Madagascar has 3000 miles of coastline, much of it is like that wondrous beach on the peripheral island of Nosy Mitsio: exotic, beautiful, and sparsely populated – the stuff of tourist resorts. Madagascar is a fascinating place. An island 1000 miles long and 350 miles wide, it sits undisturbed off the southeast edge of the African continent. It is both so large and so diverse that some consider it to be a micro-continent in its own right – home to a truly vast array of plants and animals, many of them found nowhere else on Earth.

Historians believe the island was first settled around the same time Jesus was born. And even though Madagascar is only a couple hundred miles from the African mainland, it was, remarkably, first settled from the east, by seafaring Polynesians who crossed the expanse of the Indian Ocean in outrigger canoes, likely originating from present day Borneo. The descendants of these first settlers are the Merina people, Madagascar’s largest ethnic group, who are concentrated in the highlands and hold most of the positions of authority and influence in the society. Their dialect is the official language Madagascar’s people, broadly known as the Malagasy.

Over time, settlers from the African continent arrived along the western coast, and in the north, Arab traders. The French colonized the island in 1883 and the people of Madagascar eventually broke away and gained full independence in 1960 – becoming a nation.

But in the narrative of Madagascar’s history, which includes colorful stories of pirate ships and sunken treasure, as well as cruel tales from the slave trade, the defining element was perhaps the 103-year Merina monarchy – an epoch that ended with the arrival of the French, but had lasting consequences for Malagasy society and, most notably, the condition of the Church.

As the Merina subjugated other people groups in the early 1800′s, they brought with them their culture and ideas, and even the newly translated Bible. Mainline, denominational churches followed the spread of Merina influence. But for some of the other ethnic peoples, the whole of Merina culture was coldly received. And even though many eventually submitted, they maintained a suspicion and distaste for anything Merina that persists to this day; and unfortunately the Church was thrown in with the rest of it.

Madagascar is officially considered to be 40% Christian, but the number of Evangelical Christians is much smaller. And this remaining percent faces tremendous odds in reaching their own people. To Madagascar’s unreached, the existing Church is foreign. It speaks a foreign dialect. It is an establishment of an untrusted people group. And, perhaps most telling of all, it is seemingly powerless in the face of a dark and crushing undercurrent in Malagasy society, the true religion of the island: Animism.

MAKING VOWS
Tuesday is a taboo day, and the Sakalava people in Nosy Be – another small island off the northwest coast – are not entirely sure why. It is a custom handed down to them from generations ago, from their ancestors. This particular taboo is basically a sabbath, a restriction against doing any traditional work like planting rice or fishing. But it does not apply to the activity of receiving visitors, which was fortunate since our team arrived on a Tuesday. We sat with the elders, and many of the other men, women, and children in the village and asked them what it meant to be Sakalava.

The Sakalava are one of the largest people groups in Madagascar. They are found throughout the entire western plain of the country and on some of the smaller islands, nearly a million strong all together. Their ancestry has closer ties with Africa than Asia, and so they are both visibly and culturally distinct from the Merina.

But one common element across cultures is that Madagascar is a land of kings and queens; and the Sakalava are especially proud of their heritage. From ancient and unquestioned customs, to the misadventures and heroics of a long line of royals, we learned how the Sakalava kings of old set the stage for everything we saw today. What was surprising to learn however, was how these departed kings and queens still had influence over their people today – in very tangible, and sometimes frightening ways.

“Our ancestors were the first to live here,” one old man from the village told us. “We are still doing what they did. They left us three sacred places to go to for healing. We have grown up with this. It is good for us.”

The Malagasy are widely known for their ancestor worship. They believe that the dead are never really departed, and this is especially true of dead royalty. These “spirits” may embody inanimate objects like trees and rocks and lakes to which a person can go and converse with the ancestors. This activity is so closely wed to daily life that it has created a landscape of “sacred sites” all over the island – from prominent natural wonders to small hand-crafted shrines in the center of every village.

The spirits may also embody living people, mediums, whom when possessed will take on the character of the long-dead ancestor and literally interact with the village in real time. But the people caution that they never really know what they will get. When seeking advice from the ancestors, they may instead be ambushed by a fickle, fitful spirit – perhaps a resurrected witch doctor – with ill intent.

