Overheated: The Saga Continues

Again, please forgive me for this rant. I feel like I’m complaining all the time. I probably am though. As I have more bad (expensive) news to share.

My car... the one that overheated last fall and got a complete new engine... started having troubles again a few weeks back.

My local mechanics (aka: my team members) poked and prodded and said all was good to drive. I was not so sure.

I took it on short trips for the day and it appeared to be fine. But apparently when I decided to come to Beira to start teaching, everything heated up a notch.

The three hour trip turned out to be too much for my car. It overheated.

But oddly, there was no mad cloud of steam and the engine did not freeze. It just got hot and I stopped to cool it off and eventually add more water.

Delayed but not stuck (Praise God!), I eventually made my destination and started volunteering. But almost immediately, it was using more water and oil and acting all hot and bothered.

So I asked around for a good mechanic. That’s how I met Luis.

Luis is Zimbabwean of Indian descent. Nice guy from all appearances. He took a few hours to check ‘Hot and Bothered’ out. The diagnosis was not pleasant.

Though he won’t know for sure until he takes the engine out --Yep. The engine must come out. He says I got really bad work done in Zimbabwe last year. The hack job they did has to be re-done.

All of it.

The price tag is likely to be the same.

This news has been just one more thing in a series of bad this week (i.e. lost paperwork, roofing delays, team drama, etc.). Fortunately, it has not got me shaking in my boots.

Though pressed on every side, I know I’m never abandoned. I feel His presence so intensely. I feel so close to birthing this clinic.

So. Very. Close.

The enemy is shaking in his boots. If he thinks that by frustrating my papers and breaking my car that I’ll somehow turn tail and leave, than he’s a mighty big idiot.

His tactics are base, desperate and ultimately powerless in the face of God’s divine will.

He will fail.

Please pray for me (and the team here at Maforga) to daily find ways to become more than conquerors.

Some battle scars are still fresh. To be honest... some are actively bleeding. But I turn to my Healer for these wounds to be bound up and make whole.

May I come out of this battle stronger and more suited for the next task at hand.

Oh... that His people would PRAY.

Overheated.

So on Monday, one of the team borrowed my car. After a day of running errands, he returned with news that it appeared to be overheating.

Not good.

I took a look at it, and sure enough. It was hot and bothered.

The water boiled furiously out the hoses. The engine strained and sizzled each time it started. And even the tires appeared to be constantly losing air.

Sigh.

I tried a little bit of this... and a little bit of that; I asked you all to pray; And then finally, on day three of the confusion, it became clear.

There was a hose problem.

Another team member lent me his hose to see if it was something so simple. And now it works like a charm.

Please pray for me to know how to take care of this precious ministry tool. Getting from point A to point B is more important than I can express. Everything hinges on transportation in a place as remote as this.

Thanks.

Equivalencia Update

You know it’s an off week when you look down at your mud stained feet and wonder when you took your last shower.

Yes. You read that correctly. And when I say shower... I really mean bucket bath.

In the midst of my feet-inspired reverie this morning, mini flashes of strange and various adventures this week confused my counting and I had to start again.

Finally I determinde --with much self-incriminating horror-- that it has been 7 days.

One week since I showered.

Oh the shame!

It’s at times like this that I’m thankful God hasn’t married me off. Who would share a bed with such a stinker?!

So as I stop to type this out, imagine my grimy toe nails and greasy hair and laugh with me.

I have much to share.

In fact, I have so much to share. I’m going to do it in mini segments because, honestly, who has time to read diatribes on Mozambican corruption or shady mechanics?

I will start at the beginning though. The question is... which beginning?

The Maputo Adventure (and all that came after)

In my most recent newsletter I told you how I went to Maputo to talk to the US ambassador and various heads of departments at the Ministry of Education and Health. I won’t belabor those points again but I will add what has happened since.

The consulate staff has corresponded with me and told me basically their hands are tied. They can (and have) tried to address the delays in my equivalencia process on a more systemic level, but to no avail. They are even willing to make phone calls for me if and when it seems necessary. However, the extent of their influence is limited at best.

