I Wanted to Be a Part of That
It’s hard to describe the feelings I experienced when I saw the Moi people for the first time.
Looking at the scene below through the vibrating windows of the helicopter -- the steep mountains, the scattered hamlets set in hollows carved out of deep jungle, the thatched roofs of small huts, gourded men carrying bows and arrows, women and children running for the shelter of the jungle -- a nervous excitement built in my chest.
Within minutes I would be face to face with an untouched people group. A people trapped in an age from centuries ago.
As the pilot eased the helicopter between tree stumps to land on one of the gardens, the nervous excitement now had more emphasis on the nervous. The people were clearly excited to see us. That wasn’t the problem. It was the bows and arrows they were carrying that was slightly disconcerting.
Staring at the faces peeking out at us from behind the bushes, I had one of those "How in the world did I manage to get myself into this?" kind of moments. I don’t even like camping. I don’t like roughing it. I like comfort. I like daily routine with a roof over my head.
Most likely it was my wife’s fault. My best friend, full of life, full of energy, with an unselfish zest for adventure -- yep, Carolyn’s fault. Definitely her idea. Of course I quickly realized I was sounding a lot like Adam who said -- "It was the woman You gave me Lord."
But in reality, I was there staring at this greeting party of faces with bones through their noses because of God’s gracious leading, the impact of people I had rubbed shoulders with throughout my life, and the ripple affect started by my parents when I was less than a year old.
Mom and Dad had attended a mission conference and heard NTM missionary Harold Jackson give a stirring challenge to go to the unreached. Dad approached him after the service with a long string of excuses explaining why it was so impractical for him to go. One of the biggest -- me!
"I’ve got a new baby boy," he said. "I could never expose my family to such unsafe conditions as those found on the mission field."
Harold simply replied, "The safest place that you can be is in the center of the Lord’s will."
A few days later, those words came into sharp focus when my dad was involved in an auto accident that totaled his car. God used that sentence to change the whole course of our family’s life.
Five years later, my parents and my brother and I landed in the remote mountains of Papua New Guinea as new missionaries. We immediately felt slightly out of place. Surrounded by a sea of strange faces glistening with pig grease, all the sights and sounds and smells painted an unforgettable scene in my mind. My dad was probably having one of those "How in the world did I get myself into this?" kind of moments too. But for me, it was a scene I would soon grow to love and appreciate. It became home. And always will be.
I remember in adolescence when I first started to notice that I smelled like the local people. I ran to my dad to give him the exciting news. He said, "That’s fine son. But I’m afraid it’s time for you to start using deodorant." So much for fitting into culture -- becoming one with the people.
My mind jerked back to reality as the helicopter settled to the ground. "I’ll keep the engine running just in case," the pilot said. No one asked for further clarification. We opened the door and stepped out cautiously. It was a great relief to see the smiles spread from face to face. They left their bows and arrows in the bushes and came forward to greet us with empty hands. "Aba, aba, aba," was the greeting the Moi people gave us in their language.
Yes! That’s exactly why we’re here. We’re here to introduce you to Abba, our Father. He has a message for you. One of life and love, and we hope you will listen.
The pilot said he’d be back in a couple of weeks. Then the helicopter rose noisily into the air and flew away. It left an empty, lonely feeling. So quiet. So vulnerable. It was only then that I noticed something rough and scratchy rubbing up against my arm. The guy we would fondly dub "Flakey," because of the scaly ring worm covering him from head to toe, was standing inside my comfort zone -- actually right up against me.
What in the world have I managed to …
With the excitement over, reality kicked in. The pungent smell of tropical ulcers. The unwashed bodies. The blunt and aggressive personalities. The scars covering their bodies from where they have slashed themselves in fear of evil spirits. Strange "foods." It was all so overwhelming. So different.
At least the house we were staying in that night was fairly nice. We would be sleeping off the ground on a split bark floor with a roof overhead. Not bad for a camping trip. I remembered another trip when I was 17.