At the heart of this type of spirituality is a system of bargaining with intermediaries. For the Sakalava, god is a distant idea, and the idea of a gracious God who intimately cares about them is even farther from their experience. So they must go to the spirits. They bargain with them. They visit the sacred Tamarind tree on the edge of the village, bow before it and place an offering of rum or money in the tangle of its roots. There they make a plea – for something mundane like a new oar for their boat, or for something profound like a child’s life. They make a deal. Make a vow.

“If I get this thing, I will kill a cow here. I will buy fabric and clothe the tree. I will protect this sacred place.”

And it is taboo to not keep a vow. A person may get sick as a result – a kind of retribution from the spirit world. The whole village might even suffer some awful consequence.

One might be tempted to dismiss these traditions as harmless superstition, like throwing salt over one’s should after spilling it. But there is a serious reality beneath the Animism of Madagascar. It is truly spiritual, demonic even.

As our Sakalava host explained, “It is beyond something that you can see.”

But what I could see, in the few moments when our conversations with the Sakalava drew more intimate and inward, was a deep-set uncertainty about life. Amidst the backdrop of a beautiful village in a beautiful setting were a people of downcast eyes. Captive. Bound. Sad.

MAKING A STAND
From the minute we stumbled ashore at Nosy Mitsio and declared it a paradise, we knew that it wasn’t. For the same dark undercurrent we found running through the Sakalava culture was also here. And what at first looked like an uninhabited island, was in fact the cultural birthplace of the Antakarana people – a cousin group to the Sakalava.

The Antakarana have an epic story. They are known as the “people of the rocks” because of the treacherous limestone massif in northern Madagascar to which they fled during the years of the Merina advance. So determined were they to remain separate from the Merina people, they hid in caves for over a year, fought a bloody resistance, and ultimately made a daring escape. Some of the Antakarana stayed behind and accepted the Merina rule, but a group of them, led by the king, secretly maneuvered their tiny canoes through a maze of a mangrove forest and fearlessly burst out into the open sea. They sailed, and they landed here, on this very same J-shaped island where we stood half-wet and awestruck at the tail end of our survey trip.

In their hasty escape, the Antakarana made a dangerous bargain. Before they set out, they summoned the spirits of their ancestors and begged for supernatural protection. And in return, if every single Antakarana made it safely, they vowed to follow the religion of the Arab traders – they and all the Antakarana who followed after them.

The remnant intended to make their last stand on that island. They expected the Merina to continue the pursuit and finish them off. But the Merina never came. So the king chose a special place to honor his vow. In a sandy clearing close to the beach, the people laid down a jumble of large stones, sacred stones from the caves on the mainland, and made an offering of themselves. They became Muslims.

MAKING INROADS
As we traversed the island with Daniel Zagami, AIM’s Madagascar Unit Leader, we visited as many of the small villages as could be found. We sat with the sitting King of the Antakarana, in the shadow of those sacred stones which embodied the spirits of past kings, and we were warmly welcomed.

But here, just like among the Sakalava, a spiritual heaviness hung over us. The Antakarana, Muslim in name and half-hearted observances of Islam, were still wholeheartedly Animistic.

One afternoon we set out to climb the highest hill on Nosy Mitsio, and from it we could see nothing but ocean in every direction. It was a picture of utter isolation. Standing there I thought about how an island was something like a human heart separated from its Creator.

“It’s like they’ve gone too far.” Daniel said.

The Antakarana made such an effort to isolate themselves: From the Merina culture, from the mainland peoples, from the world. And it’s like they’ve gone too far, and God cannot be found anymore.

But as Daniel looked out over the island, he imagined the ministry teams that would one day come to this place: TIMO teams that would travel to Madagascar’s distant shores, brave the ocean journey, be tossed and sea-sprayed and awestruck, to make that same beachhead we made, but to stay.

There is no church here. And there can never be a Merina church here. But will there ever be an Antakarana church? Will they ever be free from the dark spiritism of their past?

As I sat and watched Daniel draw maps on scraps of paper and think aloud the possibilities and strategies, I knew the answer was yes. Because there’s no such thing as an island too far – not for TIMO, and certainly not for God.

“The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners.”
–Isaiah 61:1

“I’m not good with names,” she said, her German accent punctuating each vowel. “But right now there are 150 kids at Safina and I can tell you the name of every child and where they go to school.”

