Papaya for Dinner

There’s an unremarkable little bird having a huge dinner in Yaounde right now.

Through my apartment window, I have a great view of the leaves and the fruit of this large papaya tree. The base of the tree is rooted in the corner of the property, but no one ever climbs it to pick the fruit off it. Many, many times in the 6 months I have lived here, I have watched fruit ripen and go to waste, ripen and go to waste, ripen, and go to waste.

This afternoon, I noticed a little bird was perched on the side of the tree trunk, close to an overripe papaya. I watched him with surprise as he dug his little claws into the tree and then leaned his head back from his perch and took a nibble from the fruit. He got a good start and then he hopped from the tree trunk over to the papaya itself and continued his little mini-feast.

In that moment, I was realized how little I know about birds!! Never in my life had I wondered what birds ate! Growing up with the popular American expression, “The early bird gets the worm,” I suppose I just thought they ate worms! But here to my surprise, I found that God, in His goodness, had prepared a whole entire papaya for this little bird.

“This is why I tell you: Don’t worry about your life,

what you will eat or what you will drink;

or about your body, what you will wear.

Isn’t life more than food and the body more than clothing? 

Look at the birds of the sky:

They don’t sow or reap or gather into barns,

yet your heavenly Father feeds them.

Aren’t you worth more than they?”

Matthew 6:25-26 (HCSB)

I thought about some worries that have been overtaking my heart today and consuming my time, energy, and strength. Worries about my very unknown future and all it might hold for me. But if the Lord went to all the trouble of giving this little bird his dinner on January 18^th, then He is surely capable of taking care of all my needs, too!!

“. . . your Heavenly Father feeds [him].

Aren’t you worth more than [him]?”

Two Words

Her two little words surprise me. She speaks them with the innocent voice of a child, but her words carry with them the weight of eternity.

The half-finished house sits somewhere out on the edge of the sprawling capital of Yaounde. Surrounded on one side by draping rain forest and the other side by encroaching development, the grey concrete block house has only been occupied for about a year. It was built by a man from northern Cameroon. He is from the Fulani tribe whose native tongue is Fulfulde. He came here to Yaounde seven years ago with his new Fulani bride, Binta*, then just a girl of 13. Now, at almost 21 years old, she is the mother of 3 children under the age of 5. Even though he is a man twenty years her senior, he has been kind to Binta. He is a devout man, faithful in his prayers to Allah, faithful in his good deeds. One of his recent good deeds was to give me a chicken on the last day of Ramadan. Oh how he and his children shrieked with laughter when he tried to hand me the flapping live chicken and I insisted I would not know what in the world to do with a living chicken (nor how to get it into a non-living form).

Binta's father did not allow her to attend school as a child, so she did not speak any French when she arrived in Yaounde. In the intervening years, she has taught herself how to converse in French out of necessity. Recently, her husband had given me permission to teach Binta how to read and write in French.

Arriving for one of her lessons, I step from the red-dirt road onto the nailed-together slats of wood that cross a ditch in front of their house. To my right, the newly-planted maïze is starting to sprout up. As I approach the house, two little barefoot, dirt-dusted girls run out from the house and meet me halfway across the yard with shouts of "Jay-see-ka!!!! They are little friends, these two small girls. The smaller one is the 3-year old daughter of Binta. The other one is the 4-year old daughter of Fatoumata*, Binta's neighbor. Little tiny hands wrap around my neck and big hugs and lots of words of greeting fly around in both French and Fulfulde. Binta walks over in her usual laid-back and comfortable gait. Her beautiful black skin glowing in the sunshine, her eyes twinkling, her baby bouncing happily on her back. She wears a simple traditional skirt and top and her usual black rope necklace with golden colored coins dangling down on her collarbone. She grasps my hand and greets me warmly like she does twice every week. We talk the best we can as her daughter and the little neighbor girl continue to grab my hands and pull on me, vying for my attention.

We step together onto the concrete veranda that runs the length of her house. Along the length there is thin rope that is strung double to function as clotheslines. As usual, there are clothes hanging up, half dry in the afternoon sun. At the other end of the veranda, there is a pot of something, probably rice, sitting directly on open flames. This pot is almost always on when I arrive, always simmering dinner for the five people who live here and any neighbors who might drop by for a visit later.

We pause at the front door and I reach down and slip the strap of my sandals off over my heel. My shoes come off and my toes touch the cool concrete floor as I follow Binta out of the sunshine and enter the living room. As my eyes adjust to the light, I see a figure resting on the couch. She rises as we enter. It is Fatoumata, the mother of the little neighbor girl, and she is here to rest and visit with Binta. Wearing a royal blue dress with gold embroidery, she is just a beautiful as Binta. It's her smile that captivates you from the moment you meet her. She grasps my hand in welcome and we press our left cheeks together, then our right cheeks, then our left cheeks again.

