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.

Cracking Open Doors.

The church on the Maforga compound.

As the count down to my time in Mozambique was coming to an end, I couldn’t tell if God was closing the door there, or if it just looked closed because too much junk was in front of it.

I’d spent a full month praying and knocking on the Ministry of Health’s door. Every week and sometimes twice or three times a week, Roy or some other emissary would stop in to set up an interview with the director. But each time we got the run around.

I laid the interview with the MOH out as a sort of fleece, asking God to guide me in relation to my future here in terms of the kind of favor they granted me. If they wouldn’t even meet with me, obviously I was supposed to go elsewhere.

I knew the battle was being fought in the heavenlies, and that I was supposed to walk by faith and not by sight (2 Cor 5:7). However, there is just so much nonsense I’m willing to put up with.

If they were unwilling to play ball, I was not going to beg them.

Naturally, I talked to Roy about this quite often. And as the days passed, he was in much prayer with me concerning this apparent ‘closed door’. So as the month came to the inevitable end, we all redoubled our prayers.

For me, the break happened on the Sunday before I left.

Roy asked me to come and speak before the church and tell them what God had been showing me during my stay. I told him that I’d be happy to share, but that I still did not have anything definite.

Why?

Well, for three reasons really. One: the Ministry of Health (MOH) wasn’t granting me an interview; two: the midwifery school in Chimoio wouldn’t let me know if we were to work together or not (sorry, that’s a story I never told you); and three: I’d been hearing rumors of mass corruption within the system.

One nurse I had met applied to get her nursing license approved so she could work in Mozambique THREE years ago. She is still waiting.

What? Come on! Three years of waiting... and the government has still not granted her permission to work. What a waste!

Frankly, when I hear things like this I cannot help but worry that anything I try to do will be met with the same stubborn willfulness --the same myopic xenophobia. What then?

I voiced these clear and present concerns with Roy to see if they were valid. They were. So we prayed... and then prayed some more.

Meanwhile, the spiritual attacks each night were intensifying.

Lord, is Mozambique what You’d have for me next? If so... won’t you at least grant me a meeting with the Ministry of Health?

Like I said. The answer came... or at least something spiritually broke open that Sunday when I went forward to speak.

There I stood humming and hawing about what God had shown me as I addressed the church. I had to admit to all these tiny, expectant faces that God had not said a word. It wasn’t a ‘No’, but it sure wasn’t a ‘Yes’ either.

As I finished, Roy called all the kids up to pray for me (Note: the church is made of missionaries and orphans. There are roughly 100 orphans and a dozen missionaries.). He told them that he and Trish really wanted me to come back, and that we needed God to speak.

Within seconds a mob of kids surrounded me; some grabbed my shins, others took hold of any part of me they could reach. My hair. My arms. My clothes.

Layers of orphans encircled me, then we all bent our heads in prayer.

Having fifty-plus orphans pray over you in tongues is not an experience you soon forget. And I knew that God had heard and was ready to move. I just didn’t know how He’d do it.

Me, Trish & Roy at church.

The next morning God spoke to Roy, Trish, and I all individually during our personal devotions, promising us amazing things and exhorting us not to lose heart. With these promises on our lips, Trish and I rode off to Chimoio for one final attempt with the Ministry of Health.

If the door was still barred, then we’d take that as a sign that God had other plans in store. But if the door opened, we’d walk through it.

I was not nervous at all when we check in with the guard at the government building. He didn’t ask for my ID, but he did strain his neck to look at me closer then waved me through.

Walking through the tiled beehive of a building was strange though. Men and women hurried about in suits, barely taking the time to notice each other as they passed. But they all stopped to gawk at the tall foreigners.

We stuck out like sore thumbs.

After climbing four stories to the right floor, we checked in with the receptionist and asked to speak to the director of health. She came around her desk to greet us and within second ushered us in to the main office, by-passing three people who were there long before us.

As we stood in the doorway waiting, a slight man in an oversized suit was asked to wait outside and we were given his seats.

Trish and I smiled conspiratorially to one another as we sat down. We were in!

Nevertheless, the battle had just begun. Now we had to convince them our ideas were feasible and in the best interest of the nation.
    --Lord... work Your perfect will! Amen.

Trish spoke to the woman before us, but it soon became clear she was not the one in charge. Excusing herself, she returned with a man named Manual and left us to talk.

Manual found out that I was hoping to re-open the hospital and get my license to work in Mozambique, and he was immediately negative.