That’s an impressive feat considering none of those kids actually live within the physical walls of Safina’s property. The Social Services office in Dodoma, Tanzania holds fast to the illusion that there will always be enough family members to care for displaced children. Therefore, they are repulsed by the suggestion of a government sponsored orphanage. So every day Andrea and her team open their doors to offer a hearty meal and a short devotional to any child who survived the night. “Food builds rapport”, she reasons.  “Most won’t tell the truth about their life on the first visit. We need them to come back regularly in order to help them. They will always come back to eat.”

It isn’t long before each child comes to see Safina as a safe place. Unlike their life on the streets, there is no pressure here—no caveats, no refusals. In fact, Andrea recounts many times pursuing the children even when they have been arrested. Taking a personal interest in their welfare, however delinquent, makes Safina the only figure of stability these kids may know. Abandoning them to a corrupt justice system rarely promotes rehabilitation, and certainly not independence. By teaching and modeling Christ, even within discipline, Andrea and her team give these kids a whole new picture of who they can become.

The evolution of a lost child’s hope

There are times when family members can become a powerful advocate for an orphan if assisted with things like school fees and healthcare needs. Therefore, Safina always seeks to restore the family unit first. Unfortunately, the undertones of each child’s history can significantly complicate their future.

“Bahati was physically ill with fear as we approached his village” Andrea explains, reminiscing over a photo taken when he first arrived at Safina. Considering his background, she knew his anxiety was warranted. Still, she prayed for a miracle as they journeyed closer to his past.

After gathering information from various family members, however, the possibilities for Bahati faded. His parents had died, leaving him with a disgruntled elder sister and her husband. Unwilling to care for him but being left with no choice, Bahati’s sister simply refused to feed him. The dishonor bestowed on the family when he was forced to steal his daily bread required discipline. “We tied him to a tree and beat him,” the family told Andrea, “but even that didn’t help”.

Within weeks of coming to Safina, Bahati begged to go to school. Being well aware of his fate should he return to his village, Andrea’s team located a supportive family who would care for his daily needs while Safina funded his education. “You see now he’s always smiling” she boasts, watching a progression in his pictures. Ruminating his victories, Bahati’s joy reflects on Andrea’s face.

A battle for the mind

It’s not hard to understand why these children come to Safina. It’s the lure of escaping reality, even if only for a meal. In recent months, however, Andrea and her team have discovered kids turning to new escape mechanisms. One affordable lure for street kids is sniffing glue, a readily available inhalant that dulls the mind and senses. Before the issue became epidemic, the local hospitals were willing to hold those coming from jail cells for a few days of rehabilitation before turning them over to groups like Safina. However, as the habit overwhelms the streets, resources and expertise are vanishing and the hospitals are now refusing to treat addicted children.

“There’s nowhere for them to go right now,” Andrea says, her eyes exposing her heart’s distress. “We want to help but we are out of space and would need a unique staff to handle detox programs.”

The success rate for rehabilitating glue addicts depends entirely on how long they have been exposed. Andrea struggles with the obvious need and her own desires to offer a solution before it’s too late. For her, each child that enters Safina represents the potential for a regenerate life. She knows that if these kids choose Christ at a young age, their experience empowers them to minister to those who follow. These kids become a crucial part of the hope for Christ centered churches in Africa. But in Dodoma, Tanzania, it’s a race for their hearts and their minds.

Safina Street Kids Network has been reaching children of Tanzania with the Gospel for fourteen years. Every day they paint another gray canvas with the color and beauty of Jesus’ blood. But as glue sniffing and other temptations lure these children back into the streets, one could easily put quotes around the thoughts few of us can bear to verbalize:

“How many will be lost before they see the hope of Christ’s healing hand?”

by Jami Staples

Family-style orphan care isn’t exactly a new concept.  If I briefly view myself as an orphan, I quickly realize that God’s solution for a world full of disoriented toddlers is a family unit.  There’s a mother and father figure for leadership and guidance, siblings for personal growth and development, and of course extended family members, just to make Christmas dinner interesting.  As early as Adam and Eve  “family-style” has been proclaiming itself as the model approach to child rearing.  So what, then, makes Mavuno Village appear so innovative?

