Our Maasai guard’s prayers for us brought tears to my eyes

 

. . . Dave and I bent down—the doorway opening was miniature—and stooped inside the home of our Maasai guard, John.  

 

Suddenly blackness enveloped me, and I caught my breath. Outside, we had stood in intense equatorial sunshine, but when I ducked through that little door, the sheer darkness shocked me.

 

Immediately I received another surprise: in front of me, within about two feet of the doorway, I came face to face with a wall.

 

I jerked backward, ever so slightly, back toward the light. . . . (Click on My heart still races when I remember those moments.)

 

I must have gasped because Dave took my hand and led me to the right. We felt our way down a short hallway and entered a small room, also dark except for a tiny hole in the roof—about four inches across—to let smoke escape.

 

Little sunlight entered through that hole.

 

Everything appeared dark—mud-colored dung walls, dirt floor, and smoke-covered ceiling. (I realized then that’s why the Maasai, their possessions, and artifacts always smell of smoke).

 

Gradually my eyes adjusted to the dark and I could see that the room measured about nine feet square. Some of our fellow orientees sat on beds—wooden frames attached to two walls, with loosely woven strips of cowhide for mattresses. I joined others who sat on a low, rough-hewn bench attached to John’s dung-mud-and-stick wall. We had entered the heart of that Maasai family’s world. 

 

A small pile of coals burned on the floor in a fire pit made of three stones. In the shadows, I noticed a couple of children and one of John’s three wives. He had children by all of his wives, and each family unit lived in its own hut within the compound. Apparently, John took turns living in each hut.

 

Our Maasai hosts had invited us for tea, and John’s wife squatted on the dirt floor over the fire where, in a large metal pot, she boiled milk, water, tea, and sugar together—that’s what they called chai.

 

Two things worried me about their chai, though, because they made it with water from the same dirty little brook that flowed beside our campsite—where animals waded, where people bathed and did laundry.

 

Second, I worried because I heard that Maasai clean their pots with cow urine and charcoal. This germ-phobic woman found the situation stressful. The primitive setting, the dwelling, the smoke-filled room, the furnishings—everything seemed alien. My nerves were on edge.

 

But then. . . . But then. . . .

 

When the chai was ready,

John prayed for us, in English and, to my surprise,

he prayed only for us. On and on he prayed,

asking God to shower His blessings upon us.

Only a man well acquainted with God

could pray the way John did.

His prayer brought tears to my eyes.

 

John’s wife poured the chai through a strainer into a metal teapot, and then John took over. First, he poured the chai into a metal cup and then into other metal cups—the kind with a rolled rim—and began to pass them around to his guests.

 

Our orientation leader, Brian, had warned us about those cups. Washed in water from the stream, the rolled rims could trap that filthy water. Since we couldn’t know how clean the cups were, Brian coached us ahead of time to pour some chai over the rim—as inconspicuously as possible—and hope it was hot enough to kill germs where we put our lips.

 

So, there in the dark, each of us reached down and dumped chai on the ground. I wonder if our hosts noticed—they probably did—and I wonder what they must have thought about us.

 

The room had no cross-ventilation and sweat ran down my back and neck. We visited for about an hour—John and Brian apparently conducted introductions and made speeches in Swahili—and then we hiked back to camp.

 

Along the way, I pondered how John and his family

lived in what Westerners would consider poverty,

and yet they were rich in hospitality, dignity, and the love of God.

 

I had worried about manure, soot,

cow urine, and contaminated water,

but in reality, I had stood on holy ground.

God lived in that place.

(From Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 2)

 

Now I look back and realize that John and his family were part of the “hundred times as much” God provided in answer to Karen’s prayer (click on When Jesus’words are difficult, sharp, and real.)

Our shallow little stream in the desert

 

When facing the terrifying unknown: “The only thing you know is that God knows what He is doing”

 

What will happen during 2021?

 

“Today dear friends,

we stand upon the verge of the unknown.

Who can tell what we shall find?

What new experiences,

what challenges shall come;

what new needs shall arise?

(L.B. Cowman, Streams in the Desert)

 

You don’t know what 2021 holds for you. I don’t know what the year holds for me, either. We face the unknown.

 

“The unknown.” What do those words do to you?

 

“The unknown” creates strong emotions for me when those two words inflict themselves on my life, my future, my family.

When I come face-to-face with “the unknown,” my stomach knots. My knees wobble.

 

I don’t know what I’ll find but I know I’ll face challenges, and I want to know:

• Just how challenging will the challenges be?
• Just how serious will the needs be?
• Will I come out okay on the other side?

 

Over and under and around it all, I wonder if I will handle them well.

 

What about you?

 

What if, in 2021, you learn that “the unknown” turns out to be God asking you to do something that seems too hard?

 

What if “the unknown,” once known, is something that breaks your heart?

Or something that means the end of life-long dreams?

Or what if you suddenly have a crucial need?

What if the challenges of 2021 threaten to overwhelm you?

 

What if God asks you to give your “utmost” for Him?

 

At such moments, we stand at a turning point. We are at a defining moment.

 

We can say yes to God, take hold of His hand, and step into that potentially painful, frightful “unknown.”

 

Or we can tell God no, turn away, and try to slog through life on our own terms.

 

The choice is ours.

 

“Before we choose to follow God’s will,

a crisis must develop in our lives. . . .

