Preaching in Pinayanga.

After I first arrived in Mozambique, I was having dinner at a missionary-friend’s house and the topic of Simply the Story came up. I was naturally enthusiastic having just come from another training (before I left the States) and I was discussing how it’s used for oral learners.

My friends (and missionaries from Australia), Roger and Amanda, were curious but hesitant to hear about another teaching method. Didn’t Africa have enough of them already?

I insisted it had its place and offered to show them how it worked sometime. Roger, who teaches pastors in the villages, listened but made no indication that he’d be interested.

Nevertheless, part of his pastor training curriculum focuses on various types of teaching methods. So in an effort to teach the pastors a more oral way, he invited me out to teach. Attendance was not mandatory since it was a ‘special feature’ of sorts, but I was thrilled at the opportunity all the same.

When I prayed about which story to share, God led me to the story of Jesus calming the storm and the waves found in Mark 4:35-41.

I prepared by testing it out on a few missionaries at Maforga a few days before, and I prayed.

A lot.

The village in which Roger teaches is called Pinayanga. You might remember that Pinayanga is also the village I visited last year when I discussed the possibility of teaching their girls nurse-midwifery. (You can read that story here and here.)

When the Pinayanga villagers learned that I was coming, they remembered me and were eager to have me come. I suspect most were eager because of medical questions, but, at least for now, they were going to get a STS story instead.

In preparation for the teaching, Roger arranged two translators (one to speak for me, and one to speak to me). I tried to explain to them what it would entail but some of it was lost in translation.

Early Monday morning as we drove to the village, Roger tried to lower my expectations.

-- “I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” he warned. “This group doesn’t participate much.
-- “Oh..?” I said softly then waited, seeing he had more to say.
-- “Yes. I cannot get them to answer any of my questions. They only like to listen and they won’t ask questions. It’s the way they learn in school here,” he continued.
-- “Okay.” I answered slowly, adding optimistically. “But perhaps with this style, it will be different...”
He glanced at me sideways as if to say he knew better. But didn’t say any more.

"Ultimately," I thought to myself. "God would speak to them through this passage or He wouldn’t. How much they answered didn’t matter." So I continued.

-- “If they don’t answer... then the teaching will be very short,” I added matter-of-factly. “Anyway... it’s more the chance to practice and learn, right?”

He nodded in agreement, and we continued to drive in silence.

I, however, continued to pray. I’d seen this teaching method bring crowds alive with discussion and was eager to see how these villagers would respond.

But more than anything, I anticipated good things.

For God is good.

We didn’t have to announce our arrival. The minute our shiny black SUV drove through the main square, people started making their way to the church property. Within a few minutes we had about a dozen women and children, and a spattering of men.

Apparently, most of the pastors had in fact decided to take this day off.


When we walked into the church there was a young girl waiting for us. Sitting slightly slumped on the church bench this girl moaned to herself in pain. Her mother stood behind her propping her up.

It was clear she was burning up with fever.

Malaria.

She’d been this way for two days.

I asked a few quick questions about her status, then we laid hands on her and prayed. Her mother thanked us then placed her on a blanket in the back of the church.

I couldn’t understand why she was not getting any treatment. So I asked.
-- “Isn’t there a health post here?” I asked her mother.
-- “Yes, but the guy who runs it left for the weekend (which was 2 days before). He won’t arrive until this afternoon.”
-- “I see.”
-- “Can’t you buy the medicine in town?” I asked.
They nodded a clear yes, but then didn’t explain why they hadn’t.

Was it from lack of money? I didn’t think so. A few paracetamol are not expensive.

Then why?

I never got my answer.

The young girl moaned and slept while the rest of the learners arrived. And turning my attention for the girl, I happily joined the women all the while testing my new language skills and taking pictures.

They were thrilled to see their faces in the display screen on my camera, but many squinted in blurry disinterest when it came their turn. I couldn’t help but wonder how much sight rested in those clouded windows.


As more women arrived, I was informed they ‘needed’ pictures as well and I happily snapped off a few more shots.

The colors and layers were fascinating.

Beautiful.

Not long after, Roger called us in and the story began. My translators struggled at first but quickly picked up on what was expected of them.

The crowd had grown slightly and was then roughly two dozen strong. More men had snuck in towards the back. Plus, a number of breastfeeding mothers had gathered as well, rocking and swaying their babes as they listened.


Telling the story was easy enough. My translator had memorized the story in preparation. But Roger was right, the minute I went to ask them a question... they turned their faces to the floor so I wouldn’t call on them.

