At the End of a Perfect Day

And all I really want to do
Is sing songs for you,
Then it's been a perfect day,
Yes it's been a perfect day.
                                                              Chris de Burgh, 1977
Alright. It wasn´t a perfect day. It was hot and sticky as only the tropics can be. We missed the people we love as much as we do every day. It´s lonely being the only Europeans in West Africa. It´s frustrating having to communicate in French and lacking the wherewithal to express all the nuances a language deserves. And when we finally sat down to relax, and started to share our feelings, we were once again emotionally overwhelmed by the vast divide between what should be and what is.
And still, the phrase kept coming to mind: at the end of a perfect day.

We ate broiled fish, buttered peas and carrots, rice with mustard sauce, and fresh rucola salad (from our own garden), with a mango-pineapple fruit salad for dessert. Was that at least not the perfect end of a day? Temperature inside has dropped to 33.2, outside has just reached 30.0. Dishes are done and in about half an hour we will tune in to the same (Dutch) news broadcast we regularly watch at home.
This morning was meeting of church council. When I arrived at 9.45, the brothers were meditating on Romans 12.1,2: “Je vous exhorte donc, frères, par les compassions de Dieu, à offrir vos corps comme un sacrifice vivant, saint, agréable à Dieu, ce qui sera de votre part un culte raisonnable. Ne vous conformez pas au siècle présent, mais soyez transformés par le renouvellement de l’intelligence, afin que vous discerniez quelle est la volonté de Dieu, ce qui est bon, agréable et parfait.” The beauty of the moment was that they we doing so in Adja. Normally, the meetings are conducted in French, for the benefit of the Pasteur Missionnaire, who is also usually asked to lead the Bible study. But since Romain has returned to the Mono-Couffo, after recently graduating from the Bible school in Bangui, Centrafrique, there is someone who can lead the elders in devotions in their own language. And behold: Victor and Guillaume, for the first time in my memory, were actively participating! I sat and observed, understanding not a word, but enjoying every minute.
During the meeting, I was pleased to be able to announce the decision of DVN-GoWa that there would be a contribution towards the present food problem. It being the time of the year that the harvest is still some way off, the people of the region are dependent on what they have been able to store up from the previous season. And because the harvests at the end of 2012 were meagre, there are many people who aren’t able to 'manger à sa faim', that is to say: eat to their fill. True, said Pasteur Théophile, when I asked him. Look at the pale reddish hair colouring of many in the villages, a sure sign of malnutrition. Two years ago, there was the same difficulty. And it seems to be endemic. Too many people living off too limited productive capacity of the land. The dilemma: what does it help to provide food (short term) when it is not possible to provide real productivity solutions (long term)? But when all is said and done: malnutrition kills faster than you might think. Long term is too long. I was happy to be able to offer help.
But there were more happy moments. For instance, as the brothers were discussing a pastoral problem in Ayomi. There was an issue between a man and his wife. One of the elders (not the elder from Ayomi, but a teacher at the school there) knew more about the situation. This elder had invited the woman to meet with him at school, alone, in order to look for a solution. General approval around the table, it seemed. But then one of their number spoke up: not a good thing, he said. For you to speak with someone’s wife without her husband being involved. You need to respect the relations within the family unit, and you need to protect the woman against gossip. I’m not really sure of all of the complexities involved in African family relations, but I was impressed. This was seriously well thought through, and properly addressed, I thought.

Then this afternoon we went to Kpodaha. Twenty-three young people, from 16 to 27, eager to be trained in church work, have been attending our Saturday school. Faithfully, actively, and decidedly with an un-African determination to be there on time. We begin with a Bible study or sermon outline, then we have two lessons in a program covering the various aspects of church life: worship, mutual support, community service and evangelism, church government and administration. Since the start of the school year, we have covered General Introduction to Theology, Knowledge of the New Testament, Church History, and Principles of Worship. And today we started with two new modules: Christian Family Life and Church Education. As an educator in my previous life, I have been really, really enjoying setting up the program, working with the teachers, and teaching the students. And once again, today it was a real joy. The sermon outline was based on Deuteronomy 6. 4-9: Teach my children well… Romain, in his first lesson, surveyed the rather complicated extent of the African family, and its various possible permutations: with still hugely common polygamy, exceptionally high mortality rates, and the ever-present pagan/Christian divide. And I explored the Scriptural foundations, the distinct purposes, and the general contents of Sunday school and of catechism class. Okay, at this point, you’re bored. But for us it was a rewarding and worthwhile afternoon.
But very, very tiring. Which brings me back to the possibility that it was a perfect day after all. But then in the Biblical sense of ‘made perfect’. That is to say: accomplishing its intended purpose. No, it’s not at all easy to be here. For all the reasons I have enumerated above, and plenty more. But there are moments when, hugely tired, we have been so energized by the day’s events that there just needs to be a blog.

