Our time here in Bunia in the Democratic Republic of Congo in central Africa has only just begun, but I feel that I have already learned and noticed so much. Bunia sits in the Great Rift Valley in the heart of Africa. It is a fertile land with amazing produce, beautiful rolling hills, and enough natural resources to make this country one of the most successful economies of the modern world--or at least in Africa.
But this success has not arrived. As one turns from the beautiful vistas and scenic landscapes, you noticed homes separated by barbed wire, children running in dark streets at night and and elderly women stopping cars to beg for money.
A few years ago, the conflict that seemed to engulf much of the entire continent reached Bunia and the Congo. Families were separated permanently. Children carried weapons in the streets, and husbands witnessed terrible atrocities against their wives. Lives were utterly destroyed, to put it mildly.
It all started when two tribal groups, the Lendu and the Hema, began fighting. The two groups had lived together for years--centuries even--with only slight disagreements. But this time was different. This time was like no other time before it.
But those years have gone, and peace has returned to the Bunia region. Despite these hardships, Christians in Bunia kept the faith. They continued worshipping amid the fighting, and now the churches are stronger than ever. Many worship together as brothers and sisters, disregarding the fact that they may belong to two different factions that were once killing each other with little attention from the outside world.
We are here to tell their story. It is a story of reconciliation and forgiveness. A story of faithfulness and triumph. A story of hearing God speak their language--their heart language, the language that they think in and feel in and worship in.
This is the story that we are here to share.
But there is so much else going on in Bunia. The Congolese people are addressing the growing AIDS crisis through mother-tongue scripture and meeting cultural challenges head-on. They are educating translators that will carry God’s Word back to their home village so that they, too, may understand. They are returning to normal lives even after “the angels had left them.”
It is an amazing story, and we get to tell it. What an amazing privilege.
What an amazing responsibility.
- Dustin
Friday, March 14, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Beat the Snake with the Stick that you have.
12.3.2008
Today, we arrived in Bunia in the wake of a day of misadventures. Sometimes misadventures are make for great stories, today's didn’t. They simply made for a boring, discouraging time, a day of shuffling from place to place only to find that we need to move to a new place. Our plane was late, and we had to do an additional stop on our flight to Bunia. Borghy’s passport was lost in a room no bigger than 8'x9' for a half an hour (not her fault), our car doesn't fit all of us and all our stuff, there wasn’t enough room for all of us in the hotel we had originally planned to stay in. We thought we could get the rest of us put up at a University, but when we got there, they were out of room. After looking at the interview schedule for the video, we realized things are not structured properly and would we be able to fix that? Which leads me here: staying at the house of the dean of the university. A house which had no power today, or yesterday, but is full of generous people. We are quickly learning that power is much less reliable than we had even thought.
When Sean and I finally dropped our bags in our room, the only thing I could think about was sleep. But after the beckonings of a very insistent hostess, we came out into the sitting room for what turned out to be tea and treats. We talked, but to be honest, I just wanted to leave; I wanted her to know that I wanted to go to bed.
Then Pastor Enosh came over to visit and welcome us to Bunia. We started talking and somehow a traditional Swahili phrase came up:
“You beat the snake with the stick in your hand.”
Meaning, if you stop to find a bigger stick, the snake will probably bite you.
Or as I took it, if you wait until you are rested, healthy, comfortable and feeling at home, the stories won’t be here any more.
That was convicting. There is too much at stake. What is happening in this country, what GOD is doing in this country is far too important to wait for me to feel good or for electricity.
13.3.08
We didn’t have electricity today either, but we got three amazing interviews. Turns out our stick works pretty well.
- Jon
Today, we arrived in Bunia in the wake of a day of misadventures. Sometimes misadventures are make for great stories, today's didn’t. They simply made for a boring, discouraging time, a day of shuffling from place to place only to find that we need to move to a new place. Our plane was late, and we had to do an additional stop on our flight to Bunia. Borghy’s passport was lost in a room no bigger than 8'x9' for a half an hour (not her fault), our car doesn't fit all of us and all our stuff, there wasn’t enough room for all of us in the hotel we had originally planned to stay in. We thought we could get the rest of us put up at a University, but when we got there, they were out of room. After looking at the interview schedule for the video, we realized things are not structured properly and would we be able to fix that? Which leads me here: staying at the house of the dean of the university. A house which had no power today, or yesterday, but is full of generous people. We are quickly learning that power is much less reliable than we had even thought.
When Sean and I finally dropped our bags in our room, the only thing I could think about was sleep. But after the beckonings of a very insistent hostess, we came out into the sitting room for what turned out to be tea and treats. We talked, but to be honest, I just wanted to leave; I wanted her to know that I wanted to go to bed.
Then Pastor Enosh came over to visit and welcome us to Bunia. We started talking and somehow a traditional Swahili phrase came up:
“You beat the snake with the stick in your hand.”
Meaning, if you stop to find a bigger stick, the snake will probably bite you.
Or as I took it, if you wait until you are rested, healthy, comfortable and feeling at home, the stories won’t be here any more.
That was convicting. There is too much at stake. What is happening in this country, what GOD is doing in this country is far too important to wait for me to feel good or for electricity.
13.3.08
We didn’t have electricity today either, but we got three amazing interviews. Turns out our stick works pretty well.
- Jon
Friday, March 7, 2008
Worshipping With One Arm
On Wednesday I was getting ready for our communication team’s trip to the Democratic Republic of Congo. I searched online for images to show how much people had suffered there during the wars. One picture showed a Congolese mom cradling a nursing baby with one arm. On the other side of her body where an arm should have been, there was just a stub with a bandage on the end. She had lost that arm defending her children from an attacker.
I showed the picture to my boss, Kristie, who is herself a mother, and said, “Look at all she’s gone through, but she’s still giving life. Even with what happened to her, she’s still a mom. They couldn’t take that away from her.” Kristie nodded and said, “She is a mom. You can take her arm, but you can’t take her kids.”
I wonder if I’ll meet ladies in the Congo whose children were taken from them—moms who would’ve gladly given their arms in place of their kids, but who weren't given that choice. I wonder what you do if you lose your arm, or worse, your child. I have no idea. How do you keep worshipping God from there? How do you make an altar at ground zero, when everything you had worth sacrificing is already gone? Maybe the people I meet in the Congo will know, and maybe they’ll teach me.
I showed the picture to my boss, Kristie, who is herself a mother, and said, “Look at all she’s gone through, but she’s still giving life. Even with what happened to her, she’s still a mom. They couldn’t take that away from her.” Kristie nodded and said, “She is a mom. You can take her arm, but you can’t take her kids.”
I wonder if I’ll meet ladies in the Congo whose children were taken from them—moms who would’ve gladly given their arms in place of their kids, but who weren't given that choice. I wonder what you do if you lose your arm, or worse, your child. I have no idea. How do you keep worshipping God from there? How do you make an altar at ground zero, when everything you had worth sacrificing is already gone? Maybe the people I meet in the Congo will know, and maybe they’ll teach me.
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