I believe them.

Moreover shortly after my visit to Maputo, the Ministry of Education director promised to expedite things (according to my helper in Maputo) but no concrete evidence to this fact has surfaced. She promised to have results by the end of the week. It’s been 2 1/2 weeks since then.

The cogs of bureaucracy move slowly here... if they move at all.

So the long of the short of it is... I must wait and pray. So, I wait and I pray.

The locals are chomping at the bit to see the clinic open. Eyes are on me. Not a day goes by that one of the workers doesn't ask me ‘how long?’.

Can I blame them?

I’ve been encouraged by some on my team to ‘just open it’ and to ‘forget getting government approval’. I’ve been told that the ‘law of love supersedes the laws of man’ and I’m commanded to just start healing people.

How can I argue with that?

Except... except... except, the Bible tells us to abide by the laws of the land. If we don’t abide by them we disgrace God and bring shame to His name.

How do I reconcile the two?

I tell my would-be encouragers that if I practice medicine without a license I can be arrested. No one seems to believe me. No one really thinks I’ll be thrown in prison or kicked out the country for ‘doing good’. But who wants to risk it?

What kind of Christian would I be to openly defy the government on such an important issue? Why put myself in such a predicament, especially in such a litigious society, so I can have the pleasure of handing out medicines?

Yes, the law of love supersedes the laws of man. But am I qualified to pick and chose which laws to obey?

But we are not talking about being forbidden to speak about Jesus or pray in His name. I’m not being forbidden to preach... I’m being told they need to vet me before I dole out malaria meds and catch bambinos.

To me... these are quite different circumstances.

Moreover, I must explain that my equivalencia is not the only thing holding up the clinic’s opening.

The three main issues blocking my way at the moment are:

• a new clinic roof is needed but delayed.
• there is currently no water to the clinic and there is no way to determine how long it will be to resolve the problem.
• the AVARA document process is stuck. This is the document which allows me to buy medicines in bulk and for discounted prices.

Other issues come into play (such as my car is broken again!). But I won’t rant about that at this time. I will, however, promise to write about them all individually and in more detail in the days to come.

But please know... I’m tired and discouraged. I feel like a failure and daily want to give up. I could be inches from my destination... or I could be a million miles away. I cannot know for sure or clearly see what is next. Pray for me.

Please.

My Papers.

This week has been ... well... interesting.

To say the least.

I went to Maputo in search of answers. My papers. I needed my papers. The broken record in my head stutters over these two simple words.

My papers.

You, who have followed my adventures these last few months, know well that I’m in need of My Papers to open the clinic. But I have not explained what it means and why it’s so important.

Forgive me for that.

Now is the time to explain.

I’ll try to be brief.

Last October, it dawned me that I’d have to get my midwifery degree approved in Mozambique in order to practice. So I stumbled through the paperwork process, trying to decipher the litany of stamps, translations, and certifications needed to submit it.

My Portuguese was not as good then ( 6 months ago), and I was uncertain as to how to proceed. But I eventually mustered through them.

However as I tried to submit them locally, the Minister of Education encouraged me to instead go directly to the source --Maputo.

“Everything is done in Maputo”, he said looking highly distracted. “You’ll save months of waiting if you do it there.”

Why? Was he just too lazy to help? Or was he right?

I wasn’t sure. But I decided to believe him and so sent my documents with a friend to Maputo.

But once in Maputo, my friend was scolded for having done them wrong and was informed they’d have to be redone to include an even longer list of criteria.

So I went back to the drawing board, reworked them, and then submitted them again. But this time I went in person.

Unfortunately, I’d lost a good month in the process.

But even after re-working them like mad, I’d apparently done it wrong again. I had to stay several days running around Maputo finding even more stamps, photocopies, and signatures.

Not easy.

(Since I was at it, I decided to get both my diplomas recognized and submitted my Theology degree alongside my Midwifery degree.)

