HARD RICE

I parked the truck between the tree and the old white van with four flat tires. Two “red can kids” (Muslim boy street beggars sometimes as young as four or five) sat a few feet in front of the truck at the edge of the sewer ditch between us and the road.  Janet exited the passenger seat and trod the dusty path to the small alimentation” or grocery store to grab a few items.  I waited for one of the young boys to walk up to the truck and to point to his mouth with bunched fingertips—the common sign for “hungry.”

There he was, maybe 13-years old, definitely underfed, pointing fingers to his mouth with his other palm pressed against the window.  I reached into the box normally filled with small sacks of peanuts that we keep between the seats and found only one.  I leaned over and half rolled down the window, smiled and handed him the peanuts as I said “Tu dois partager,” (“You must share.”)  He half smiled and walked towards his friend. I watched as they divided the sack between them and devoured the contents.

The other boy turned to look back at me, likely hoping for more peanuts.  I looked in the box and all that remained was one of our sacks of rice and beans that we give to mothers with children who beg along the road.  The begging women can cook the contents where the red can kids cannot.  The boys are routinely underfed by Muslim overseers who collect whatever money they garner from passing motorists.  The beckoning face at the window was too much.  I gave him what I had, the sack of rice and beans.  Perhaps he knew someone who would cook it for him.

Janet climbed into the truck with her bag of groceries.  I started the truck and as I prepared to shift into reverse I glanced over to where the two boys were sitting.  I paused.  They had opened the sack and were warily testing the uncooked rice.  Their experiment didn’t last long and they closed the sack.  I continued backing out from the tight space between the tree and the white van with four flat tires and slowly drove along the narrow road. I slowed even more as we passed the small, road-side mosque where the collection of sandals outside revealed it was the Muslim sunset prayer, the Salat al-Maghrib.

Even after eight years of sharing food with the hungry of Burkina, the image of the boys testing the hard rice lingered before me as we bounced down the rutted road towards home. This is another unmet need among so many.  Now to find something a bit more substantial than peanuts.

God is always good.

GOOD SIGNS

 

Meet Isaiah.  

I encountered him while I was cleaning trash from the street in front of our home.  He is deaf.  He began helping me to pick up trash.  He tried to say something to me but I could not understand him.  His friend standing next to him gestured with her hands. They shared a manual patois. She turned to me and told me his name and that he wanted to help.

I turned to Isaiah and made the American Sign Language (ASL) sign for “deaf” and pointed to myself.  I am significantly hard of hearing and rely on hearing aids to communicate.  He smiled when I showed him my hearing aids.  I thanked him in sign language for his help as he waved and skipped away.

A few days later Isaiah again appeared as I was flushing out the fuel tank from our generator.  He again joined me in my project.  I tapped him on his elbow to get his attention. I finger spelled his name and pointed to him.  I then gave him a paper with the ASL finger spelling alphabet.  I helped him to spell his name.  The photo is Isaiah practicing his name.  Later I finger spelled my name and pointed to myself.  He nodded excitedly for we now shared something unique.

Later that day as Janet and I were backing the truck out our hangar, I saw Isaiah picking up litter in front of our home.  As I was about to drive off, Isaiah caught our attention.  He smiled, signed my name, and waved as we drove off.

God is good.

CRAWLING MAN

There he was again, sliding his way along the dusty road pushing his crossed legs before him. ‘Flip-flop” sandals protected his hands from the abrasive red soil. I had seen him once before. I slowed then but did not stop. I promised myself I would the next time I saw him.

I pulled over to the right side of the road in front of a sand-blasted block wall. Faded, hand-painted letters testified that an auto mechanic once worked within. A middle-aged Burkinabe sitting in a bent metal chair propped against the wall, chewed on a sprig of wood and watched us with drowsy interest.

As I got out of the truck, I glimpsed two older (about my age) Muslim men in white robes sipping tea in a small café across the road. They noted me with squinting curiosity. They turned away in unison as a blast of dust blew in on the seasonal Harmattan wind.