As I listened to Dan and Bethany discuss the plight of orphans in Tanzania, I was somewhat shocked at my own fascination with their vision for Mavuno.  Why did the concept of family-style orphan care sound so monumental?  Then I realized that I was having trouble holding the elusive notion of “family” in my politically correct palms.  In so many countries the idea of a family unit is convoluted at best.  Likewise in Tanzania, the Tanners explained, the members of a family come and go as if they are woven together with elastic thread.  Father (a term, by the way, serving only as a physiological description) finds a job and several female companions in distant cities leaving the mother (defined as the one who gave birth but may or may not actually parent) to resolve the lack of income with starvation in whatever means profitable.  On holiday, when they may all be together for a brief period, Mom and Dad pretend monogamy is still the standard.  But the comings and goings of both parties subjects the “family” to discord and disease.  Before you know it there are five children from various, and perhaps infected, gene pools sharing the days only meal.  Then the news arrives: Dad has died of “unknown causes”.  The burden of hopelessness pushes Mom over the edge.  Once Grandma realizes Mom is not coming back from her quest for help in a nearby village, the children are abandoned like unwanted puppies, but without primal instincts.  The extended family offers their sympathies to Grandma.  After all, who can expect a 65 year old widow to care for five more mouths?  So each child begins a life dependent on compassion and hand-outs, oblivious to the edifying gift of a days hard-earned wage.

Now, ask one of those children the definition of “family”.  Ask them to explain the role of a father or a mother.   Ask them what they want to be when they grow up.  Ask them to identify with God, our Heavenly Father.  For the 980,000 orphans in Tanzania, their past is a mirror to their future.   But for the 35 children currently under the care of Mavuno Village, these questions have new answers filled with the luxury of hope.

Mavuno Village is all about going back to the basics.  “We wanted to give these orphans an environment that would enable them to be godly, self-sufficient citizens of Tanzania”  Bethany tells me.  “We knew that just taking care of their physical needs would not accomplish that – we had to do more”.  So Dan and Bethany designed a plan that aims to redefine “family” for every member.

John and Milka Mbugua are currently serving as the ministry’s prototype.  Less than 2 years ago they were invited to move into a four bedroom concrete home built on Mavuno’s 200 acres of lakeside property.  Within a year they received nine children; five 4 year olds, two 5 year olds, a girl who is 10 and a boy also aged 10.  In order for these children to grow up with an understanding of work ethic, leadership, and the persona of God, the Tanners believe John must be employed and empowered to model that for his kids.  Therefore, the vision of Mavuno Village is to build a home for each qualifying couple and immediately give them a plot of land for them to farm.  Through the process of professional and spiritual discipleship, Dan will teach the men to plant and harvest unique crops that can be sold locally and exported internationally; like sunflowers, mangos, loquat, and the increasingly lucrative, Moringa Tree.  They even have their own dairy barn to provide fresh milk for each family on the premises.  Mr. Mbugua is currently serving in an administrative role for the ministry.  But on the weekends you will find him, his wife and their children in the garden.  Together John and Milka teach their kids to plant seeds under little mounds of untreated soil, cover them with grass, and nourish each crop using water from Lake Victoria, just a stones-throw away.  In a more subtle manner, though quite by design, John and Milka are also planting something deeper inside each little life.  The seeds of hard work, God’s provision, moral accountability, and the concept of family, are strong sprouts already taking root in the adoring eyes and peaceful smiles of each child.

As the mother of two boys, I can only marvel at Milka’s outstanding ability to thrive in her role as Mom and teacher.  Every morning her quiet spirit patiently instructs all six of the little ones around a 3×5 foot wooden table.  In her concrete school room, there’s absolute silence as each child stares at Milka respectfully, waiting for their individualized assignments.  As a family, they quietly celebrate each other’s every victory by singing a “good job” song and clapping in delight.  For Milka, education of these little ones is not only about learning the ABC’s.  Teaching them to value one another as brothers and sisters, respect her as their figure of authority, and praise God for their daily bread is a job she described to me as “awesome and tiresome”.  After some much needed nap time, they all march down to their garden so the kids can be (muddy) kids and Milka can tend to the weeding.  Often you will find Bethany there, tending her own veggies.  It is imperative that the mothers of these orphans are supported with Biblical and practical mentoring from their sister-in-the-Lord.  And what better classroom for a mother of nine to learn about the essential ingredients for growth, than in the middle of a garden toiling beside a veteran “gardener”?