Devotions

Feeling a bit unbloggy in these hot weeks. Marijke said: so why don't you post the devotions you have been writing for Edudeo? Edudeo has its own site ( https://edudeo.com/ ) but for those of you who don't frequent it, here's a free peek.

What’s your role?

Vince Knowles lowered his head, and when he raised it and spoke his next line, his voice was thick and hitching. It was a simulacrum of sorrow he’d never approached even in his best rehearsals… That was when I heard the first low sob from the audience… (Stephen King: 11/22/63)
Oh, the reach of an actor! Of the one who submerges himself in his role, who for the sake of his audience and for the power of the story changes for a moment into someone else, a character quite different from himself. We admire his performance. We are moved. And sometimes we are profoundly changed ourselves.
That’s what I thought of, first off, when I was asked to participate in writing these devotions, with as theme:  ‘What’s your role?’ I thought of actors. Each with his or her own part to play. Hoping to change lives by their performance. In this case: on the stage of world missions.
And then I remembered 1 Peter 2.1. Therefore, rid yourselves of all malice and all deceit, hypocrisy, envy, and slander of every kind. Did you know that the word hypocrisy is from the ancient Greek? That in the context of Greek drama, it was applied to an actor on the theatre stage? Someone pretending to be someone else? And yes, what admiration the performance of a hypocrite could evoke!
In the New Testament, however, ‘playing a role’ is not an admirable thing. It is condemned by Christ and rebuked by the apostles. Service in God’s kingdom is not only to be selfless, it is to be genuine. Perhaps we could even say: not what you do, but whom you are, whom you really are, is what matters.
It’s one of the lessons we have been learning on the field here in Benin. As missionaries, we struggle with our role. And every time again we discover that God acts most effectively, when we stop being actors.

Don’t hold your breath

Remember? God acts most effectively when we stop being actors. Thinking about your role begins with being real. Not what you do but who you really are is what matters.
One of the most authentic Christians whom I have the honour of knowing is Gregoire. He drives a taxi back and forth to Cotonou all day. For about 10 dollars, after deducting the lease of his 20-year-old Peugeot and the price of fuel and maintenance.
Yesterday we were discussing the details of a sports evangelism project to be held next July. Gregoire’s expertise in Beninese public transport could make all the difference, we knew. But we weren’t actually prepared for this: We need to pray, Gregoire said. We need to pray that the government will look the other way and let the roadside sellers sell fuel again.
What you need to know is that Benin has a lively (and dangerous and hugely polluting) black market in fuel smuggled in from Nigeria. Crude oil tapped from international pipelines, distilled in primitive bush refineries, and sold from bottles and jerry cans, this fuel  powers most of Benin’s vehicles. Periodically the government clamps down on this illegal trade and prices skyrocket.
Gregoire doesn’t grasp all the moral dilemmas here. And there are plenty. But one thing is as natural to him as breathing: prayer. If our sports evangelism team is get around, the price of fuel will need to come down. And God is in charge, isn’t He? Well, then. The government needs to look the other way.
Pray continually, Paul tells us in 1 Thessalonians 5.17. For Christians, prayer is like breathing. You don’t need to think about it. In fact, it is more difficult to hold your breath than to breathe. Are you planning to get active in God’s kingdom? Before anything else: pray. That’s what I’m learning from Gregoire.

