beside each sewing machine a huge pile of clothing began to grow. The people went off to do their shopping and visiting and would return to collect their mended garments for a few cents. The machines hummed along, the newly trained tailors laughed and talked and were very happy to make a little money as they fixed these piles of clothes. No more clothes falling apart.
Tears came to my eyes as I watched in wonder. Soon these machines would go to different villages and evangelist families could afford better food. The village would have new clothes and old ones mended. Jesus, you work in such precious ways so far beyond my understanding!
June 25, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 0 Comments
December 1990
My mind was in a whirl as we returned to Nigeria on our second trip. Now I had a purpose even though I still had no interpreter! I would teach sewing to these precious sisters. The staff there was very excited about new skills for their people.
Things had changed and we now had a new meeting hall in which to hold classes. It was round just like their homes and had a big round table in the middle.
The room was filled with women from the compound and new women from the church. Oh Jesus, help! How would I manage helping all of these desperate-to-learn ladies? Most carried babies, so we began once again making simple baby shirts. It was easier this time and the women were patient as they waited in line for my personal help.
It was 2 weeks before Christmas when the baby shirts were finished and we began the exciting project of making each woman a blouse. Christmas was a big occasion when a husband might sell a sack of corn and they just maybe, would get a new wrap and blouse…the only new clothes they would get for the year. What an exciting time it was!
Ladie James was one of the older women and so very hungry to learn. She excelled in her work and watched me intensely. She handled the scissors well, followed instructions, and her stitches were small and even - top of the class. She, too, held a baby on her lap that nursed quietly as she sewed. Four other children remained at home.
The day before Christmas there was no class and all of the blouses remained with me…none finished, as I didn’t understand the great desire for something new for the Christmas services which were all night tonight and most of the day tomorrow. In the early afternoon I heard a faint noise outside my house. When I went to see what it could be, much to my surprise there was Ladie. With the plea in her eyes and motions of her hands I understood she wanted to sew on her blouse. The remainder of the afternoon and until it was too dark to see, her fingers swiftly formed the tiny stitches to complete her blouse. She would have a Christmas blouse.
Years continued and Ladie remained at my side even assisting me with beginning classes. I grew to love her very much! The last year as we arrived I spotted Ladie in the market with a tray of bananas on her head. “Strange,” I thought, “what is Ladie doing selling bananas?” She came running after the car to welcome me. The story came out.
Earlier in the year her husband had presented her with a slip of paper stating he was divorcing her. He was taking a younger wife. This was a very common practice in the area. A woman lived in great fear that her husband would put her out for another younger woman. Ladie now had her five children to try to support and was living in an abandoned hut the church had helped her fix up a little.
My heart cried out for her! How could I help, Jesus? Again I was holding sewing classes. This year there would be 3 classes: an advanced group of ladies, a beginning class of girls and to my great surprise and joy, a wild class of boys. I needed help as every minute was full. Ladie became my hired assistant. It wasn’t enough to support her family but it helped. Then to my great joy Yusufu, the director, suggested a small salary could be given to Ladie for traveling to the different villages with the medical mobile clinic to teach sewing as the medical team worked in the village. Oh, how wonderful! I was leaving blessed Nigeria for the last time, but the work would continue through my precious Ladie. It all started with the Christmas blouse!
June 4, 2009 - Posted by Emily - 1 Comment
For hours we had bounced over the trail that passed for a road with Jonathan in the clinic’s old Land Rover. We were headed for the mountains that bordered Nigeria and Cameroon. The Mumuye people had long ago come over these mountains to settle in Nigeria. They were a people much to be feared and had been cannibals until not many years ago.
We were on an adventure with Jonathan and Rebekka. It was market day in the village that lay ahead and they were in need of 10 gallon clay pots that would be half buried in the ground and used to store water. This trip would give us the opportunity to see some of the most remote country in the area. As we neared the village, people filed along the road carrying all kinds of goods on their heads to be sold at market. A main staple ”doya”, 2 foot long potatoes, tied in bundles balanced on some heads. Live chickens in bunches, carried by their legs were the property of some fine owner. Baskets piled high with red tomatoes proceeded down the trail, but mostly the great pots of homemade beer frothing over and running down hot bodies of the women were the main attraction.
As we neared the market place much to my surprise an old grandma came jogging down the road. Her market attire was only a few fresh green leaves on a string around her waist. A few covered her in the front and a few covered her backside. She was clean and looked very well kept. The wheels in my brain began to spin!! So this was the reason why these people looked so awkward in clothes!
Since I had arrived, I had held my breath as I viewed women in the compound and village. They all wore long pieces of material in their bright colors wrapped around their waists. The Christian ladies wore second hand blouses they gleaned from markets or missionary barrels. But these blouses were a wonder! I was always wondering when the one or two buttons that held them together would pop and all would come forth. These women nursed babies from the time they were girls until they were older women. They would nurse their babies until they were 3 or so, hoping not to become pregnant again for awhile. This was the best and cleanest source of food these children had and God had gifted these women well. Non Christian women wore no tops. A breast was as common as a hand. Many little children didn’t wear clothes.
All around me I saw clothes in much need of repair! Last Sunday had topped the list. In a small village a proud pastor had led the service in a nice blue suit only, to my dismay, when he turned around the whole back seam was out.
Now I knew the secret. These people were just not used to wearing clothes. I thought to myself, “How many generations have my ancestors been wearing clothes? But these poor souls are just beginning.” Grandma in her nice green leaves really looked quite acceptable.
Jesus how can we help them honorably make the change?