The tribal believers I was traveling with in Papua New Guinea had erected a bush lean-to in about 15 minutes and caught a supper of fish, frogs and eels from the stream flowing past our "front door."
That night around the campfire, the believers had reached into their string bags and pulled out the newly completed translation of the book of Genesis in their own language. One thing led to another and I soon found myself reading aloud to them from their own Bible.
It struck me even then what a high calling it was to take the Gospel to people who wouldn’t otherwise have a chance to hear -- putting the words of Scripture into their language. I wanted to be a part of that!
Now years later, here I was spreading my sleeping mat on the floor of a tribal hut in one of the remotest places in the world. I stretched out on my back in the darkness.
Not bad. As long as I lay down, the smoke from the fire stays above me -- kind of. Flakey doesn’t understand that I don’t like him sleeping so close to me, with his leg on top of mine. But he’ll learn. Things are looking up! Thank you Lord for bringing me here.
Then it started raining. Then it started dripping. The dripping -- three inches from my right ear -- then started spattering.
Arrgghh! What in the world have I managed to ….
Then I thought about Jesus, who didn’t even have a place to lay His head. In leaving His home to reach the lost He gave it all up. Who was I to complain about a little drip?
Lord, I’m kind of miserable here. But if this is what it means to be Your hands and feet to the Moi, please give me the grace. Let it not be in vain!
In February 2006, after four-and-a-half years of culture and language study, we once again faced the Moi people with nervous excitement and said, "Hear us well Moi people. For we bring you a message from the Creator. He loves you and has something He wants to say to you. ’In the beginning ….’"
I’ll never forget how amazing it was to watch, with tears streaming down my face, the truth of the Gospel sink deep into the hearts of the Moi people of the Asia-Pacific region. I do believe in miracles for I have seen eyes darkened with sin and death, slowly dawn with joy and eternal life. Watching God redeem a people for his own, I had the surreal feeling that I was a spectator in a life that was surely not my own.
Thank you Lord for getting me into this!
Looking at the scene below through the vibrating windows of the helicopter -- the steep mountains, the scattered hamlets set in hollows carved out of deep jungle, the thatched roofs of small huts, gourded men carrying bows and arrows, women and children running for the shelter of the jungle -- a nervous excitement built in my chest.
Within minutes I would be face to face with an untouched people group. A people trapped in an age from centuries ago.
As the pilot eased the helicopter between tree stumps to land on one of the gardens, the nervous excitement now had more emphasis on the nervous. The people were clearly excited to see us. That wasn’t the problem. It was the bows and arrows they were carrying that was slightly disconcerting.
Staring at the faces peeking out at us from behind the bushes, I had one of those "How in the world did I manage to get myself into this?" kind of moments. I don’t even like camping. I don’t like roughing it. I like comfort. I like daily routine with a roof over my head.
Most likely it was my wife’s fault. My best friend, full of life, full of energy, with an unselfish zest for adventure -- yep, Carolyn’s fault. Definitely her idea. Of course I quickly realized I was sounding a lot like Adam who said -- "It was the woman You gave me Lord."
But in reality, I was there staring at this greeting party of faces with bones through their noses because of God’s gracious leading, the impact of people I had rubbed shoulders with throughout my life, and the ripple affect started by my parents when I was less than a year old.
Mom and Dad had attended a mission conference and heard NTM missionary Harold Jackson give a stirring challenge to go to the unreached. Dad approached him after the service with a long string of excuses explaining why it was so impractical for him to go. One of the biggest -- me!
"I’ve got a new baby boy," he said. "I could never expose my family to such unsafe conditions as those found on the mission field."
Harold simply replied, "The safest place that you can be is in the center of the Lord’s will."
A few days later, those words came into sharp focus when my dad was involved in an auto accident that totaled his car. God used that sentence to change the whole course of our family’s life.