We talk small talk, us three women. So different, and yet so alike. We sit on the worn rug in front of the couch and I lay out French alphabet flashcards for Binta. A, B, C, D . . . the letters are beginning to become familiar to her. These letters which were all foreign before, but are now becoming like faithful old friends. She wants to be able to read and write. She wants to be able to help her 5-year old son with his schooling. The little guy is sprawled out on the carpet beside us, doing his homework. Tracing the letter "d" over and over again in his notebook. He can't concentrate very well because like any normal 5-year old boy, he'd rather be watching TV or be outside playing soccer. The two little girls dance happily around Binta and I while we repeat the guttural sounds the letters make. The 11-month old baby crawls over and grabs the flashcards and tries to eat them . . . again. We all laugh heartily at her. We laminated the cards because the baby was prone to eat them, but we let her chew on them now since we know she can't ruin them.

After a bit, Binta and Fatoumata leave to check on the pot that is still simmering out on the open fire. Only the little neighbor girl is left in the living room now. The other children have run outside. In the light pouring through the open front door, I can see her chubby cheeks and her fuzzy soft hair in braids all over her head. She is holding her mama's keyring. It has a picture of Jesus on it. The image is commonly referred to as the "sacred heart".

The image seems as if Jesus is looking straight into your soul with tender eyes.

The two fingers of his right hand held up as if to beckon you to pause and listen to Him.

And then His left hand pointing to His own heart that is surrounded by a crown of thorns, and on fire and bursting with the warmth of His love for humanity.

I'm surprised to find it here, in a Muslim home. In a neighborhood where the parents do not want their children to hear about Jesus.

So, I ask my little friend, "Who is that?"

She looks quizzically at me, then back at the image as if studying it.

Then with wide brown eyes turned back to me, she says,

"It's you."

My first reaction is to laugh at the irony of the similarities of long brown hair and the white skin. But then a second though quickly fills my heart and it's as if the world slows for a moment:

What if it IS me?

What if I am the only "Jesus" she ever gets to meet?

What if it is my eyes that Jesus wants to use to see her soul?

What if it is me that Jesus wants to use to beckon her to pause and listen to Him?

What if it is my hands that Jesus wants to use to point her to His own heart?

What if the only chance these precious friends have to know Jesus is, in fact, me?

Moments later the mamas are back. Binta and I work on flashcards again. While we work on the sounds for the letter "L", Fatoumata grabs her prayer mat, rolls it out on the living room floor, points her face toward mecca, and bows her forehead to the ground.

And just behind her sits her little girl.

And the key chain with the sacred heart of Jesus.

And me.



(*Not their actual names.)

Success.

October 21, 2013. 

I had waited for that day for 12 years. When I was 18 I had set my sights on being involved in missions. Many years and many days of faithful obedience had been required. Days of just plain old-fashioned obedience. Days that had prepared my heart, my spirit, and my profession. The day finally arrived when my country of service had been decided, my support had been raised, and my flight had been booked.

There it was looming before me. October 21^st: the day that would take me to live in Africa and serve alongside the church there. The day that would signal my transition into an effective and successful ministry. Right?

I boarded the plane in Paris. I flew over Eastern Europe. I transferred in Istanbul, crossed northern Africa, and landed in the inky darkness in Central Africa.

But just like every other day in my life, October 21^st came to an end. The clock said midnight, I brushed my teeth, and I went to bed.

And then it was October 22^nd. And I wasn’t feeling very successful.

And then it was October 23^rd. And I wasn’t feeling very successful.

And then it was October 24^th. And I wasn’t feeling very successful.

And then it was October 25^th. And I wasn’t feeling very successful.

And then it was a month later. And I still wasn’t feeling very successful.

And then it was almost two months later. And I pondered what success was.

As the sun came up each day, the question grew in my heart: HOW was I going to be successful in the task that I felt the Lord had given me to do?

Insecurities and feelings of being overwhelmed flooded me. This was a huge task I had agreed to. How was I even going to settle in and feel like I was remotely part of this culture? Much less develop a ministry?

It’s in the midst of this wide array of emotions and situations that I found myself returning again and again to the wisdom of the first missionaries I worked with in Haiti:

You don’t need to be “successful”, you need to be obedient.

That’s all that really matters: have I been faithful TODAY to what God asked me to do?

Looking back on every day of my life before October 21^st, all God had ever asked of me was faithful obedience.