The tan Land Cruiser bounced and jostled as I struggled to photograph the breathtaking landscape Mavuno calls home.  Meanwhile, Dan paints for me a picture of what is to come.  On every hillside there is a watermark – a soccer field here, a primary school over there, a dorm for short-term missions teams situated just next to the current office building.  The framing has already begun for two more homes waiting for new families.

Each evening I sat in the Tanner’s home and listened to the hope-filled futures behind each painful story of the Mavuno kids.  Ericki and his brother, Besa, for example, ages 8 and 11 respectively, were rejected by every relative after both parents died.  They spent months on the street begging for their next meal before coming to Mavuno and into the Madata family.  I was there – I saw them as they came home from school and sang songs about Paul and Silas with their “sisters”.  I marveled as these, once self-made, boys obeyed their “mother” with respect and confidence.

Mavuno Village is still in its infancy.  Every day they look for provision and direction from the Lord and every day they find it.  But recently they also found an exciting measure of success.  “Not long ago,” Dan tells me, staring shyly at his hands, “we asked 4 year old Michael Mbugua what he wanted to be when he grows up”.  He pauses, and Bethany, making no effort to hide her emotion, continues, “Michael didn’t even bat an eye.  He looked right at us and said ‘I want to be a daddy’!”

by Jami Staples

**Currently all Mavuno children are supported by sponsors.  The monthly contributions go to the child’s family to care for the unique needs of each child.  To learn more about supporting Mavuno Village or to sponsor a child, please visit their web site at www.mavunovillage.org

Written words are patient things. Once they find their form in so many sentences and are bound into books, they wait. They remain unchanged in the fleeting breadth of a human lifespan, and untouched in the devastation of a human conflict. It may be decades before a book once neglected is turned open again and its words are absorbed as they were meant to be. When that time comes they will still fulfill their purpose – but only if the words can be read and understood.

AIM missionary Martha Hughell could not have known what lay ahead when she bound up the words of the New Testament in the Otuho language in 1969. Her translation had taken 17 long years of patient labor, and when she retired she did so with the satisfaction of knowing the Lotuho people of Southern Sudan finally had the Word of God in their mother tongue, even if only few could read the language at the time. The church embraced the translation and volumes spread in the years between Sudan’s first and second civil wars. But those years were short and by 1983 the Lotuho homeland was engulfed in conflict once again.

By the time peace returned, 22 years had passed; nearly two million Sudanese had lost their lives, and an even greater number had been scattered. Some ended up in neighboring countries as refugees, others simply fled over the next mountain ridge and waited – wandered and waited for decades while the war ran its course.

Many of Sudan’s social structures suffered during this time, and the schools were no exception. Among the varied international relief efforts addressing each emerging crisis in the country, there were those who saw the importance of education as a stabilizing force in the conflict, and as a hope for any future beyond it. So there beside the drama of a protracted African war, beside the aid workers, peacekeepers, and pallets of relief food, were teachers. And some of them were missionaries.

Russ and Lyn were living in Juba, Southern Sudan’s principle city, when the war began. Both had come with AIM to teach in the schools; Russ was from urban New York, Lyn from the county of Kent in England. Juba, where they first met, was unlike either of those places. The town was oppressively hot, set on the western bank of the Nile in the southernmost part of Sudan. Juba was also a hub of war-time activity and a safe haven for relief efforts. This allowed both Russ and Lyn to continue in their ministries despite the steadily unraveling situation around them.

For two single missionaries in such a place at such a time, the assignment was a bonding experience. Russ and Lyn shared more than just a unique knowledge of which roads in Juba had land mines. They shared a genuine love for teaching. And they were both curiously persistent – stubborn perhaps – in their desire to serve the Sudanese people.

But by the late 80’s, Juba was under siege. By 1990, most Western workers had either left or been evacuated, including Russ and Lyn. They landed in Nairobi and, not surprisingly, were married there that same year.

When asked how a lady from Kent ends up married to a man from Queens, Lyn smiles and declares in her soft-spoken way, “The war threw us together.”

And together, they were doubly persistent.

“When I came,” Lyn says, “I knew this was a place I could spend the rest of my life. The calling was specific. The circumstances, not so much.” Russ’ story is much the same. So they simply followed their calling and worked around the circumstances.