After a number of days, they finally accepted my documents, instructing me to return in a week to follow up.

-- “Really?”, I asked in excitement. “They’ll be done in a week?”

The woman behind the counter looked at me like I’d been hit with the stupid stick more than once and hissed lowly, “No. But come back anyway. We might have problems with your application and need you to fix it.”

-- “But I live 17 hours drive away,” I pleaded. “I cannot come back next week.”

Not even trying to hide her annoyance, she suggested: “Just stay in a hotel then, and come back next week.”

-- “Hotels are too expensive...” I argued on stupidly, “I’m a missionary. I cannot afford to live in Maputo for a week only to be told if my application is correct or not. Can’t you give me a number to call so I can follow up from my province?”

Sighing in a deeper annoyance than before she spat, “No!”, adding tersely, “You’ll just have to come back in a month!” Then she quickly turned her gaze to the woman standing behind me, stack of papers in hand, and asked, “Neeexxxt?”

I left a bit dismayed by her attitude, grumbling the words “Functionary!” under my breath. But I couldn’t help but feel relieved. After two months of sweating over these documents, they were finally submitted!

A month went by... and I returned to check on the papers.

The 17 hour bus ride there was not easy. Cramped. Hot. Stinky. But I made it back to this nation’s capital intact and ready for anything.

Well... almost anything.

I didn’t know I was so doggedly optimistic about getting approved, until I walked into the same small office and found the same disgruntled functionary behind the desk.

When she told me that neither of my degrees had been decided on yet and that I should come back in another month, I balked.

This was during a time of rebel activity and it had been unsafe for me to travel by bus in the first place. Rebels were bombing vehicles along one stretch of the road... and I could not keep coming back only to be told to wait... and wait some more.

-- “Can’t you, please, just give me a number to call?” I begged. Then I explained the distance and insecurities of travel for a single woman.

She seemed more inclined to help me this time. And after some deliberation, finally agreed to give me the number for their office.

I thanked her, then left that night. The 17 hours it took for me to return was starting to get a bit easier. I made friends along the way. I took in the sights. I was even able to sleep sitting up.

But once back home each time I called to follow up, no one answered the phone. This went on for weeks... a month.

Finally, frustrated and annoyed now, I returned once again to Maputo.

When I walked into the cramped office for a third time in so many months, I was deeply annoyed that the woman seemed smug. She asked a bit haughtily, “Aren’t you the one from Chimoio?”

-- “Yes. That’s me,” I said trying to keep the distain from my voice.
-- “Why are you here?” she asked pleasantly. “I thought you were going to call? Didn’t you say last time it was unsafe for you to travel?”
-- “Yes. It is unsafe to travel... but I didn’t have any choice,” I explained. “Each time I called, the phone just rang and rang. Then after some time, it said that it was not connected.”
-- “That can’t be,” she protested. “You must have been dialing the wrong number.”

I repeated the number to her and she nodded that it was correct, looking confused.

Another woman, sitting further back behind stacks of folders popped her head around to throw in her two cents. “It must be your phone,” she argued. “Try calling it now.”

I did as I was asked and my phone flashed once again that it was an invalid number. I showed it to her, not hiding my smug expression. Did she really think I didn’t know how to make a call?

Then I watched her pick up the phone, switch it on underneath, then insist I call it again. I did what she asked and found the number rang.

Sigh.

The phone of a whole department had been turned off --literally turned off!-- for a month.

Oh! Mozambique!

Okay... okay.... I know I’m taking a bit longer than I expected. I guess I have more to say than I realized.

Please bare with me. I have more... but not much.

Long story short, I was informed once again that my papers had not been done and that I’d have to return. But this time, they gave me two numbers to dial instead of one.

Dejected and more than a little frustrated, I journeyed home to once again report nothing had been done.

But by this time my relationship with local Ministry of Health official was better, and he decided to help me push this through.

So when it came time to call again for a answers, he called for me.