I walked back as the crawling man rounded the rear of my pick-up. He stopped a meter or so away so as to not to need to crane his neck. I squatted onto a knee and offered my hand. I asked his name. He spoke with a crackling voice as dry as the dust in which he sat, “Kareem” he replied. “Je m’appelle Don,” I offered.

I told Kareem that I had seen him on the road once before. I thought that he might be able to use one of the hand-powered wheelchairs commonly seen in Burkina. Kareem told me that he was almost completely blind and can only see where he is going while on the ground. That pretty much ruled out crutches as well.

He took hold of my hand and pulled himself to his feet. His stick-like legs wobbled and he held my hand to steady himself. He peered into my face. He smiled, shook my hand with both of his, and sat back down in the swirling red dust.

I gave Kareem a few sachets of roasted peanuts that I carry in the truck and use as calling cards for the beggars, street vendors, shopkeepers, and children who I encounter each day. Kareem thanked me again. I bid him a “bonne journée,” as he put his flip-flops on his hands and returned to his shuffling journey down the ruddy road.

I watched the crawling man fade into the dust. I became aware that the dozen or so observers of our conversation were now looking at me standing alone in the road. I got back in my truck and drove away. Kareem waved a flip-flopped hand as I slowed to drive by.

I realized that Kareem was happy. He was accustomed to his circumstances. There was no purpose in me planting an unfelt need in Kareem. This could be one of those times when helping would hurt.

I will look for Kareem whenever I drive down that road. When I see him, I will stop and greet him. I will give him some peanuts and water and ask how he is doing. And if the day comes when I no longer see Kareem shuffling through the swirling dust I will remember him.

And I will smile.

Going Viral

 

“Consider and answer me, O Lord my God;

Light up my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death.”

Psalm 13:3 ESV

 

After being dogged by an unidentified illness for the better part of a month or more my symptoms grew more severe—fatigue, weakness, brain fog, but most oddly no fever. In celebration of the new year, I completely lost my senses of smell and taste.  Dear friends almost dragged me to the clinic where I was diagnosed with Malaria and, as a kicker, a dose of the “maladie de la année,” Covid-19. My symptoms continued to grow more acute.

 

One dark night the following week I sat in bed anticipating meeting Jesus. I had never felt so ill as the “sleep of death.” While it would be my joy, not fear that would mark our meeting, I remain uncomfortable with the review of my life that will follow.  Christ bore my sin burden and freed me from the torment of hell, but as King David observed, “my sin is ever before me.”  God has forgiven me more than I have myself.  I was sure that night would be my last.

 

I embraced Psalm 51 in prayer.  I acknowledged that all my sins were against God. I grasped at his steadfast love and abundant mercy. I begged of Him a clean heart and a right spirit. He opened my lips to declare his praise.  I then dozed only to be awakened sometime later by novel sensations at the base of my chest, something like warmth, but not temperature, something like vibration without movement. I dozed some more.

 

That morning I awoke after a peaceful sleep.  I felt renewed as if it were a Saturday morning in spring filled with breeze and birds.  I felt surprisingly better. I savored the first moments of wakefulness and bid God good morning. There was an air of peace and calm in the room.  There was a palpable sense of the numinous—a feeling of the presence of the divine.

 

Each day since then I have felt better.  I still experience a bit of fatigue and some weakness, but the dark night has been replaced by a warm sunrise.  The abundant prayers of so many in the form of the merciful, healing hand of God are obvious.  I owe much to those who have and continue to pray like persistent widows on my behalf and to my wife Janet who has encouraged me and asked for prayers for my healing.  On that very dark night I could feel the effect of your prayers.   I am surprised at the pace of my healing.  The doctors and nurses have expressed pleasure at my vitals such as a pulseox level of 98%-to 99% and total lack of a fever from Malaria or Covid.

 

I am not sure why I have been graced with such an uneventful recovery from two potentially serious illnesses.  I can only think to attribute it to the abundance of prayers of my wife Janet, our many friends, acquaintances, and colleagues and the response of a God who loves me in spite of my very abundant and profound human failings.  Thank you all so very much.

 

“But I have trusted in your steadfast love,

My heart shall rejoice in your salvation.

I will sing to the Lord,

because he has dealt bountifully with me.”
Psalm 13:5,6 ESV