Dear Cherished Interested’s,                                                                                                     August 10th, 2023

Drove all the way to Kenya and all the way back to Leganga, between Makumira and Usa River.  But for refilling a slow leak on the driver’s front tire, which is ongoing anyway, no additional major mechanical truck issues. 

We brought the German newlyweds along with us as far as Arusha, their next way point on their literal year around the world together. 

At Leganga we took our travel companion/border/immigration guide and fixer home up a short tortured side track.  After getting the truck turned around and pulled as far off to the side as possible I turned the truck off.  We were talking while I was checking the mirrors and listening, all windows open. 

I leaned forward to pull the door latch and no sooner had it popped open about eight to ten inches a piki piki (motorcycle), I did not hear, came flying over the rise behind and past us through the ruts. 

Driven so typically without care for even the piki drivers life it was skimming past the side of the truck and caught the opening door jerking it out of my hand and sending the motorcycle and driver to the dusty hard ground. 

Those of you who know part of my story know that I have a long association with motor vehicle, highway and off-highway trauma.  My earliest childhood friend outside my cousins was killed in third grade by a drunk driver.  I’ve lived and am still living through some horrendous mistakes of my own.  As the boss of many professional drivers I’ve been to accident scenes and cleaned up messes that still haunt.  As a professional driver myself, I’ve seen things, felt things, heard things, recovered from things that still haunt and violate peace even when they aren’t violently jerking a door from my hand.

Piki piki driver is sore.  Good.  Driver was checked out at the hospital.  Driver is fine.  Good.  Piki piki is fine.  Too bad, wish it was trashed.  Door of the truck is not good.  Two weeks later and I am still closing the door with a full body block from the outside.  Another thing on the list for the stupid little truck with no working four wheel drive, low range or even diff lock. 

Stupid truck that went nearly eight hours, most at significant highway speed, on only half a tank of diesel. 

The speed, the violence, the noise of impact after the silence leading up to it.  All after the successful trip to Kenya and back.  This tough stupid old guy is still shaken and angry. 

That is what spiritual attacks do.  Sometimes it is a piki piki that you did not see, hear or predict no matter how diligent the striving.  Sometimes it is silence from a person when what you expect is something different.  Screaming, anger and defiance is easier to take.  Not knowing and being unable to predict is normal. 

To my eldest grandson with his learners permit this very week..  I still don’t like much of what is normal.

Why do I call it a spiritual attack?  Because, even if it is only my reaction.  My spirit is attacked for failing to avoid being the means of someone else facing death, near death or pain.  After seeing the faces of the parents of my childhood friend even a decade after my friend’s death, I know that I have failed miserably to successfully avoid inflicting suffering. 

Thankfully, I suppose, my spirit is not so hard that it is incapable of being wounded in the failing too.  That dark stuff I ask you-all to pray me/us through has been deep and affecting for these last two weeks. 

I have been asking God, what I am doing here?  I have been asking God, how I can do anything?  I have been asking God about my complete lack of certified training? 

Thank you for your prayers.  Thank you for your faith..  I know you are taking this often paralyzed man and dropping me down through the torn open roof into the presence of Jesus.

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Hilda’s tiny little, now fixed and fully recovered, mother cat just made me laugh by jumping over a hedge the height of my shoulder trying to snatch a bird.  Another failure.  This one humorous in its determined contortions and complete fullness of failed effort.   She’s now inside resting and sulking on the rug about two yards away.

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Another of my first year Sunday worship helpers at The Children’s Village had a still living Grandmother of his ask if I would help him prepare to be confirmed in the local Tanzanian Lutheran Church.  We have about three weeks before he goes back to school.  Yes!  As usual I don’t feel qualified.  Too bad.  The answer is Yes! 

We plan to meet two times a week.  He is reading his Bible, the bi-lingual one we gave him last Easter.  Found a local Luther’s Small Catechism two days ago in town around another medical transport.    Commandment one through five discussed.  Questions and comments from his reading discussed too.

Given that the precious people who adopted him are Jewish, one a Jewish convert from Islam, we discussed right away his [responsibility and Joy] to honor his parents regardless of how they see or understand Jesus. 

Jesus the brilliant and loving radical Rabbi who died and stayed dead?  Jesus the Prophet of God who did not die on the cross and hence did not rise from the dead?  Jesus the creator with God and The Spirit who chose to be born of Mary, a woman and mother like each of us has.  Jesus who then lived the common ground we share much of with other Abrahamic traditions.  Jesus who takes all our sin to the cross and grave to leave all that mess we make behind in his death there only to rise from death like the Son of God we Christians know him to be.      

This is particularly important for this student of an impoverished Tanzanian Grandmother who is herself a Lutheran Pastor living another mountain over.  And son of loving Jewish parents through whom he now has a Jewish grandmother and Islamic Grandmother and Grandfather too.  His prayers, his faith are important for all those around him.