But would you believe it... both numbers they gave me were false! Neither worked even though his secretary called every few hours for two days.

He did not seem surprised.

-- “You’ll just have to go back again,” he told me with a sad shake of his head.
-- “Really?” I sighed. “There is no way for you to get different numbers?” I knew I was reaching, but I had to ask.
-- “Nope,” he sighed back with genuine sympathy, “Sorry...”
-- “Okay... but what can I do differently?” I asked desperately, “Can you offer any advice?”

He hesitated, rocked back on his chair, then smiled. “Yes, I can offer you some advice.”

Then he quickly explained the ‘White skin factor’ of such delays and encouraged me to get the secretaries’ boss involved. The plan was simple. Go over their heads... but do it politely.

Bus trip number four.

Still cramped. Still stinky. Still hot. But somehow easier... almost routine.

This final time was earlier this week. I managed my trip so I could walk in to the cramped office bright and early on Monday morning.

The functionaries were rushing about and obviously busier than usual. Once it was my turn, I was told to wait a bit while they searched for my file.

I waited... and waited.

And waited.

I wasn’t annoyed though as I could see they were systematically flipping through a long wall of file cabinets, and asking others to help search.

An hour went by and she finally called me up to the desk.
-- “Your file is lost,” she almost whispered.
-- “Lost?” I asked incredulously, cocking my eyebrow up for emphasis.
-- “Please give us today to keep searching,” she pleaded in hushed tones. “If you give me your number, I’ll call you once it’s found.”

I gave her my number out of curtesy never once believing she’d call. Then I added, “But either way, I’ll be here tomorrow morning for my file.” The warning in my voice was clear.
She nodded gravely and I left.

The next morning, I arrived to find that they had not even searched again. Asked to take a seat and wait, I watched two men slowly make their way through folders stacked in clumsy piles amid battered boxes.

Another hour went by.

And I prayed and prayed....

Sometimes I prayed that my files would be found.... but mostly I prayed that I would not reach over the desk and gouge out the functionary’s dark eyes.

Yes. I know. Not very kind of me. But true.

I didn’t want to shame Jesus by even using a harsh tone in my voice.... so I guess it’s a good thing I had an hour to pray!

Eventually, I heard her call for ‘Stephan’ (most Mozambicans forget to add the last syllable) and I jerked my head up in response. Our eyes met and she called me over.

-- “This is one response,” she said dryly, handing me a stamped paper. “You’ll have to sign here,” she added, pointing to the top of the page, “to say that you’ve received it.”

My heart jumped. Was this it? Had I finally done it?!

My eyes scanned the paper.... something didn’t seem right. So I read it quickly, my heart sinking as the bold script screamed denied.

Denied?

I read it again. And again...

It was my Theology degree results. They refused to recognize it, claiming my school was not accredited.

“Hogwash!” I thought to myself but I didn’t say that. Instead, I nodded that I understood and signed where she had indicated.

I had been sure my Theology degree would be approved. Sure! The fact it hadn’t honestly frightened me. Could this be? Would they really deny my education? Not possible!

Once I calmed down a bit, I stared at her with determination until she met my eyes again. She looked uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.

I think she expected some kind of argument.

But I didn’t argue. I didn’t really care about my Theology degree. What mattered was my midwifery degree. What were the results there?

-- “What about my other degree?” I asked flatly.
-- “They are not done yet.”
-- “Not done?” I asked incredulously. “But it has been over four months!”

She looked dejected but somehow also sorry for me, then said, “I don’t know, Senhora.”

A long pregnant pause.

She made no effort to explain or apologize further so I leaned in closer.

-- “Very well,” I said calmly, “In that case, I’ll need to speak with your boss.” This is what my minister friend had instructed me to do.

She didn’t even bat an eyelash. Instead she nodded gravely, called an office assistant over, and instructed him to take me to the boss immediately.

Ten minutes later I was sitting at the boss’ desk, appealing for help. At first he seemed irritated with my requests for aid, but with time his frosty demeanor warmed.