Burdens

Before anything else, pray! Remember? So we prayed that morning. And then drove the four-wheel-drive along the red-dirt track to Fanahenhoue. There is a little crowd waiting for us in the church. Things are not as they should be, it turns out. Sunday attendance has dwindled, family worship is non-existent, the local elder is dispirited, the Sunday-school teacher has moved away. Good people, but the burden of maintaining healthy spiritual life has grown too heavy. And all look to us for the solution.
What’s our role? As missionary couple we could take over. Start weekly visits to relieve the local elder. Be there on Sundays to lead the services. Arrange for the neighbouring parish of Kpodaha to send someone for the Sunday-school . And who knows, that might well break through the malaise which has taken hold of Fanahenhoue. Carry each other’s burdens, the apostle says in  Galatians 6.2.
But here’s one of the greatest temptations in missions. When you see inability: to take over. When you see hunger: to provide food. When you see lack of education: to build schools. Well-meant, and sometimes effective. But too often our desire to help, to carry each other’s burdens, gets in the way of enabling the other to do what he could well learn to do himself. And that is why the apostle says something else a few verses later: for each one should carry his own load.
So instead of helping, we helped them help themselves. We asked a teenage girl: if we bring you a children’s Bible next Sunday, would you read a Bible story to the children before church starts? Yes, she said, of course. And two others offered to assist. And during the service, we asked the elder, would you be able to ask the children to share what they have learned? We turned to the mothers: and would you be willing to ask your children, when they get home, to tell the story again, and to talk and pray about it together? Their eyes lit up: why, yes. Of course we could!
We didn’t do so much, that morning at Fanahenhoue. But when we left there seemed to be something new in the air. Renewed confidence. Excitement even. A burden shared always seems lighter, doesn’t it?

Pay-my-call

Dear reader. Today you have caught me at my uncharitable not-best. I just turned off my cell phone. Taking calls in French is kind of complicated at the best of times. I greatly prefer a personal encounter. But the kind of call that makes me turn off my telephone is the one that features a young lady delivering a pre-recorded message at top speed. The bits I can catch are MTN (that’s the network) and the phrase ‘pay-my-call’. That’s French for ‘This is a collect call; will you accept the charge?’ No, I refuse to press 1 for Oui. I have no idea who is calling me. And as it is, I have called back 4 people today already who began a conversation and were then cut off because their prepaid credit had run out. Credit can (and is) bought here for amounts as low as 100 FCFA. That’s 15 euro-cents. (Do your own conversion if you’re reading this in Australia or Canada or elsewhere. As I said, today you have caught me at my uncharitable not-best. And I plan to repent only after I have finished writing this blog.) The cost of a call here is 1 FCFA per second. Which gives you some idea of most people’s personal economics. Just enough credit to be able to call someone and then to hang up, with the idea that the other guy will call you back. It’s called bip­-ping. I tend not to accept the invitation. And I definitely do not respond to the MTN pay-my-call option. I mean: come on… At least someone could invest a few FCFA in telling me who they are and then asking me to call back. Or not?
Okay, you’re right. I’m being hard-hearted. If I were living on  a few euros per day, I would cut every corner I could too. You’re right. I plan to repent. But I’m glad I got it out of my system, anyway. And it’s too late to press 1 for Oui this time, I’m afraid.
Expectations. Obligations. Especially financially speaking. That’s what pay-my-call is a metaphor for. Sometimes I think that Beninese society is held together by these things. Not necessarily the genuine love and concern which helps people go the extra mile for others. But the sense that if someone signals a desire for your favour, you simply cannot refuse. It’s something I find really hard to get used to. Mainly because I cannot grasp it. Where I come from, there´s nothing at all wrong with asking for help (within reason, of course). But the request always leaves you free to decide. Saying no is a very real option. It doesn’t work like that here. In order to say no here, you need to justify your refusal. The amount demanded of you as a loan is – malheureusement – required by your children. Sorry, but this month we had unexpected expenses due to the death of an aunt, and there’s really nothing left. Or: no, I would have called you back, but my own phone credit was just exhausted.
A dear brother had a great plan: it was to make a CD with gospel music. Mindful of the Lord’s exhortation in Luke 14.28, he swiftly concluded there would no doubt be many members in the community willing to contribute. So he booked a recording studio. He hired a band. He bought dazzling material and had beautiful robes made for the backing choir. He made a down payment and had a small production company produce a video clip. He chose a grand pseudonym (Bertinho, with an H!) and set about promoting his endeavour. Along the way, he attempted to score a loan from DVN (unsuccessfully), seems to have approached everyone in his circle of acquaintances (with some success), implicated the local church council by inviting them to a church service in which he performed some of the songs, and approached me once more with the demand for a large loan (unsuccessfully, again.)
And now, with the creditors at his heels, he has decided to hold a promotion party next Saturday. He’s managed to have the event, le lancement, announced in all the church services, with the request that all those who are not ashamed to stand up for the Lord be there. Along with the invitations, he has provided envelopes. Here in Benin that means: when you come, put some money in the envelope and leave it with the organiser of the event.
Now, where I come from, there’s nothing wrong with asking for help. But you do that before spending the money you hope to receive. And you never forget: it’s my project, so I cannot oblige others or expect of them that they will participate. It’s their choice. But not here. Our dear brother, who happened to be leading the service which we attended the day before yesterday, took plenty of time to explain to the faithful that they were expected to attend the lancement. That, in fact, it was something God himself was strongly in favour of, to put it mildly. And the faithful should make sure that they were there on time. Because, otherwise, if the good people of Dogbo noticed there was nobody there yet at three o’clock in the afternoon, they might think that the lancement had been cancelled. And that would mean dishonour to God, n’est-ce pas? And, oh yes, here are your envelopes…
So will the faithful be there next Saturday? To give you some idea: Pasteur Théophile also received an invitation. And you should know that Pasteur Théophile lives all the way in Cotonou. It takes him about 3½ hours to get here on his motorcycle. The drive here and back costs him a day-and-a-half’s wages in fuel costs. You should also know that at least twice a month Pasteur Théophile already drives forth and back from Cotonou to the Mono-Couffo for the weekend to do pastoral work, to teach and to preach. You’d think the guy would say: well, I do have a family, so I don’t think I can make it this Saturday as well… But no, expectations and obligations are strong here. If someone says, Pay-my-call, that’s what you do. Pasteur Théophile will be there. Including his envelope. And I expect that very many of the faithful will be there as well.
And what about me? No way, you say. But then you have forgotten something. Remember me saying that after writing this blog I would repent?
Yes, I will be at the lancement. On the other hand, I’m not absolutely sure about my envelope…