-- “To do this thing...” he started to explain in Portuguese, “is not possible. Not possible. Not good.” He puckered his lips for emphasis, then shook his head. He even turned to me and added in heavily accented English, “Not possible. Big problem.” Just in case I was not clear on his meaning.

Undeterred, Trish continued to explain the desire we had is not for me to do the work at the hospital but to hire a Mozambican nurse to take care of the babies. My focus would be in only training mozambican midwives, but that I needed to have permission to work for this to be possible.

This piqued his interest and he started asking more questions.

Far from convinced, he tried to give us a paper outlining how to apply for a work permit and then send us on our way. But neither or us moved. So he got up and went to another office across the hall, presumably to talk to a superior.

Ten minutes later he returned and sat down. He proceeded to outline the obstacles and Trish continued to just sit and talk to him. She didn’t move... so I didn’t more either.

But as she talked, his interest increased and she recounted the history of the hospital and all the good it had done over the years. It’s at this point he asked to see my diploma.

I had brought a copy just in case, and I handed it to him with a smile. He looked at it, then at me, then back at it.

It was in English. Naturally.

Adjusting the distance of the paper back and forth in front of his eyes while he read told me he was in desperate need of glasses.

He admired the golden seal at the bottom but struggled with the fancy calligraphy. Eventually, he pointed to the expiration date at the bottom and said, “This is no good. No good. No diploma has an expiration date.”

I laughed and then agreed, explaining that what I had brought him was in fact my NARM license. This gave me permission to practice in the States. It was better than a diploma, I tried to explain. But he was not buying it.

Diplomas don’t expire.

This led us into another long explanation. But since we were not in the least rattled, he realized that perhaps it wasn’t a problem after all.

By this time, an hour had easily passed.

Trish was still talking; I was still listening in, but I could only understand about 40% of what was being said. So I just sat there and prayed under my breath.

Every time Manual suggested another obstacle, Trish explained how we hoped to get around it. She was unflappable --the very essence of patience.

As I watched her dance around his questions and work through his imagined road-blocks, my admiration for her grew.

Trish, despite her tall frame and bleach blond hair, is every bit as African as Manual. She was born in Zimbabwe and educated in South Africa. She might not have the pigmentation in her skin, but cut it and she would bleed Africa --pure and simple.

I confess, I stopped listening after awhile. My brain drifted and I just enjoyed the moment.

Finally, Manual had become excited at the prospect of me coming. He walked us through the steps it would take to get my work permit, enumerating the papers I’d need.

-- “First you need your real diploma,” he teased. “Then you need a copy of your CV and letters of recommendations. Lastly, you need the police clearance from your country and any country you’ve worked in.”
-- “What? I need a police clearance for the other countries I worked in?” I asked. I knew I needed it from the States, but not for the other countries.
-- “Yes. The police clearance tells us if you have been arrested or done anything illegal in those countries,” he explained. “Maybe you are coming here to work because you were kicked out of your country for illegal practices.”

I had to acknowledge the reasonableness of this request... but I confess my faith wavered. How would I get a police clearance for the Philippines, Haiti, and South Sudan?

Oi Vey!

-- “Once you get these papers, then you can officially apply. From that date, you should have it in two months. Then you can come to Mozambique and open the hospital.”
-- “Two months?” I asked incredulously. “But I met a woman last week, she has been waiting three years and still has not had it approved.”
-- “Really?” he asked a bit suspiciously.
-- “How can we know that it won’t be the same for me?” we asked.

He just laughed and said, “All I know is it should take two months from when we mail it from here. What happens in Maputo... I cannot say.”

We had to laugh with him. This was African bureaucracy at its best.

Sigh.

But by this time... which I’d have to guess was at least an hour and a half after we started, perhaps more... Manual had decided he liked us. He smiled when he spoke, and he eagerly exchanged cell phone numbers with us.

The change in his countenance in this short time was remarkable. It was clearly something only God could do. He went from saying “Big problem” to “So you go back to America now, then in two months you come back.... that means you come back in November!”

We had to laugh at how unrealistic that was, then confessed, “Well, I cannot come in November. I promised my mother I’d spend time with her for Thanksgiving.” I was not even sure he knew what Thanksgiving was.
-- “Okay... so you come back in Christmas time... December?” he asked expectantly, grabbing my arm for emphasis.
-- “No. Christmas is too soon. Maybe January. Is January okay?” I queried.
-- “Yes. January. Very good. You come back in January,” he blurted happily as he shook our hands.

Both Trish and I left on cloud nine. The door hadn’t exactly flown wide opened... but it certainly had cracked open a bit.

Praise God!