When living in Sudan was no longer an option, the Nobles based themselves in Kenya and made frequent returns across the border. When AIM pulled all their missionaries from rebel-held areas, Russ and Lyn found a way back in with an Africa-based church ministry. When the mission planes quit flying due to insecurity, they found a ride on UN chartered planes instead. They continued to focus on teacher-training. They developed training modules and then carefully skirted conflict areas and held workshops over month-long trips to rural villages and towns in scattered locations in the South.

In all of these places, the Nobles were witness to the deterioration of the education system, which in rural areas was already little established. Sudan, it seemed, had a more fundamental problem than struggling schools and displaced students. The teachers were few and inexperienced, and many of them lacked basic literacy skills in their own language.

Literacy is like a living thing. Children who read are taught by adults who themselves can read. It is a skill that trickles down from generation to generation, and when the cycle is broken, a people group can become functionally illiterate in a very short time. The war in Sudan disrupted education to such a degree that an entire generation was being left behind. The official literacy rate in Sudan today stands at 27%, but in parts of South Sudan adult literacy is as low as 5-10% among women. Either way, these are some of lowest literacy rates in the world.

The discovery of this trend caused the Nobles to take a step back and refocus their efforts on a ministry of helping the Sudanese teach literacy to their own people.

In its simplest definition, literacy is the ability to read and write. But it’s also a doorway to further life skills – simple things like writing a letter, counting money, or casting a vote with some knowledge of how it will affect your future. Literacy is also the key to education. It’s been estimated that a 15 year old girl in South Sudan has a higher chance of dying in childbirth than of finishing primary school. But even more, literacy is a doorway to the Word of God, which a literate person can read for themselves and be transformed.

For the past ten years the Noble’s ministry has been all about this. Russ and Lyn have touched on as many as nine different people groups and languages since they began, promoting literacy and leaving a trail of self-sustaining literacy classes all over South Sudan. But how do you facilitate literacy in a language you don’t speak?

“We’re not linguists,” Russ explains, “They know the language, we bring the expertise.”

That expertise comes in the form of training and equipping volunteer literacy teachers who are chosen by the local church. The volunteers then go out into the communities and run literacy classes for a season – a couple hours a day, a couple days a week. It is a slow and patient effort. But what may look to be a very simple process is in reality moving through many complex steps toward something that transcends the process: a man or woman who can read their own language for the first time.

Russ and Lyn moved back into Sudan in 2007, excited to begin the process again. This time God led them to the Lotuho people who have, in recent peaceful years, been returning to their homeland.

Next door to the Noble’s house on the AIC church compound in Torit is a small literacy office in mild disarray. Shelves and foot-lockers crammed with written materials. Pamphlets and booklets. Little readers in a dozen languages. Storyboards and blackboards. On Russ’ desk is an incomplete Bible story he’s working on with a translation helper. On Lyn’s is a scattering of Otuho letters on hand-printed index cards. On top of shelves and under tables in stacks are tattered boxes filled with copies of the Otuho New Testament.

In the Nobles’s front yard is a temporary classroom of poles and tarps. As many as twenty literacy teachers come for a two-week training course that may be their first or their fifth. They learn the techniques of teaching others to read and write. They practice reading aloud and writing legibly. Russ gives a lesson on what it feels like to be pre-literate. He invents a new way of writing English with strange symbols and stumps the class. The learners will need patient teachers, he explains.

“Many new learners do not even know how to open a book, turn a page, or hold a pencil.”

Each graduate of the course leaves wearing a bright new T-shirt with the Otuho alphabet printed on the back. Each new class they start in the community will get a footlocker full of reading material designed to take the learners from tracing letters to reading God’s Word.

Leaning against a tree in the village is a make-shift blackboard. And under the tree is an eager group of learners – mostly adults and mostly women. They sit in a semi-circle on woven mats in the dust and watch the teacher inscribe the symbols of their mother tongue with a stub of chalk. The teacher makes the sounds and the learners repeat them. They laugh at themselves and light up as connections are made between symbols and speech.

In a more advanced class, one learner holds a primer in her hands while an infant slings at her side. She stands at front and reads aloud to the group, stumbles once or twice, but ultimately triumphs. On the sidelines the Nobles are watching during one of their regular visits to encourage the class, and even Russ is excited about the progress. A year ago they were learning letters. In a year or two they will be reading the Bible – the one waiting since 1969 to be read.