Let's hear it for the babies!

Groningen. Enschede. Dogbo.

In Groningen, in one of the university buildings, hulks the multimillion-euro Accelerator Mass Spectrometer. Hannah was there, this week, working on an archaeological research project. In the bowels of the great monster slowly turns a carousel with some fifty polished metal cartridges. At the tip, each contains a minute amount of graphite. Every 45 minutes or so a new cartridge is subjected to many, many volts of electrical power, disintegrating the graphite molecules and hurtling its component nuclear particles through a massive horseshoe magnet and around the corner into an array of highly delicate sensors. And just as light is bent and separated by a prism into its various colours, so the isotopes of carbon separate from less to more heavy as they pass through the magnetic field. ¹²C, ¹³C, and finally ¹⁴C. Analysis of the proportions of these isotopes in the graphite sample offers an indication of its age. Cost per sample approximately €350. And that’s where Hannah comes in. The graphite, in this case, had been reduced from bone samples: first leaching away all the calcium and impurities, then by some modern-day alchemy transforming the remaining collagen into the cartridges’ load. The bone samples, in turn, had been harvested on Tell Sabi Abyad in Syria. With her colleagues, before Assad’s days turned sour, Hannah had uncovered graves from well before the time of Abraham. Among others – and now I am more or less getting to the point of this lengthy introduction – the grave of an infant prematurely born. Let’s say it was someone’s daughter. Further analysis of her bones indicated that she had been coaxed into drinking her mother’s milk, and that her struggle for life must have continued for up to two months. And then she died. Nameless to us, she was loved by her mother. That’s one of the things an archaeologist needs to deal with. This little stone-age girl is more than an object of study. She was someone’s baby. By the way she was laid to rest, carefully, comfortably, accompanied by a few ornaments and a little votive bowl: someone cared, tiny as she was. And opening her grave means getting to know her, and through her, her mother, her family, her culture. That she died matters. Just as much as it matters that your little baby lived. Or perhaps died.