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Yesterday..  It had rained early and so we could not get the stupid truck up the hill out of the house to get to a long awaited meeting at Makumira Secondary School.  A meeting to plan Hilda facilitating teaching there again.  We called a huge piece of our hearts who then called a taxi we know.  

Hilda has missed two weeks of Sunday Worship and, last Sunday, she missed Sunday school too.  After the patient she attended on Monday, she had a consult with our pharmacist.  She was dragging on the way to the meeting yesterday morning and could not have walked to 2-3 kilometers down the mountain even if we had the time.

Hilda got to her meeting and after bouncing around to different locations and returning to the school to collect her from her meeting I discovered that they had given her an office with desk & chair and wanted to keep her the whole day.  Praise God!

I left and got our taxi free to make a living after dropping me and some supplies back up the mountain at the Mulala house.  After one in the afternoon I had still heard nothing from Hilda.  Not surprising as internet, airtime, etc are things that work only when they do. 

It had dried enough I was able to get the stupid truck out and went to find and collect her.  My turn with the bug had come upon me with some intensity.  My teeth were chattering even with scarf, sweater and hat..  at the equator, how ridiculous is that!  Other sucky symptomology well entrenching itself. 

I walked onto campus to find her.  She managed to text that she was in the computer room.  Students, calling me pastor, directed me.  Crossing the open gathering area before the offices next to the computer room the computer room door opened and Hilda came out surrounded by girls in school uniform.  One precious teen girl bobbing left and right behind a crude column to peek at me with such a huge smile.  Others calling for Babu, that’s me, and packing Hilda’s bag. 

For our adult children, that is the green ‘Brentley’ diaper bag that we had in Bellingham for mostly the boys diaper times.  They are long out of diapers, one is busy with two littles of his own now.  That bag is still going strong.

Those brilliant teenage girls, who know us from The Children’s Village and who attend this school, rushing forward to ask that I come for them on Sunday too.

After discussion it was agreed that we would ask the head of school for permission to share what I prepare for The Children’s Village Mama’s on the mountain each Sunday morning.  Share that same message with the students at Makumira Secondary at 4:30 Sunday afternoons.

Please pray, we have permissions to seek.  We do not want to let them down.  We have been consistent now into our second year of their young lives.  We do not want to let them down.

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Tough little kids here where the median age is 19.  Taking Hilda home we got an astonishing number of smiles waves and greetings by name.  Littles calling out to Babu, me.  One really tiny one, still all head, running down the side of a horribly washed out and steep section of road across the mountain fell face first into the rocks disappearing behind the skirts of the barely bigger girl ahead of him.  We saw her gather up his shoes that had gone flying and we expected real damage as we got close but instead about five were jumping up and down yelling Babu, me.

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This morning, early, between quarter after one and quarter of three, I was texting with Central America.  T is a former medical school, former member of our US military, former truck driver.  We met T, here.  T has turned her deep unjustified suffering into powerful empathy. 

After travelling much of the world she chose to reach out this morning for advice about how she might continue to proceed turning her vast gritty empathy into reality for other women, with other women.  This is not someone we spoke overtly about faith with when we shared a few meals in Tanzania, but I have been sending greetings for this last year.  Greatly good conversation across the equator from two sides of the earth. 

Please pray for T.  She was born in 88 so fits right in there with our birthed ones.  Even more so now as the two sons by marriage we have are either active or recently former US military too. 

T wants to work with women.  Abused women and children.   Like the awesome warrior she is she wants to find land and bring safety first then community and training for sustainable tomorrows.  God’s heart lives in this one.  Please pray..

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Yes please …

Relationships here on the ground in addition to my imperfections and mistakes are being used to try to drive us away from our striving.  Each day is a sincere struggle.  Hopefully that means we’re on the right track.  Please pray for those around us.  Please pray for the local faces which fearlessly now smile and greet us as we walk.  

Please keep crumpling us up and throwing us at God.  That is where we need to be.  God will sort us out.

One day at a time.  Just like how you each live.  Just one day at a time. 

Thank you, each of you.

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What to Pray for:

Our armed forces families, our leadership, our people, whole world round, all of Gods kids -

All the tough and blessing expressed above –

The love of folks –

Whatever is on your hearts and minds for us –

For our children and grand-children who miss us.. 

For Makumira Secondary School looking to share stories and partner in some way with a foreign school, Great leaders, teachers, students, programs, strong backs, minds, and hearts –

For our health to stay ahead of whatever is before us –

For those who have braved the donate button to discover Kajun Crofton, our daughter who helps getting each one of your donations to us and every blogpost to where you can read it -

For each and every one of you –

Each and every one of your prayers, your precious conversations with God –

Prayers, Your Prayer, Even your groaning prayers makes all the difference..

Vern W

May life be as Music to your Heart – May Music be as Heart to your Life – May Heart be as Life to your Music