In helping people access the Bible for themselves, Russ describes their ministry as “one piece to the puzzle in building the church in South Sudan.” But it is likely more than that. The whole process is itself a parable of patient love. It is a translator giving a lifetime to encode the Scriptures into a new and cumbersome language. It’s missionaries like Russ and Lyn making many returns to a war-torn nation in a tireless effort to train teachers and develop materials for the learners. It’s a literacy teacher, his hand wrapped around the hand of his sister and pressed against a blackboard as they, together, trace out the letters of the alphabet in Otuho or Dinka or Nuer. And it is God, who has promised that his Word will not return to Him empty, and who is infinitely patient in waiting.

As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire.—Isaiah 55:10-11

by Mike Delorenzo

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When the Wiltons were able to return in 1999, they came back determined to build on whatever remained. Physically, they didn’t find much. Their house had been been stripped by looters; one lone doorframe was left, the windows were gone, and everything of earthly value was taken. But spiritually, Adi was very much alive. There were some who had carried off the Wiltons’ possessions saying, “No, bwana Wilton is never coming back, this is mine now.” But there were others who remained faithful to the ministry and the missionaries they loved. Glenn remembered how one old man came back with a mixing bowl and proudly told him he had saved it for Mrs. Wilton, that he knew they would return. One pastor was in the middle of a sermon when Glenn, who had just returned, walked into the church unannounced. The pastor fell silent, then said, “They say it is death to come to Congo. But nevertheless, here is Mr. Wilton, come back to live with us!” Today, Glenn and Sandy are still living with the Kakwa. Their ministry is thriving as they continue to meet a wide range of spiritual and physical needs.

From the first morning I spent in Adi, I was impressed by how much can be done with so little. When Glenn returned after the war, he found the ancient rusting hulk of the tractor he first brought from Canada completely vandalized. With very little mechanical knowledge, he managed to rebuild the tractor and today it provides an invaluable service: road repair.

Roads in Congo are built flat, and after a few rains the water cuts twisty paths along their length that make them impassable. So Glenn spends some of his days riding back and forth under the beating sun to raise the center and create channels along the sides; the result is roads that will last. People understand and appreciate this, stopping to wave or give a thumbs-up as Glenn passes. The tractor also aids in Glenn’s ongoing effort to restore the old AIM airstrip a stone’s throw from their house. Glenn and his work crew had recently broken through the dense underbrush to complete a road going around the airstrip with hopes of discouraging people from walking on the airstrip itself. The hired workers had cause for celebration that day: The men were tired but happy, and someone suggested we go kill a goat to celebrate. But much work still remains. Glenn hopes that some day Adi will serve as a regional hub for air operations, bringing planes that could serve the local hospital and reach neighboring communities like Bunia and Aba.

Glenn is also a brick-maker and a builder. To date he has built homes for seventeen Bible institute students and three teachers’ families, not to mention shoring up the foundation of the local church, a building dating – like the Wilton’s house – from the 1940s and still impressively sound.

With an eye on the spiritual foundations of the Church, the Wiltons have been working for years to complete a Bible concordance and full-fledged hymnbook in Bangala, a language spoken by over a million Africans in DRCongo, Central Africa Republic, and Sudan. Over the past ten years the Wiltons have been addressing this broad need, one that that goes beyond Adi to the surrounding regions: the development of Christian literature in the mother tongue of the people.

The problem, Glenn explains, is that “these are a people just barely coming out of an oral language tradition.” They are not yet able to benefit from Christian resources printed in English. So the Wiltons have been devoting much of their time to provide resources that fill the gap. Along with the help of a local literature-writing committee and several Kakwa men whom they are training, the Wiltons write, print, collate, wrap, and distribute Bangala Bible school books and Christian education materials for local churches. They offer resources for young couples and even publish a “youth Bible reading card” along with thought-provoking questions on the daily readings.

The publishing process is quite labor-intensive; there are no professional printer services or copier technicians here. The Wiltons rely on much older technology: Gestetner machines and mechanically-created stencil copies, which are easier to maintain and more cost-effective than buying hundreds of toner cartridges. This is a labor of love, a labor that requires patience and daily devotion. I watched in the evenings as Glenn was sitting at his dimly-lit dining room table stapling pages together and then painstakingly tapping the staples flat with a hammer, hundreds of them, so that the little books wouldn’t become unbound over time.