In Enschede, starting last week, stands the Glass House, manifestation of ‘3FM Serious Request’. A popular Dutch radio station has hosted this initiative each Christmas for the past decade or so. Each time in a different city, three persons, BN-ers (‘Well-known Netherlanders’) from the entertainment industry, are locked into a glass studio. Visible in all but their most intimate moments to the Christmas-shopping public, unable to partake in pre-Christmas cheer, unable to go home to their loved ones, unable to eat-drink-and-be-merry. From the moment the door is locked behind them until their release on the night before Christmas, they will be there, taking their turn behind the microphones and soliciting donations for aid and development projects. A simple philosophy drives the initiative: Christmas is for giving. Not just to ourselves, for once, but to those who are less fortunate. Each year, ´Serious Request´ touches the hearts of more people, young and old. Millions of euro´s are brought to the Glass House or pledged online. This year, the object of the project is to counter needless deaths of Third World babies. `Let´s hear it for the babies´, is this year´s slogan. Prematurely born, but with every chance of surviving, given the necessary care. Or 2 months old and dehydrating because of diarrhoea, perfectly treatable for less than the price of a can of soda. Or a year old and struggling to gain weight because of ignorance and a wholly inadequate diet. Not everyone’s heart is touched. I read columns and blogs entitled: Why I won’t be giving for A Serious Request. A cynic to the left proclaims: the money would be better spent promoting birth control; overpopulation is what we should be fighting, not the death of babies who will only grow up in unremitting poverty. And a concerned Christian to the right: what humanistic hypocrisy, to be soliciting funds for relief on the one hand, while excluding God from aid programs and promoting abortion on the other. No doubt they’ve both got a point. But at Christmas time and always: when a baby dies it matters.

In Dogbo, babies die. And other babies live. We just spoke to Mariette, and she was very happy to say that little Joyce was doing much, much better. Yes, Mariette: we left the baby in her charge after its release from hospital two weeks ago, and our departure for the Netherlands, where we are spending time with family and friends. Little Joyce was eating and drinking, accepting her medication and her vitamins, and gaining weight by the day. Just this morning her father had re-appeared, shamefaced but relieved as well. He had spoken of the sickness and disappearing of his wife, of his own powerlessness, and of his joy that his baby had survived. Mariette had asked permission to keep the baby with her for the time being. Permission? he had said. It is I who should ask your permission before deciding anything concerning the child. She is with you and your ‘patron’, and now she is alive. It seems we have adopted a baby. I’m not sure what is to become of that, but one thing is certain. She matters.

Let’s hear it for the babies!

Joyce - €14.50/kg

“It is a melancholy object to those who walk through this great town or travel in the country, when they see the streets, the roads, and cabin doors, crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in rags and importuning every passenger for an alms….” Imagine a poverty-stricken country, population living from hand to mouth, and children being born in ever-growing numbers but in fact unprovided for. Could well be Benin. But this passage in fact refers to Ireland at the beginning of the 1700’s. So begins Swift’s Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Poor People in Ireland from being a Burden to their Parents or Country and for Making them Beneficial to the Public.  His proposal is as ingenious as it is modest: I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricassee or a ragout. The flesh of yearling children as an export product: think  of all the advantages!

How much is a year-old child worth? Joyce, in this case. We first met her about three weeks ago at the centre in Madjre, strapped to the back of her mother, one of the mentally ill there. Or so we thought. Not her mother at all. For it turns out that the father, background and domicile unknown, had come visiting a relative there, with Joyce in his arms. Joyce’s mother, he said, could not care for the child. And then he departed, leaving Joyce behind. I’m not sure how he managed that, but there she was. To all intents and purposes orphaned. Another mouth to feed, though  true, it is a very small one. Joyce must be about a year old, looking at her dentition and her motor skills; but at her four kilos hardly the size of a year-old. Sadly, in Benin that is hardly rare. Malnutrition, even for children who have not been abandoned, is rife.

This morning we saw her again, still strapped to the same back. Marijke was the first to spot it, and Mariette immediately agreed: Joyce looked like she was dying. Her fingers, which should be brown-black, were a pale pink; the whites of her eyes were whiter than they ought ever to be. And dull. Like her general skin tone. And the slack apathy of her face. Extreme anaemia, there could be no doubt. This girl needed hospitalization without delay, if she was to make it through another night. I phoned Raoul: we need to talk, I said. The baby is dying.

You should understand that there is no professional care at this centre. No-one trained in doing diagnoses. No nurse, psychiatric or otherwise. There is a lot of love and a lot of commitment, a few volunteers (mostly ex-patients) who help with the cooking and with supervision, and there are Raoul and his wife. The latter two decide on and dispense medication, assign tasks to volunteers and to patients, and try to keep the centre financially afloat. Not easy to do. We had arrived that morning around eleven o’clock. It wasn’t until I opened the children’s Bible to the story of Jesus’ multiplying of bread and fish, that we discovered how hand-to-mouth existence is. I asked, by way of introduction: Avez-vous bien manger? In Benin that question is a courtesy question, like  How are you?  in English. No-one expects to hear: Non, in response. But that is what I heard. No-one had eaten at all this morning. There was no diesel to run the flour mill. No corn flour, no boullie, no pâte. No-one had eaten. Which means that Joyce hadn’t eaten either. And even if she had, there would have been little nutrition in it for her. All the love and commitment in the world doesn’t provide a malnourished little girl with what she really needs.