Five years later, my parents and my brother and I landed in the remote mountains of Papua New Guinea as new missionaries. We immediately felt slightly out of place. Surrounded by a sea of strange faces glistening with pig grease, all the sights and sounds and smells painted an unforgettable scene in my mind. My dad was probably having one of those "How in the world did I get myself into this?" kind of moments too. But for me, it was a scene I would soon grow to love and appreciate. It became home. And always will be.
I remember in adolescence when I first started to notice that I smelled like the local people. I ran to my dad to give him the exciting news. He said, "That’s fine son. But I’m afraid it’s time for you to start using deodorant." So much for fitting into culture -- becoming one with the people.
My mind jerked back to reality as the helicopter settled to the ground. "I’ll keep the engine running just in case," the pilot said. No one asked for further clarification. We opened the door and stepped out cautiously. It was a great relief to see the smiles spread from face to face. They left their bows and arrows in the bushes and came forward to greet us with empty hands. "Aba, aba, aba," was the greeting the Moi people gave us in their language.
Yes! That’s exactly why we’re here. We’re here to introduce you to Abba, our Father. He has a message for you. One of life and love, and we hope you will listen.
The pilot said he’d be back in a couple of weeks. Then the helicopter rose noisily into the air and flew away. It left an empty, lonely feeling. So quiet. So vulnerable. It was only then that I noticed something rough and scratchy rubbing up against my arm. The guy we would fondly dub "Flakey," because of the scaly ring worm covering him from head to toe, was standing inside my comfort zone -- actually right up against me.
What in the world have I managed to …
With the excitement over, reality kicked in. The pungent smell of tropical ulcers. The unwashed bodies. The blunt and aggressive personalities. The scars covering their bodies from where they have slashed themselves in fear of evil spirits. Strange "foods." It was all so overwhelming. So different.
At least the house we were staying in that night was fairly nice. We would be sleeping off the ground on a split bark floor with a roof overhead. Not bad for a camping trip. I remembered another trip when I was 17.
The tribal believers I was traveling with in Papua New Guinea had erected a bush lean-to in about 15 minutes and caught a supper of fish, frogs and eels from the stream flowing past our "front door."
That night around the campfire, the believers had reached into their string bags and pulled out the newly completed translation of the book of Genesis in their own language. One thing led to another and I soon found myself reading aloud to them from their own Bible.
It struck me even then what a high calling it was to take the Gospel to people who wouldn’t otherwise have a chance to hear -- putting the words of Scripture into their language. I wanted to be a part of that!
Now years later, here I was spreading my sleeping mat on the floor of a tribal hut in one of the remotest places in the world. I stretched out on my back in the darkness.
Not bad. As long as I lay down, the smoke from the fire stays above me -- kind of. Flakey doesn’t understand that I don’t like him sleeping so close to me, with his leg on top of mine. But he’ll learn. Things are looking up! Thank you Lord for bringing me here.
Then it started raining. Then it started dripping. The dripping -- three inches from my right ear -- then started spattering.
Arrgghh! What in the world have I managed to ….
Then I thought about Jesus, who didn’t even have a place to lay His head. In leaving His home to reach the lost He gave it all up. Who was I to complain about a little drip?
Lord, I’m kind of miserable here. But if this is what it means to be Your hands and feet to the Moi, please give me the grace. Let it not be in vain!
In February 2006, after four-and-a-half years of culture and language study, we once again faced the Moi people with nervous excitement and said, "Hear us well Moi people. For we bring you a message from the Creator. He loves you and has something He wants to say to you. ’In the beginning ….’"
I’ll never forget how amazing it was to watch, with tears streaming down my face, the truth of the Gospel sink deep into the hearts of the Moi people of the Asia-Pacific region. I do believe in miracles for I have seen eyes darkened with sin and death, slowly dawn with joy and eternal life. Watching God redeem a people for his own, I had the surreal feeling that I was a spectator in a life that was surely not my own.
Thank you Lord for getting me into this!