And on every day of my life after October 21^st, that is still all He is going to ask of me.

Faithful obedience.

I saw it again when I was reading in 1 Corinthians today:

“So then men ought to regard us as servants of Christ and as those entrusted with the secret things of God. Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful.”

There it is: Faithfulness.

As the servant of Christ, I have but one job:

To simply be faithful and obedient in what He gives me to do to make Him known to the world.

Therein lies success, no matter where my residence happens to be.

Hold You?

The other day I was watching a friend's little 2 year old daughter. We went for a walk down to a nearby swing set so we could play. As we walked down the street, this little gal's chubby fingers clasped my hand as she took two steps for every one step I took. She trotted along like this for sometime, chattering on about "swing" and "mommy" and "mammie and papa" and "birdies".

Then she inquisitively said these two sweet words, "Hold you?"

She was tired. She was weary. The sun was shining, she had exerted all the energy her little legs could muster.

Her question was simple.

"Hold you?"

"Do you want me to pick you up?" I asked her.

"Yes."

I picked her up and began to carry her on to our destination.


Today Jesus will do that for me. I am tired, I am weary. The sun is shining, I have exerted all the energy my little heart can muster.

My need is simple.

"Hold You?"

". . . in the wilderness where you saw how the Lord your God carried you, as a man carries his son, in all the way that you went until you came to this place." Deut 1:31

And He picks me up and carries me to our destination.

Love.

For many years I have thought about how fun it would be in the future to be pregnant at Christmastime or have a baby at Christmastime. I'd love to really understand a bit more of what Mary must have been experiencing. This Christmas, though, I started thinking about how I actually can relate quite a bit to Mary's perspective before the angel came to her. There she was as a single young woman living with hope and anticipation for the future that was laid out quite nicely for her.

Mary, like gals down through the centuries, was on the brink of womanhood with all its hopes and longings. She was going to be joined in marriage to a good, just, and kind man. The sort of guy who makes a good husband and a good father. Perhaps her heart beat extra fast with anticipation when she thought of Joseph. She was a girl, so she must have envisioned what their little home would be like, their happy evenings together after a long, hot day of work. She must have imagined and daydreamed about the children they would have and what they would look like. She must have thought about growing old with Joseph, close to their children and their families. Her life was all set and the view was looking mighty fine!

When the angel told Mary that she was going to bear the Christ, the Son of God, she must have been a bit freaked out . . . and yet there was this sense of super calm submission about her. How did Mary conjure up that calm submission? How did she just say a simple "yes" to what appeared to be a complete upset to all her hopes, dreams, and plans?

Surely her mind was running wild with thoughts like:

How will I tell Joseph? Will he believe me? How will he react?

Will he divorice me? Am I going to be alone and ostracized from my community and my family forever?

WHAT ABOUT MY FUTURE?

And yet with only a simple and very un-detailed explanation from the angel, Mary stated those beautiful words,

"Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word."

Those 14 simple words spoke volumes. In essence, Mary said, "Lord God, I trust you so implicitly that I am willing to give you my dreams, my hopes, and everything I've longed for as a woman. I am willing to risk the rejection of the man I love, and I am willing to be despised by those I love so that I can serve Your heart."


I am sure there are many reasons why Mary was able to say that. Let's face it, she was definitely being given an honor to bear the Christ. But as I mulled over her reaction, I've wondered if perhaps one of the reasons she accepted God's plan was that she knew the love and mercy of God. The angel told her twice in their short dialogue that she was very favored by God.

Knowing in the depth of my being that I am loved deeply by God makes all the difference when He asks me if I am willing to give to Him everything for which I have longed and hoped. Mary could not possibly have known what she was agreeing to when she accepted the honor of carrying the Christ. It was an honor that was going to potentially cost her everything she held dear . . . and yet she knew that she was favored and loved deeply by God.

When she submitted to God, Mary didn't know that an angel would visit Joseph and tell him to marry her. She didn't know that she would go on to have other children. She didn't know that her heart would be devastated by the brutal murder of her Son. She didn't know any of that yet.

But she DID know that she was the beloved daughter of God and she was loved.

I think about the lady from our church whose husband just had a massive heart attack last night and she's having to make decisions about their future. I think about my friends who have tried for years to have children but have not been able. I think about those who serve God faithfully despite of their unfulfilled longings for spouses.

What enables each person to stand square-on into an unknown future and say, "I am the Lord's servant, let it be to me as you have said"?

It is the knowledge of His perfect love.

I'm glad Mary said her faith-filled "yes" to God . . . because her yes gave birth to the proof of the Love I'm holding tight to today.