Raoul arrived 15 minute later, harried: he had been on his way from Azove to Lokossa, trying to ferret out where the funds for the centre – which had been wired to Ecobank – had ended up. Yes, he said, he knew the baby wasn’t doing well.  But everyone was hungry, and there wasn’t anyone who could look out for her better than the girl who was playing mother. I said: we’ll take her, but there’ll need to be some authorisation, won’t there? Do you have any papers saying who she is, or who is responsible for her? He looked at me as if I was speaking in tongues. No, he said. Just take her, if you will. I’ll find someone to go with you, and to stay with her at the hospital. (That bit didn’t surprise us: at the hospitals here the staff do not do more than strictly, strictly medical duties. Washing, cleaning, cooking: that’s what the family is for.) One of the kitchen volunteers was asked to go along. Time came to go: but not before Raoul and Mariette and Marijke had been able to almost convince the girl whose baby Joyce had been for the last few weeks that we weren’t taking her away forever.

We arrived at Gohomey: the hospital where Joyce would most be most likely to survive, Mariette was convinced. The hospital is run by Catholic sisters and is reputed to be clean and able to do blood tests and transfusions. The verandas were lined with mothers and fathers awaiting their turn. Mariette, very assertively, managed to negotiate a consultation well ahead of most in the line. Second, actually, right after a baby with extremely high temperature. The nurse did what nurses do: Joyce was temped, examined and a chart was opened. We were sent to another veranda with another door labelled laboratory. Where a very kind technician did very unkind things to Joyce, trying to extract sufficient blood from veins virtually impossible to find. We were all in tears by the time she succeeded.

The test results were ready 15 minutes later. Blood count almost off the bottom end of the scale. This baby needs a transfusion, right now, the doctor said. But we don’t have any blood. He shook his head. I do, I said. Same blood type: 0 positive. And if that’s not enough, Marijke has lots more… There was a lot of relieved joking on the veranda after that. A man we did not know offered blood of his own. No, told him, yovo blood is much stronger. Mine is what she gets… Another blood test followed, this time to verify that I was indeed 0 positive. And not long afterwards I was lying in an ancient recliner, watching myself fill a 400cc blood bag. Don’t forget to have some soft drink afterwards, I was told. And then the bag was detached, brought over to the other veranda, and Joyce was taken to the ward.

We stayed until the drip was regular, and then we left. The kitchen volunteer remained. Joyce was semiconscious, but there was no more we would do.

Tonight we went back. She was still attached to tubes, but now just receiving saline. She was sleeping. Her colour was amazingly normal. Fingers, eyes, lips. Joyce was back. All four kilos of her.

Some time later we were back with food. Which she refused to eat, incidentally. Because her right hand was still attached to the immobilizing board and the tubes. And her left hand: she never eats with that. And no one, no one else but Joyce herself gets to feed her face.

Back to my question: how much is a year-old child worth? Well, I don’t know that. But I know what she cost us today. A pint of blood. And FCFA 38.000 or €58,00 all-in: from syringes to analysis to hospitalisation to a bag full of medicines and vitamin solutions. That makes about €14,50/kg. A bargain.

(And that in times when aid to developing countries is being decimated… May I make a modest proposal?)

Miracle

A year ago I began my first blog with these words: ‘Today we said goodbye to Holland and our African adventure began in earnest.  I don’t remember ever having been so  completely enveloped in love as during the hour we had at Schiphol. God has truly blessed us with a wonderful family!’ So many things have happened in the past year, so many things have changed also, but this one thing remains. If anything, it has become even more true. Family is God’s miracle. Sometime a miracle that hurts, in the missing. But also a miracle that heals, when brothers and sisters come together to give each other support. We love you, kids! And so does God!

And God loves Vovokame too. I’m actually not sure of the spelling. There is no sign to this village, about 3 kilometres from Dogbo. Just a mud track turning off to the left along the road to Ayomi. The track passes a half kilometre of rice fields, then on higher ground the manioc and corn, and then, there it is: undistinguishable from the many other villages we have seen here in the Mono-Couffo. Mud and thatch, mud and corrugated iron, concrete and corrugated iron: huts laid out with no apparent pattern or design. At the entrance to the village on the left an unfinished and slightly unkempt church. No name. And to the right a frame to which is attached a pipe coming out of the ground from which water gushes permanently, falling into a ragged pond and streaming away in the direction of the rice fields.