-- “Please, Senhor,” I pleaded. “I really need your help... four months for an answer seems too long. Something is wrong.”

He hesitated, seemingly puzzled as to what to do, so I waited for him to think it through. But even then, he flipped it back on to me.

-- “What should I do?” he asked innocently. I honestly wanted to laugh in response. Was he really asking me how to do his job?

Seriously?

Sigh.

I told him what I thought was to be done. He listened kindly. I continued on, detailing possibilities and options. He thought about them, distractedly shuffling papers about his desk.

Then I sat silently and waited.

A few minutes later, a decision was made and he enthusiastically went about getting it done.

First it started with curt orders to the secretaries. “Write this and that! Sign it there!”

Then it was fruitless phone calls to the other departments. “Why don’t they answer? Call again!”

Then it was long explanations of detailed plans to make it happen, all his secretaries listening intently and nodding deferentially.

Finally, he turned to me and promised answers the following day.

I thanked him and left.

But the following day, the secretaries barely looked at me entering before they called for another office assistant to take me to the Boss.

This was not looking good. The dread in my stomach ate acidly up my throat.

Gulp.

Was this going to be another denial? Would I have nothing to show for this 6 months of labor but a bad story? Really?

Once in his office, I tried to smile but failed. I could only coax my lips to press in a tight straight line -- the dread barely caged behind my teeth.

Before he spoke, he shook his head in disgust almost as if in warning. A full minute passed while he busied himself with a stack of papers needing signatures.

I waited silently, not trusting my teeth to hold back the dread.

But when he spoke, I was relieved to learn that I was not denied --not yet at least. No.... in fact, it was more a matter of incompetence. And he was not happy to admit one of his departments had dropped the ball.

-- “Senhora Stephanie,” he started, “The paper was sent to the medical university for approval.” I nodded. He continued, “They didn’t know what to do with it and refused to decide.” I nodded on but a look of confusion clouded my eyes and furrowed my brow.

-- “What do you mean?” I asked.

-- “They referred your degree to the specialist department of the medical university for review. But they never actually took it there. So... it’s been sitting on someone’s desk for over a month and a half. Just sitting there!”

I was flattered by the indignant tone in his voice. He seemed as upset about it as I was. They had obviously dropped the ball.

-- “I’ve managed to get it sent to the right department yesterday, but you’re going to need to push it from Chimoio.”

I listened, nodding periodically. He spoke so quickly and used such high Portuguese that I was at a loss several times. Fortunately, his irritation caused him to repeat himself often. Eventually, I got it.

He instructed me on the best way to proceed, but it requires lots of favor. Lots. This is where you all come in. I need your prayers.

I am now back in Chimoio, and tomorrow I head in to speak with my friend at the Ministry of Health. I have to ask him to get involved again, but this time I need him to do more than make phone calls.

I’m not sure what he’ll say. Frankly, I’m worried. We have a good relationship, but I now have to ask him to send a delegate from the Min. of Health in Maputo to lean on the Min. of Education medical department in Maputo.

This apparently is the only way it’ll happen. Sigh.

But more than that... the hang up seems to be more about me being “Just” a midwife. I need his delegate to explain what an expert midwife is. They don’t have a category for one here it would seem. And I need to ask them to make a new category.

I might as well be asking for the moon.

If not, the likelihood of me being denied is high. Too high for my comfort.

My heart doesn’t know what to think. My brain just turns circles. My body would like to scream... or maybe run away screaming.

Yeah. That.

I want to run away screaming while my head turns and my heart bursts silently.

Okay... that might be a bit much. Actually, I’m mostly at peace... with periodic bouts of panic.

If you would... if you would only please, pray for:
-- My relationship with the Min. of Health to be strong enough for me to ask for the moon.
-- My diploma to be approved as is... or a new category to be made for me if need be.
-- For this labyrinth of paperwork to finally come to a close. I’m dizzy from all the blind alleys and dead ends.