He brings us to the place where He asks us

to be our utmost for Him and we begin to debate.

 

He then providentially produces a crisis

where we have to decide—for or against.

 

That moment becomes a great crossroads in our lives.”

Oswald Chambers

 

As you know, Abraham has been a special hero to me for years now. Let me explain why:

 

God made a staggering request of him: “Leave your country, your people and your father’s household and go to the land I will show you.” (Sounds like what missionaries do, doesn’t it?)

 

God didn’t tell Abraham where he was supposed to go—only that he was to go (Genesis 12:1). He was asking Abraham to give his utmost for Him.

 

So there he stood, at a critical turning point in his life.

 

Who knows how long

Abraham debated with himself

and with God

as he stood at his crossroads?

He must have agonized.

 

But, bless his heart, at his defining moment, Abraham agreed to go where God sent him even though he did not know where he was going.

 

The book of Hebrews summed up Abraham’s pivotal moment this way:

 

“Abraham, by faith, obeyed and went out,

even though he did not know where he was going”

(Hebrews 11:8).

 

He set out, simply trusting God. Talk about a blind leap of faith!

 

Perhaps today you stand at a crossroads and you’re debating whether to say “yes” or “no” to God. If not today, maybe a week from now, or ten months from now.

 

During 2021,

when you face as-yet-unknown challenges and needs,

when your stomach knots and your knees wobble,

when you don’t know where God is leading you,

may the following words encourage you: 

 

“The only thing you know

is that God knows what He is doing.

Continually examine your attitude toward God

to see if you are willing to ‘go out’

in every area of your life,

trusting in God entirely. . . .

You don’t know what God is going to do next.

Each morning . . . is a new opportunity

to ‘go out’ building your confidence in God.”

(Oswald Chambers)

 

An opportunity?

Yes, an opportunity!

An opportunity to trust God,

an opportunity to grow in faith.

 

For the Lord your God

takes hold of your hand and says to you:

“Don’t be afraid. I will help you.”

(Isaiah 41:13)

Strengthening the sick beside streams in the desert

When the pavement ended, we had followed a track in the sand. When that faded, we made our own way.

Before long, we found ourselves driving alongside a thin, meandering line of trees. We had arrived in Eleng’ata Enterit, a place you can’t find on the map, in southwestern Kenya. It wasn’t a village; we saw no dwellings. I felt filthy, sweaty, sticky, and dehydrated. Thank God, we’d finally arrived. (If you missed it, click on I never dreamed I’d live by a stream in a desert.)

As part of our orientation course named Kenya Safari, for the next six weeks we would live in the desert in the shade of massive, spreading fig trees. Oh, blessed, blessed shade. In Seattle, where I grew up, we never got enough sunshine, but in Eleng’ata Enterit—oh, yes, this Seattle girl bowed down and thanked God for shade.

 We soon learned, though, that those fig trees offered us only a mixed blessing because they housed dozens of baboons, which, upset at our invasion, pelted us with figs. And then there were baboon noises—they make a variety of grotesque sounds—the worst a blood-curdling shriek, sounding like a baby’s scream.

Those enormous fig trees grew alongside a narrow, shallow brook in that desert, reminding me of several verses in Isaiah about the way God provides streams in deserts. We would quickly learn how important that dirty little stream would be for our everyday survival!

The first afternoon, we and our fellow orientees cleared spaces in undergrowth and pitched tents under those trees beside that stream.

But I worried about Dave doing that hard work in the heat. A couple of days earlier, he’d gotten sick with an ailment common in Africa: vomiting, diarrhea, fever, and weakness. It hit him hard, really hard. God answered our prayers through our nurse, Jenny Caston, and her trunk of medicines, but recovery would take time.

My response to Dave’s illness surprised me. Since the beginning of our orientation, I’d kept my bravery intact despite living among strangers from countries around the world. I’d been a good sport about roughing it, about birds pooping on my laundry, the hippo charge, using an outhouse—but when Dave got sick, I had to fight discouragement.

I had brought one small chocolate bar with me on Kenya Safari. The time had come to rip open the wrapper. I let myself eat just a half-inch square, though, because that one little candy bar had to last a long time.

If we had stayed a couple of days longer at Lake Naivasha, Dave would have grown healthier and stronger, but the orientation course had to stay on schedule. When we arrived at Eleng’ata Enterit, I helped Dave—in my own wimpy, girly way—to clear the ground for our tent. He never once complained about his hard labor, but I could tell he was still sick and weak. My heart ached for him.

A couple of young single ladies in our group struggled to clear their underbrush so, bless his dear heart, Dave helped them, too. I don’t know how he did it.

All these years later, I still marvel at Dave’s dogged efforts to set up not only our campsite but to help others clear ground and set up their tents, too. God helped him do it. I’m reminded of Isaiah 41:10, “Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you.” I also think of Psalm 41:3 which says God gives strength to those who are sick.

And check out Isaiah 35, picturing Dave’s strenuous efforts while ill, laboring alongside a stream in the desert:

Strengthen the feeble hands,

steady the knees that give way. . . .

Your God will come. . . .

the lame will leap like a deer. . . .

Water will gush forth in the wilderness

and streams in the desert.

(Isaiah 35:3-6, selected)

That day, as I watched Dave, I witnessed

the words of Isaiah and the Psalmist come alive.

God is so good.