However, with time and a little encouragement, the answers started coming. First tentatively, then in full force.

Roger watched in surprise as one after the other stood to answer and throw out his or her ideas. Soon, it became a lively conversation.

There were some cultural snags nonetheless.

For instance, I could not get them to think of how anyone could have done anything different in the situation. (For those familiar with STS, this was the ‘choices’ question.)


Also, when I suggested that anyone could have done something ‘not quite right’, they argued with me saying, “No. They could not have done that. That is not possible.” The only way we found around this was by discussing ‘failure’ to do what was right. Only then did they understand and concede the possibility.

Later, Roger explained that many in church believe that one must never speak of their own failures in public. Instead, one must only speak positively.

I suspect this has something to do with the widely held belief that evil spirits are always listening, and that some things should never be spoken out loud. But that is just a suspicion.

Alas... I have much to learn!

I won’t go on and on. But know that the day was a huge success. At the end when I applied the lessons we had discussed, immediately the group came up with examples of those lessons.

One by one, they stood to testify of how and when they had clearly obeyed God and yet had still had massive spiritual attacks, and how God had gotten them through it by His power and love.

It was amazing!

So. Much. Fun.

(Happy sigh.)


They invited me to come back and teach on a Sunday morning in a few week’s time. This has to be arranged of course, but I’m excited at the possibility. Please pray with me as to when and how this might happen.

Thank you!

Pinayanga (part two) ~

(Continued from previous post, read first.)

While we waited, Anthony (the untrained medical worker assigned to the post) gathered the mayor’s secretary, who called the mayor, who invited a few more friends. Then someone also sent for the traditional birth attendant who lived down the hill.

Word got out about our visit and several more gathered to hear what the foreigners had to say. All the officials sat on a wooden bench while we stood to address them. Roy spoke of our desire to train midwives, asking if they needed help in this area.

They nodded gravely and explained the troubles they had in reaching town when sick.
“The roads are bad,” they explained, adding that it was too difficult for their pregnant women to get prenatal care. “It’s too expensive to go into town for visits... and for the birth.”
-- “Do they deliver in the hospital sometimes or only at home?” I asked.
-- “Most deliver at home... but when they try to go to the hospital often our women deliver on the road.”
-- “On the road? Really?” I asked pretending surprise. “What do you do then?”
-- “Well... the baby comes and then we take them home.”

About this time, the traditional birth attendant arrived. Her name was Louisa Josepha and she wore a fade patch of fabric on her head, and another equally faded apron around her waist.

Bent slightly as she walked, she took the time to shake each person’s hand in greeting then sat down next to the mayor on the bench.

-- “Thank you so much for coming,” I said, greeting her through my translator Tucha, one of the orphans at the compound and the only one in our group that spoke her language. “I’m happy to meet another midwife.”

She smiled kindly in response, hiding the confusion and interest wrestling under the surface of her face. I could see she was flattered to be among the gathered, but she didn’t seem to understand why. So I started to explain.

The Mayor, Luisa and other towns officials that came to listen.

-- “Ma’m Louisa, I’m trying to learn about your needs as a midwife in the village. Can you tell me... are you the only midwife here?”
-- “Yes,” translated Tucha in Chitchetwe the local language since Louisa did not speak any Portuguese.
-- “Do you have an apprentice at all? Anyone you are training to help you?” I continued on. Everyone waited in interested silence while she responded. Every face turned her direction.

She explained that she did not have an apprentice and often she was too busy to care for the women who called on her. “My legs are weak now. When I’m called to the village 30 kilometers down the road... my feet hurt when I arrive.”
-- “You have to walk 30 kilometers to deliver babies?” I asked in naive disbelief.

At this point the mayor and all the rest of the men piped up to answer for her. They all spoke at once, gesturing this way and that, talking over one another in their desire to elaborate.

Tucha laughed because she didn’t know how to translate anymore; and decided to sum things up with; “There are many villages near by... and she is the only midwife. When called for help, she must walk there. One village is 30 kilometers away that way,” she explained pointing to her right. “The other villagers are 35 kilometers or so that way,” she pointed to her left and smiled. 

Once voices had settled, Louisa continued on; “I walk so slow these days...often I get there too late to catch the baby.”
I nodded that I understood. She was clearly no longer a spring chicken. When I asked her age, she just laughed and shrugged her shoulders as if I’d just asked her to calculate the circumference of the moon.