Thanks.

I love you awesome prayer warriors!

Visa-dventures!

This week it was time to renew my visa for Mozambique which meant I’d have to leave the country for a day. But instead of getting another tourist visa, I was going to attempt to get a long-term missionary visa.

This required a lot more work... and expense. But it had to be at least attempted.

--Why do I keep using the word ‘attempt’?

Good question. Very good question. Let me explain.

Within days of arriving last month, I learned that my American police clearance had expired.

Yes. Expired.

Since it was the first one to come through in my police clearance furkunckle last year, it was naturally the first to expire. (To read more about these furkunckles check out these previous posts. Police Clearance: Part One and Police Clearance: Part Two.)

But silly me... it never occurred to me that it would expire.

--Why?

Because there was no place on the blasted document that said it did!

Nevertheless our government liaison and master diplomat, Manuel, had the unhappy task of informing me this might be a problem.

As he explained, I twisted my mouth in disappointment while my heart sank.

Sigh.

Only time would tell if I had to return to the States... or make a special trip to Maputo (Mozambique’s capital) to sort it out.

When tempted to worry, I turned it over to God and prayed. Each time He lifted my heart assuring me everything would be fine.

So I stopped worrying but kept on praying --and praying hard!

As you might remember, I also asked you to pray!

Our first answer to prayer was when the office in Chimoio said they’d overlook the expiration date. They too thought it unnecessary to have my fly back to the States.

But what would the consulate in Matare think? We’d have to wait and pray.

Matare is in Zimbabwe, the nearest border to Maforga, and is where the local consulate is located.

So naturally when it came time to get my long-term missionary visa worked out, I had to come to Zimbabwe.

Again... I kept covering it in prayer.

Tuesday morning started early since we had a few hours drive and a questionably long wait at the border.

We arrived by 10:30 am and got stamped out of Mozambique. Then stood in line to buy a visa into Zimbabwe.

The line wasn’t a problem... but getting change back from the government official was. Since when did government offices stop breaking hundreds? I mean, come on!

Frankly, he seemed offended I would use such a large bill. And I was offended he’d not break it.

Lessons in Africa: Travel with small bills in Africa. They NEVER like giving change. Ha!

Once we were through, Roy dropped me off at the consulate directly.

Intimidated that no one was going to come with me (as they had to drop visitors off at an airport) I hummed and hawed a bit before saying goodbye.

-- “Where do I go,” I asked sheepishly. “What do I do?”

Roy pointed to a guarded metal gate then explained how to get home by myself. They were in a hurry so they only told me once and got back in the truck to leave.

Confused and intimidated, I lingered longer than I should have to say my goodbyes.

Almost as an afterthought Trish interjected, “Oh yeah... remember to ask for Senor ____. He is our friend here. It might help you.

-- “Senor ____?” I repeated a few times to myself, then quickly wrote it on my hand. I needed all the help I could get.

-- “Yes. He knows us well. Tell him you work with us,” she said in a hurry. And then they were off.

Roy was all business that morning... and understandably so. Their friends had a flight to catch!

I sheepishly walked through the metal gate to find two official looking guards and a round faced woman with a clip board.

She greeted me warmly but with a flicker of surprise at my accent.

-- “How are you doing today?” I asked.
-- “Oh.. well. So well. But it’s cold,” she responded. “And how are you?
I responded with a large smile and some quip about doing fabulous, and she reply quite openly. “Yes. You are. I can see that.”

It surprised me to hear and I smiled deeper as I handed her my passport and signed in.

Once at the consulate counter, I was please to see there were no lines. I unpacked my papers and again greeted the sir behind the inch-thick, tinted window with my sincerest smile.

I could barely see him but surmised he was smiling back. I explained who I was and what I was there for, handing him my translated documents. Then I remembered to ask... “Is Senor ___ here today?”