We were there a few weeks ago at the invitation of a group of young men. Gregoire, our friend and occasional driver, who lives in Dogbo, originally hails from Vovokame. Four or five years ago he was firmly pagan, recently married to a second wife, and filled with jealousy and greed, he says. But God took hold of him. Gregoire accepted Christ and his life was given new direction. Unknown to us, he did what Christians do: he spoke of his faith to his friends and family in Vovokame. They had seen the changes in his life and they were curious.  And then, about a month and a half ago, he arrived with a surprising bit of news: Pasteur, there are people in our village who want to have a Reformed church planted there. Could you meet with us at my house in Dogbo to explain what needs to be done? This was the first time I had ever heard of Vovokame. But obviously God had been a bit more observant than I. 12 young men were waiting for us that Friday evening at Gregoire’s house. Gregoire introduced us and pointed to the oldest, a man of perhaps 30. This is Lambert, the leader of the church. And then the others introduced themselves. One had been baptized, in a Pentecostal church, or was it Apostolic: he wasn’t sure. The others were new converts or still on their way. All confirmed: yes, a Reformed church is what we want for our village. We talked, we read the Bible, we prayed, and we made an appointment for a visit to the village.

Sunday evening a week later we arrived. Together with Norbert, elder at Agame, and Théophile, our Beninese pastor from Cotonou. We threaded our way through haphazard Vovokame. Past the unnamed church and the village spring, between the houses and across the yards. I almost tripped over a Legba: a clay mound decorated with bicycle parts, the horns of a buffalo, and assorted knife blades, the whole encrusted with a oily paste of blood and feathers and maize porridge. To our left a grave was being dug. Adult-size. Just off the porch of the house where the deceased had presumably lived. The dead and the living stay in close proximity in traditional African culture. Gregoire had said: 85% of the people in my village are still pagan. One of the larger houses had been prepared for our meeting:  a table, with three or four chairs at the far end of the room for the visitors, benches filling the rest of the space. Norbert later said: there were more than 50 people in that room! Children, teenagers, women, men. Once again we had the chance to talk, to ask questions, to clarify motives and to explain possibilities. We left, encouraged, if not to say slightly overwhelmed.

Look, said someone: this is the parcel where we can build our church. Right in the middle of the village. Yes, said someone else, but we also have another parcel along the road to the village, if you like that one better. Two prospective members had already pledged a piece of property. We said that it would be better for them to make a decision themselves, independent of us. Best for us, not knowing the unspoken realities of Vovokame, to avoid creating dissension or envy. We walked back to the car, past the church already there. One thing, I said. Before we do anything: there is already a church in Vovokame. And it would not be right for us to come into your village in order to compete. We want to share the gospel. But we do not want to steal another church’s members. If we are going to establish a Reformed church here, we first need to talk to the elders of the church that is already here! Our companions were not taken aback. We expected you to say that, one said. We will arrange a meeting with them as soon as possible.

And so we were in Vovokame again a week later. Besides Gregoire, Joseph, deacon in Dogbo, had come with us. Three elders and a deacon, I think it was, were there to meet us in the house of the head elder. They were kind and courteous and welcomed us as we have become used to being welcomed here. Gregoire introduced us, we explained how we had come to be invited  and what we would and would not be willing to do in Vovokame. You are here as Christian church already, I said. This is your village, God’s field in which He put you to work. In this village, you are the senior brother. And should we come here to start a Reformed church, we would be no more than your junior brother, come to help you on God’s field.  And then the head elder, Rigobert, spoke: in all honesty, it disquieted us to hear that there had been a yovo Pasteur from another church here. We were worried. Had he come to take away our members? Would the new church cause disunity among the Christians here? But we know Gregoire. We know who he was before. And we have seen how he has changed into a new person. We have heard your words. And we understand why you are here. On behalf of our council and of all our members, we would like to welcome you. We need you. God’s field here is too large for us. Besides, in all honesty, our lives as Christians fall short. Joseph, our deacon, asked a question. What would you say, if for example one of your own children would decide to join the Reformed church? Rigobert replied:  I would be happy. I, for one, have not been a good father for my children. I have been such a bad example in so many ways. How can I hope to convince others in our village to accept Jesus Christ when my life has so many faults? Please, come into our village and help us start again.