And we all laughed together happily, then I changed the subject slightly.
-- “Please tell me about your training... are you are nurse?” I asked hopefully.
-- “No.”
-- “Did you get the government midwife training at least?”
-- “Yes. Yes.”
-- “How long is that training? Is it weeks or months?
-- “It is 3 weeks long.”
-- “And does the government give you supplies... like gloves or medicines?” I asked remembering a conversation I had the week before. Roy had taken me to the town of Inchope and we spoke to the town chief and interviewed a nurse at the local clinic. He had explained that the government often paid a small salary and provided basic medicines to traditional birth attendants (TBAs). I wanted to see if that was the case for this village.

But once my question was translated, the crowd exploded again in excited chatter. Everyone had something to say but nearly all of them where shaking their heads. So it wasn’t a surprise when Tucha translated a quite, “No” and then looked at her feet.

-- “How many babies do you deliver a month?” I inquired. She looked put on the spot, so I rephrased it. “I mean... how many a week?”
That question she could answer.
-- “I have two to three babies born each week, or about 10-12 a month,” she explained.
-- “And you do that without any supplies...? Or gloves...? Or razors...?” I prodded.
-- “Yes. I have nothing but these,” she responded, lifting her wrinkled hands for inspection.

Satisfied that I had at least an idea of what I was dealing with, I decided to explain why we had come. “Please let me tell you why I’m asking you all these questions,” I started.

They sat a bit straighter and turned their ears my way in attention while I spoke.
-- “I would like to help the women of your village stay alive in birth. You have seen some women die after having babies here, haven’t you?” I asked presumptuously informed. (The latest statistics place Mozambique in the world’s twenty deadliest country in which to give birth. In Mozambique one out of every 37 women will die in childbirth over her lifetime.)

They nodded uncertainly, but as I explained that women are dying all over Mozambique in childbirth and not just in Pinayanga, they looked less stressed to admit so.
-- “Yes. Our women have died in childbirth,” confessed the mayor gravely.

I acknowledged his words with a slight nod, them moved on.

“But I am also interested in helping your babies stay alive...” I continued on with translation. “What I’d like to do is come to your village each month to help your women get prenatal care, then also take some of your young students to train to be midwives.”

As I detailed the idea and discussed the kind of student I was looking for, they started getting noticeably excited.

-- “But if I train one of your young ladies to take care of your wives and children then you have to build her a clinic to work in. And you have to pay her for her services.”
-- “Yes. Yes,” they broke out in excited chatter. Then while pointing to the building in which we stood they added, “we built this ‘Posto de Secorro’ for Anthony with bricks we made by hand.”
The pride in their voices was unmistakable; I couldn’t help but smile.

The conversation went on like this for some time. I’d ask questions, they’d propose options. They’d ask questions and I’d outline what I had in mind.

By the end of the initial meeting, they asked me how many of their young ladies I was willing to train.
I turned to Roy for help but he just laughed. Finally, I confessed, “To be honest, I was only thinking about training one or two from this village.”
-- “But this village is the hub for nine other villages. Can’t you train a midwife for each of those villages too?”

I smiled deeply at this mayor’s farsightedness. Clearly in his mind, one midwife just wouldn’t cut it. He needed ten.

I stopped and prayed softly under my breath before answering. Lord, I would love to be able to train ten midwives for this area. Please do this and much much more. For Your glory and for Your name sake. Amen.

I smiled and said, “Let’s start with two... and then go from there.”

The Mayor nodded enthusiastically, then asked, “So when do we start? This month?”

Maria and Tucha -my translators.

You should have seen the grin on my face as we drove home that day. When I turned to Roy, he was grinning too. Even Tucha and Maria (the other orphan who came to translate that day) were giddy with excitement. They were thrilled to see how positive the villagers responded to the idea.

All four of us rode home grinning.

Even though the Ministry of Health was still (at least at this point) unwilling to talk, at least we knew that the villagers were positive about the concept.

The door was starting to give way... would it open?

More of my story to come.... sorry it has taken me so long to write. I’m blessed to be so busy these days that I have no time to write all I’m doing and thinking. But I promise to try and catch everyone up.

Pinayanga (part one)

The day after my birthday, Roy arranged for me to go to Pinayanga*, a small village about 30 minutes drive into the bush. There was an untrained medical worker there providing basic healthcare to the people and living in a small clinic that the village had built him. His name is Anthony.

