Oh blogging. I have so much to say, yet so few words and even fewer minutes. Life seems to be speeding up by the second and each day that passes I think, "Man! I just want to write. I just want to blog about my trip and the ways God showed up BIG."
It was our first full day in Guinea-Bissau. The missionaries we were staying with, took us to the Bible college that our church had sent money to build. In a few more weeks it will be finished and men will begin being trained to be Pastors.
"He's our day guard. His shift is 7am-7pm. He's a new believer but he won't quit going to the witchdoctor."
"That one (in the hat) who's talking. He's teaching them, telling him to turn from the ways of the witchdoctor and trust solely in Jesus."
"He doesn't come to church, so every Saturday, while he's working his day guard shift, they come to him and teach him the truth. They pray that one day, he'll leave the ways of the witchdoctor and fully understand the power of Jesus," the missionary continues.
This is church.
This is the body of Christ.
Men and women decidedly, purposefully, intentionally discipling a believer who is new and weak in his faith. He won't come to them, so they go to him.
I had noticed the young girl, sitting intently with the adults. In fact, she had taken me back so much that I had to walk away from the group to compose myself, to distance my heaving sobs from the team's earshot.
It's day one, I can't be loosing it yet. Seriously. Get a grip, Jessica.
I look back at the girl, knowing that she's fatherless and yet she and her mother continue to disciple. They choose to disciple a man who others would deem as a waste of time. Women work hard in African culture. Widowed women doubly so.
The little girl reminds me so much of my Elizabeth. My big girl who decides, 9 times out of 10, to sit with us in small group with our teenaged Sunday School class instead of playing outside with the babysitter and her siblings.
I imagine Elizabeth and this sweet girl sitting together. Elizabeth giving her a few of her treasured silly bands and this girl, sharing with her a few Kreole words.
I can almost hear their giggles in my ears.
My heart swells as I realize that indeed these two are sisters.
And then it's bedtime and I fall into bed. A seemingly 20 minutes later my alarm goes off, or a half dressed kid crawls in bed beside me and the day begins again. And I think, "I'll blog tomorrow."
Somehow, tomorrow never seems to come.
I swing in the balance between looking to tomorrow and reliving 10 days I spent half way around the world. My mind goes from here to there and back again, wondering if Kenya will resemble Guinea-Bissau at all.
I remember the warfare but also the victory. Like a rhythmic, ever steady pendulum, I flow from hopeful to sad, from fearful to courageous. I remember the smells, the bustle of the market and the drops of sweat rolling, unceasingly, down my back.
It was our first full day in Guinea-Bissau. The missionaries we were staying with, took us to the Bible college that our church had sent money to build. In a few more weeks it will be finished and men will begin being trained to be Pastors.
I'd seen photos of the Bible college, but standing there within it's walls was monumental. I was so struck by this group of people who were gathered on the long, stone and concrete porch of the Bible college.
Being ever the question asker, I asked the resident missionary, "What are they doing?"
"See that man in the middle," it was more of a statement than a question.
"He's our day guard. His shift is 7am-7pm. He's a new believer but he won't quit going to the witchdoctor."
"That one (in the hat) who's talking. He's teaching them, telling him to turn from the ways of the witchdoctor and trust solely in Jesus."
"He doesn't come to church, so every Saturday, while he's working his day guard shift, they come to him and teach him the truth. They pray that one day, he'll leave the ways of the witchdoctor and fully understand the power of Jesus," the missionary continues.
I hesitantly walk over the the group to snap some photos and listen to the teacher lecture in Kreole. I can only make out a few words, "Biblio" and "Jesus." Another in the group sits, with his Bible open, listening to the man who continues to teach.
This is church.
This is the body of Christ.
Men and women decidedly, purposefully, intentionally discipling a believer who is new and weak in his faith. He won't come to them, so they go to him.
"They come every Saturday," the missionary continues, "even that woman and her daughter. She's a widow but she still comes."
I had noticed the young girl, sitting intently with the adults. In fact, she had taken me back so much that I had to walk away from the group to compose myself, to distance my heaving sobs from the team's earshot.
It's day one, I can't be loosing it yet. Seriously. Get a grip, Jessica.
I look back at the girl, knowing that she's fatherless and yet she and her mother continue to disciple. They choose to disciple a man who others would deem as a waste of time. Women work hard in African culture. Widowed women doubly so.
The little girl reminds me so much of my Elizabeth. My big girl who decides, 9 times out of 10, to sit with us in small group with our teenaged Sunday School class instead of playing outside with the babysitter and her siblings.
I imagine Elizabeth and this sweet girl sitting together. Elizabeth giving her a few of her treasured silly bands and this girl, sharing with her a few Kreole words.
I can almost hear their giggles in my ears.
My heart swells as I realize that indeed these two are sisters.
Same Father.
The tears flow again, this time for joy.
I hope that one day she and Elizabeth will be able to giggle and trade treasures in Heaven. Can you imagine? Two girls, about the same age, treasuring the Word of God so much they choose to sit and soak it in with the adults? A whole world apart yet desiring the same things?
Bold. Sacrificial. Hungry.
A group of hodgepodge believers, choosing to spend their Saturdays teaching and discipling a man who most might write off. A widow and her daughter, another missionary and a group of Guinea-Bissauan men desperate to proclaim the glory of the Lord.
May we all be so bold. May we all be so sacrificial. May we all be so hungry.