Humbled, we said goodbye. God must have plans for this village, we concluded. We invited the group to come to Dogbo, to visit a church service there and see for themselves how a Reformed church service is conducted. They did, a week later. About ten of them, all piled into Gregoire’s four-passenger taxi. They came, they saw, they shared a time of worship.

And then this afternoon, Gregoire came by. I had given him a package of materials for the group: Bibles, catechism books, liturgical booklets.  I was in Vovokame today, he said. And the people there have come to a decision. Since visiting Dogbo, they have held meetings every Sunday afternoon. And today they decided that they were going to form a church. Today they read what Paul writes to Timothy about church leaders, and they have confirmed their decision to let Lambert take that position. They would like to build a simple chapel on the parcel of land in the middle of the village. And once they are ready, they will be asking the elders of the ERCB to accept them within the church as a new parish.

What else could we do but praise God? I started to tell Gregoire about what DVN would perhaps be willing to do to provide some financial assistance, but he interrupted me. No, he said, God has done a miracle. They do not need or want any help like that. Everyone there has pledged to buy materials and to take part in the construction, the parcel has already been cleared, and within four or five days, the chapel should be standing. And next Sunday there will be an inaugural church service.

Guess where we will be going to be, God willing, next Sunday morning at 10 o’clock? I think it will be a good Sunday. Enveloped in God’s love at Vovokame. Family of a different kind. We still miss our own, more than we can say sometimes, but something like this is an enormous encouragement. Miracles still happen.

(Photos by Jurrien)

Nebuchadnezzar

“Immediately what had been said about Nebuchadnezzar was fulfilled. He was driven away from people and ate grass like cattle. His body was drenched with the dew of heaven until his hair grew like the feathers of an eagle and his nails like the claws of a bird.” (Daniel 4.33)

I saw Nebuchadnezzar today. She was about thirty, I think. I have no idea whether she was humbled for walking in pride. But humbled she was. On all fours, down in the dust with the same sinuous subservience that you see with a dog too often beaten. Her mouth gaping in a rictus of appeal , an arm raised as if to beckon and to shield herself, both at once. Every shred of human dignity departed, naked from her bush to her breasts. Marijke said of those, as we were leaving: small like a child’s, but obviously used for suckling. What happened to the children this woman must have borne, before she was driven away?

It was on the way back from Madjre. Marijke’s blog tells of what we do there. A centre for the mentally disabled and psychiatrically afflicted. Men, women, children plucked from the roadside, from village hovels, freed from shackles and given shelter by a man called Raoul Agossou. Facilities beyond primitive, but home to love and respect. Every week on Thursday morning we spend an hour or so with the people there, talking, touching, playing, singing, reading and praying. There are those in that place who perhaps no more than a few months before were totally unaware of themselves as people, as human beings, as creatures after God’s image. Like Nebuchadnezzar.

On the way back from Madjre this morning we stopped to greet our friends the Celestes. And as we walked onto the terrain, there she was, calling out to us with incoherent cries from the other side of the dusty square. No-one but us paid her any attention as we sat down to talk. It was about two weeks ago that she had arrived at this place, we heard. From somewhere near Toviklin, about  15 km away through the bush. Since then she had been hanging around like this. One of the many nameless fou’s that wander about in Benin, scouring the countryside for things edible.

She didn’t approach us; but she kept calling out. So as we were getting up to leave, Marijke decided to walk towards her. I watched as the smile widened, the body arched upwards. Again, for all the world like a dog; you know, the kind that can hardly believe someone is actually coming over to pet it.

Two things happened at that moment. I don’t know which affected me more. She became a woman, grabbed hold of Marijke’s outstretched hands and wouldn’t let go. What she meant to do, to say: God only knows. It was a moment of human contact; but so intense that it was a bit frightening as well. Marijke struggled to be released.

And at the same time, the people around me laughed. They laughed at Marijke, I think, for treating this woman like a human being. That was the kind of laugh it was. With a touch of amazement, a helping of scorn, and a portion of amusement. They laughed at the woman too, the spectacle she presented. No-one seemed troubled, no-one was shamed, no-one moved to help. Then the moment passed and Marijke was able to step away. The woman lowered herself back into the dust and her animal existence.

It was an awful thing that came upon Nebuchadnezzar.