As we bounced down the well-graded road Roy reminisced.
-- “You see that field?” he asked, pointing at a patch of overgrown shrubs. “That used to be rice fields as far as the eye could see.”
I strained hard but could not imagine the cracked clots of vermillion soil soaked in enough water to grow anything rice-like. “Really? Rice fields?” I asked incredulously.
-- “Yes,” he said softly. I could see him stepping back in time in his mind. Remembering.
-- “Is this where you met the rebels?” I asked.
-- “Yes. This is the spot there...” he remembered softly, signaling off to the right.

The week before over a dinner of stewed venison and rice, he had told me about The Rice Field Meeting. It was during the war, not long before he and his wife were taken hostage. Trying to smuggle in food for the starving population, his Land Rover was fired upon by semi-automatic weapons and a rocket launcher. But as they sped through the rebel’s trap, God protected them supernaturally. Of the countless rounds shot their direction, only one stray bullet grazed the hood. No doubt rattled... they had nevertheless made it through unscathed.

But the story didn’t end there.

A few days later an anonymous note was left on Roy’s desk asking for him to secretly meet the rebels in this rice field. He was not sure if it was a trap, so he prayed first, then hopped in his bullet-scratched Land Rover to find out. “What could the rebels possibly want?” he wondered as he road out to meet them under the cover of night.

But once he reached the rice fields, they looked empty. So he waited.

After some time, shrubs started moving and pools of water rippled to reveal rebel soldiers all around him. They literally rose up from plain sight and started walking his way.

He confessed over dinner that when their mud-covered AK-47s started in his direction, he was tempted to worry. What had he gotten himself into this time?

But the overly-friendly smiles on their faces quickly told him he’d not die that night. Instead, they addressed him politely, explaining that they hadn’t eaten in days; the government troops had effectively cut off all their supplies; and now their wives and children were starving in the mountains. Could he help them with food, too?

He readily admitted that his first thought was not Christ-like. Here were the very men who had  tried to shoot him... and they had the gall to ask him for food!

-- “Why should I help you when just last week you shot at me and my family?” he asked half jokingly.
-- “What? When did we try to kill you?” they asked innocently.
-- “I was driving the red Land Rover last week,” he stated flatly. “You shot at me.”
-- “Oh, yes! Yes, we remember you,” they laughed. “That was us shooting!”

Still laughing one man stepped forward and proudly confessed, “I was the one with the rocket launcher.” Then slapping him on the back good-naturedly he asked, “There are no hard feelings are there, brother? This is war.”

What do you say to that?

Long story short, God’s Mercy won the day and by the end of the meeting, Roy had agreed to smuggle them food. He explained to me simply that he was not there to draw political lines; he was there to feed the hungry, cloth the naked, and bind up the broken and wounded. To him there was no difference to a starving orphan and a starving rebel. They both needed Jesus.

His story replayed itself in my thoughts as we bounced further down the road, until he abruptly pointed to a new stretch of road and said, “That road used to be cluttered with land mines.”

I smiled encouraging for him to continue on.

Trish and Roy Perkins.

-- “Just after the war... and before the land mines were cleared, I drove down it on a tractor with Trish and Nana**,” he started to recount. The cogs of memories turning slowly as he drove on.

-- “We drove all the way to Pinayanga and back... and we never hit one land mine,” he added flatly in disbelief at the sound of his own words. “I cannot believe that I did something so stupid... but I did,” he confessed with a slight chuckle then asked, “What was I thinking?”

Then he grew quiet again withdrawing into his memories.

Then we bounced on silently again... and I waited for more. Hoped for me. More was sure to come.

A few minutes passed then he continued. “You know... it took me two months working six days a week to clear this road.”
-- “How did you do it?” I asked expectantly.
-- “I bought a metal detector... then slowly walked every inch of it,” he started. “It was painfully long work as every coin and paper clip would send off the alarms.”
-- “Wow,” I whispered. “You did this by yourself?”
-- “Yes.”

I could not help but smile as he spoke. Here sat a man who was so moved by the needs he saw in this war-scarred country, that he has spent the last 27 years of his life feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and binding up the wounded. Sometimes that meant having midnight meetings with rebels. Other times that meant digging up land mines. Most often it meant making sure nearly a hundred orphans have their next meal.

When we parked in front of the Medical outpost my smile widened. This was EXACTLY what I imagined it would be. A small brick building painted white with blue trim sporting a simple sign in hand-painted cobalt blue: “Posto de Socorro.”

To be continued...

 *Pinayanga means Witchdoctor’s Cauldron in the local tongue. Even though the famous witchdoctor has long since passed, it is still a hotbed for witchcraft to this day.

**Trish is Roy’s wife and Nana was the nurse who ran the medical clinic until 7 years ago when she had to retire and the clinic closed.