-- “You know Senor ___?” he asked with surprise.
-- “No. But I work with Roy and Trish Perkins at Maforga. And they wanted me to say hello,” I explained. “Is he in?”
-- “Yes. yes. He is in. Let me call him.”
Surprised, I smiled again feeling a bit guilty to be name dropping but all the while remembering that this is how it is done in Africa.

The official looked over my expired papers and asked me to fill out a form while we waited for Senor ___ to arrive.

I filled it out wrong and he was helping me correct it when Senor __ arrived. He too was hard to see because of the tinted glass, but I greeted him warmly on the part of Maforga and we talked briefly.

I cannot remember what was said... only that the official was pleased to know my bosses knew his boss and that my papers looked great.

He had me pay the fees, but again couldn’t give me change. In the end, the change was  so slight I didn’t fuss and encouraged him to keep it. (See previous note on Lessons in Africa. Ha ha!)

Roy had warned me that it might take a few days to get my visa, so I asked him when I should return to pick it up.

--- “So,” I asked the official behind the glass, “Should I come tomorrow or the next day.”
-- “No. Just wait here,” he said. “Oh...  and give me your passport.”

I waited in the lobby not sure what would happen next. There was a couple sitting next to me speaking in broken English. He was most definitely Muslim and was teaching her about Islam. She on the other hand was feigning interest almost to the point of flattery. I tried not to listen.

Instead I prayed for an opportunity to share Christ and started reading my Bible.

An hour went by.

I think I might have drifted off to sleep at one point; all the early traveling cut into my coffee time. I seriously needed a pick me up.

As lunch time drew near, my tummy grumbled as if on cue and I wondered if I’d have to wait through lunch.

Fortunately a well dressed man in a shiny red tie came in the room and broke up the monotony.

First he spoke to the Arab and his Zimbabwean friend, asking them the nature of their business. They were traders working with import and export stuff. The conversation was brief and stilted as the Arabic man seemed closed-mouthed.

So instead he turned to me. When I explained that I was a missionary here to open a clinic, he peppered me with questions.

He was pleased to tell me of all the places he had visited in America as the Mozambican ambassador and it dawned on me that this was not a low-level office worker... his shoes and tie was evidence enough... but still.

Each question he asked led to more questions and soon we were well engrossed in a discussion on how to help orphans and possible project that could be done to raise funds for them.

Within no time, he was giving me contact numbers for various pastors and government officials and taking my information. He was pleased to learn that Maforga had been around for so long and ensured I got his email and business card.

It was a strange conversation (for me at least) but one that felt so natural.

Years ago, one of my friends explained why Africans tend to exchange information so quickly. I can still remember the words he shared. He said, “In Africa, a person’s most valuable asset is his connections. It is more important than money, talent, or intelligence.”

“Without connections,” he added “nothing lasting can be accomplished here.”

His words surprised me at the time (because of the worldview shift). But since then, they have opened my mind to another way of seeing things... and doing things.

So now when someone wants to connect with me, I do not hesitate. I enjoy the encounter and pray for an opportunity to share Christ.

This encounter felt very providential... and I did not hesitate to enjoy it.

With time, the ambassador left for lunch and I sat down again. The couple sitting on the other side of the room looked at me curiously but didn’t say a word.

Not long after, we both got our visas back and we left together.

Thank you so so much for praying! Not only did God blind them to the expired documents, but I was able to get my visa in a matter of hours --not days!

Plus, I’m even more encouraged by the enthusiasm of the ambassador I met.

Praise the Lord!

Just know... your prayers are heard. Please continue to lift up this work.

Next please pray for
-- my DIRI (or long-term resident paperwork) to be quickly processed.
-- my language classes to go smoothly. I start on Monday.
-- a trustworthy vehicle to purchase.
-- favor at my upcoming meeting with the Ministry of Health in the next week or so.

Also... I’ve learned that the hospitals in Mozambique are in complete disarray right now. The staff is on strike for higher wages.  Some are asking for a 300% increase in pay! As a result many are suffering longer waits and deaths.

Thank you for praying!