Now please pray that I’m able to get these police clearances from the various countries I’ve worked in. -- Oi Vey! Also pray that if and when I apply for the proper visa, I’m granted it in two months --not in three years.

God can do this. He can do this and much much more. Please pray in faith that He will. Thanks.

Witchcraft and Warfare~

This past week, more than once I tried to describe the supernatural and spiritual attacks I felt during my month in Mozambique... but each time I did so, the looks I got were odd.

Very odd.

I’ve since come to the conclusion that most people are quick to admit --at least in Christian circles-- that we are at war spiritually. I mean... come on! If we are not at war, why then would Paul exhorts us to strap on the full armor of God? Why else would he explain that we war not against flesh and blood but against the principalities and powers in the heavenly realm (Ephesians 6:12-18)?

But when it comes to the manifestations of these dark forces, these same people grow uncomfortably silent.

When I told them I experienced manifestations while in Mozambique, they tended to wiggle in their chairs and fiddle with their watches. When I explained that I was woken each night at 2-2:30 a.m. by evil spirits, they often got so uncomfortable they changed the subject.

I used to be that way. I used to think that people who talked of demons were off their rockers.

I mean, come on! Let’s be serious! Demonic possession was true in Jesus’ day, but such things don’t happen today.

Today... we are more sophisticated.

Right?

I used to think that when some darkness approached or a depression occurred all the Christian had to say was ‘Greater is He who is in me than he who is in the world’ (1 John 4:4) and the issue would be over.

I used to think that I was immune from any physical attack as a Christian. I mean, Satan might send his cronies to harass me, but it would be like shooing away gnats.

I confess... I used to think a lot of things.

But after a month in Mozambique --and especially after the massive spiritual attack I received once I started planning the work there-- my mind has been opened. I don’t think that way anymore.

I share this not to spook you, nor do I want to be ‘one of those’ Christians... but I need you to know. I need you to pray. I need you to intercede.

Mozambique has a spiritual heritage of witchcraft unlike any country I’ve ever known before. Its darkness reminds me a lot of Haiti, but it feels stronger somehow. More active.

To be honest, I’m not surprised that the enemy tried to discourage me. It doesn’t surprise me at all. But fortunately the attacks had the opposite effect; they just confirmed I was on the right path.

And more importantly, these attacks have taught me to pray like never before.

I can now affirm with Paul that “we wrestle not against flesh and blood” (Eph 6:12) and as a result our weapons need to be spiritual for the tearing down of strongholds “for though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds (2 Cor 10:3-4).

Knowing this, let’s rejoice with Paul when he writes “For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans  8:38-39)

Let’s remember to pray and not grow faint. Let’s remember that no matter what the enemy throws at us, we can never be separated from His love!

Keep praying!

Community Outreach & Teaching~

Yesterday was the official first day of the Community Outreach & Teaching (here forth referred to as COT). I anticipated warfare (as this outreach has been attacked in every way, shape and form from the moment it was decided on) but I didn’t expect it to be SO OBVIOUS. 

I have been having a difficult time finding someone to translate for me. The girl who agreed to do it, flaked after the second week. The days, I’ve gone out ‘all hell breaks out’ in the clinic leaving me frazzled and distracted. Some days I feel guilty for leaving the clinic at all.... yada-yada, etc.

Point is. The enemy doesn’t seem to like me doing this outreach much. Hum... I wonder why?

Well yesterday, I got slammed in a few directions before I was able to even step out the gate. As a result I got a VERY late start. It was almost 11 am before I headed out. But since I wasn’t able to get out last week (lack of translator), I decided to go do the ‘rounds’ again of the area and remind people the teaching was today.

Several said they’d come. But when we got to the designated spot (aka: mango tree), no one had come. So we waited. I asked my translator what he thought of it all. Was it too late in the day? Would they be taking care of their families? Cooking meals? Planting peanuts?

He told me earlier was better but assured me several women seemed interested. So we waited some more. A full hour later, a handful arrived. And when they sat down, even more arrived. By the end, about 40 people had come and gone.

I taught on what to do if there is a problem in labor, how to identify problems and what can happen if not caught in time. Some of the women listened better than others. Some people came because they thought I was giving free stuff. Men came and listened. Children played nearby. It was a bit chaotic... but fun.

I was encouraged. Many sounded interested in coming again next month. I will be going each week to a different part of town. Please pray for a permanent translator who has a heart for evangelism and a gift of languages. Pray God protects tuesdays from distraction and discouragement and I’m able to build solid, trusting relationships with the women in town.