Such devotion – in the building of a road or in the binding of a book – is hard to find. Devotion to the spiritual growth of a people at a remote outpost in the Congo is even more rare. As the Wiltons prepare for retirement next September, I am left wondering, what’s next now that they’ve come full circle and reached the end of the road? The answer is clear: Like Glenn’s workers on the airstrip, you can’t just celebrate what’s done; you go around again.

As the church in Congo matures, it still needs spiritual partners to come alongside it and bless it. Glenn and Sandy could not have rebuilt their ministry upon returning after the war but for the neighbors and friends who came to their door to help them. “We cannot walk away deaf from what’s been built,” Glenn declares. We cannot abandon the church during its growing process after a tumultuous period because we were asked to make painful sacrifices for their sake. Taking Christ’s example, we need to be willing to persevere with those whom we love, letting faith in God’s omnipotence and not the seemingly insurmountable challenges of our circumstances determine our hope in the future.

After thirty years of ministry at Adi, Glenn Wilton has a good idea of what’s required – and what’s not – to serve God in such a place. What kind of person is God looking for? “Before they were like Abraham,” Glenn whispers and shakes his head in amazement and respect for the missionaries who came long ago. Even looking one generation back, Glenn is amazed at what unskilled missionaries could accomplish. “I look at this church,” he says pointing to the local building, “it still stands straight today. I ask myself, how did they do that six decades ago? The things they did…the things they dared to do!”

God is not looking for giants among men. Those who came yesterday were made of the same stuff as you and I, and God is still in the business of doing miracles. He is looking merely for Abrahams. People willing to make a leap of faith, believing that God will provide and equip you as we trust in Him. “It’s about where God calls you,” Glenn says, “to the exclusion of all else.” Chuckling, he gestures at the rebuilt tractor, the cabinets he fashioned, the doors he welded, and the bricks he has made. “I’m a high school chemistry teacher!” Almost no one who comes here full time, Glenn maintains, ends up doing only what they came expecting to do. But this does not mean that every missionary must be a jack-of-all-trades. In fact, Glenn insists there are only three characteristics required for a missionary to the Congo: Spiritual maturity. The ability to be flexible – to meet needs and do what needs doing, and not necessarily what you expect would need doing. And the ability to cope with frustration. The rest, Glenn promises, God will provide.

During my final day I couldn’t help but reflect on how even my own short time in Adi demonstrated what Glenn had said. I came as a photographer and writer, but I spent most of every day fixing computers for Glenn, the Bible institute, and the local hospital. The head surgeon even seated me in front of an ultrasound machine, handed me a manual, and asked, “How does this work?” And after much fumbling I gave a seminar in French to the hospital staff on how to use their new machine. As I was packing my bag, I still felt like I had not accomplished very much in my time there. But we do not always see the ways in which God uses us, nor do we always understand how much something seemingly small to us means to the person we do it for. The head pastor in the region came and shook my hand when he learned of the ways I had helped. Glenn later told me he came to greet him and express how happy he was because of “the youth that came.”

Adi, like so many other places in central Africa, is waiting, not for experts or bilingual Ph.D. holders, but for encouragers, for partners, for prayer warriors, and for Abrahams willing to follow God wherever he calls them; from today until the end of their road.

by Kenny Bendiksen

Shoals of minnows known as dagaa surge and seethe along the surface beneath the lantern light. The fishermen work in teams–some boats remain stationary while others circle around drawing the nets in broad arcs. After hauling up the catch, the men return to the islands in the still-dark morning, piling the dagaa on sandy, drying plots–conspicuously clean and maintained among the haphazard sprawl of the camp.

The prize in Lake Victoria has traditionally been the Nile Perch–pale white monsters often weighing over a hundred pounds. But in this Tanzanian archipelago, the perch has been largely fished out, leaving a less-appealing quarry.  Dagaa fishing is not glamorous. It’s humbling and time intensive–raking and drying and protecting the fish for days before you see any return on your labor. And if the rain comes for long, the fish rot, and the the women must sweep them into reeking piles and wait for the next boatloads.

Spiritually, these camps are dark places–lawless clusters of temporary shacks and brothels, rife with AIDS and despair. But AIM missionaries like Bob and Dorothy Matthews, (insert single lady), and Chris and Dale Hamilton live here, called to be ”fishermen” of another sort.  Traveling by boat and by float plane, they host mobile clinics for the sick and marginalized island dwellers of southwest Lake Victoria, demonstrating the love of Jesus Christ and shining Light.

by Mike Saum