Mtoto

Oh, what beautiful discoveries our African treasure map took us on in August.  I imagine it might take a full lifetime to discover the gold mine this mtoto’s homeland has to offer.  There is life in abundance in Kisumu, Kenya.  I hope that is where she finds it.

Far too soon, other worlds will be opened up and for these things she might dream big. These shiny attractions will likely compete against the simplicity of the African nature and their basic acts of living day to day trusting God to give all that they need. But, the gifts I hope sweet mtoto grows to find will be discovered in the local church that God has chosen for her in this beautiful work of His on earth.

Our western world full of plentiful resources is more than their world might hope or imagine. But, imagine they do.  They likely can’t conceive the emptiness of abundance or the dangerous deluge of dead-end distractions.

African conditions can in fact be primitive, but it comes with a rewarding pace of life.  Their efforts to build a community that does not depend on resources outside of themselves serves them in the most beneficial way.  God makes available every resource they need and they understand from where these blessings flow.

They have a wholistic approach to living and it is to love God, disciple people and meet the needs of the community in which they live.  Active communal involvement is of great value and all that they do is birthed in prayer, nourished in prayer and sustained in prayer.  They are a witness to the truth that prayer is the greatest power available.

A unified chorus of song is sung.

“Let it be known that You are God.

Let it be known that You are able.

Let it be known all over the world.”

The Lord gives treasures hidden in the darkness - secret riches.  He will do this so every mtoto may know that He is Lord.

Asante.

Isaiah 45:3

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Little Man

My daughter captured old man and little man working together.  There’s a pile of mulch at the bottom of the hill that needs to be moved to the top.  Little man saw old man moving this mulch all the way up the hill and coming back all the way down the hill.  He was eager to help.

It’s a big hill for a little man.  I mean, it’s a big hill for an old man.  And, it’s also 90 degrees in August.  Old man wasn’t certain little man could complete the task to fill the wheelbarrow, carry it up the hill, empty its contents and then walk it back down.

But, twice.

Little man completed the lap twice.

Big man was delighted.

There was a time when this man wasn’t so old walking up this hill.  There was another old man he followed.  The truth is, there has always been a hill and with it some weight that old men bear.  These loads have been large at times, but the weight has been shouldered until the little ones learn how.

This is the kind of weight that can’t be carried on one’s own.

“When people become weak, the Lord gives them more strength. People who wait for Him to help them will receive new strength. They will rise up high, as if they have the wings of eagles.  They will run and they will not become tired.  They will walk and they will not become weak.”

This little man is a follower.

So, is this old man.

Isaiah 40:29-31

It’s Time

On August 17, 2012 a little runt was born part Australian Shepherd and part something else that was beautiful enough to have blended two breeds into a perfect little dog for me.

Ziti.

A mere twelve years later and her rambunctious spunk has sadly since gone. Her frisk and frolic are no longer present.   There has been no hurry in her pace and she’s lost her jumps and leaps up places she shouldn’t be.  We have had to walk around her weary body that hardly moves and lifelessly rests in the middle of our floor like a permanent rug that I wish I could keep.  Because I would!

But, it’s time.

How do I tell the little ones?  The ones that have never known me without my Z.  They know this house and this yard with her in it.  At best, her play has mustered a tired head raise.  I’m so jealous of the dogs that live to be eighteen.  She’s only twelve.  If only I could give her six more years.  Because I would!

But, it’s time.

I’ve always called her out for digging holes in the ground, but now there’s a spot that we’ll dig for her.  It is ground that she has claimed as her own.  It’s a place that she loves and it makes me want to change my mind because it’s better for me, but nothing is getting better for her.

There’s a time for every activity under heaven:

A time to give birth and a time to die;

A time to plant and a time to uproot;

A time to kill and a time to heal;

A time to tear down and a time to build;

A time to weep and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn and a time to dance

A time to throw stones and a time to gather stones;

A time to embrace and a time to avoid embracing;

A time to search and a time to count as lost;

A time to keep and a time to throw away;

A time to tear and a time to sew;

A time to be silent and a time to speak;

A time to love and a time to hate;

A time for war and a time for peace.

I wish I could turn it all back.

Because I would!

But, it’s time.

Ecclesiastes 3

Genealogy

Ruth Grace LeSueur (1893-1921)

I have recently been given a typed narrative of our family’s genealogy written by my Great Aunt Edna.  When I say typed, I mean a manual typewritten manuscript with inked ribbon.  Think 1900’s. Think bell and carriage-return lever.  Think Classic Courier font before correction tape.  A mistake was a mistake unless you scratched it out.  There were some scratched out.

I had already heard many of these family stories about my great-grandmother who was an abandoned child left at the doorstep of a minister’s house.  She was later adopted and saved into a loving home.  She sadly died an early death from giving birth to her fifth child before “taken to heaven.”  My great-grandfather was left with five small children, yet “kept the family so close together.”

There was a joy in reading Aunt Edna’s perspective with a likeness to what I had heard over the years about the father that raised them in the absence of a mother. I fear writing for posterity like this is a long lost art.

It’s from where we’ve come.

I can tell my children and grandchildren that we’ve come from a man “never too busy to take his children swimming or on a picnic.”  A man who instilled that his children “choose folks for character instead of material values.”  He had advice which was “wonderful the way he gave it and no children could say otherwise.”

I can tell them we’re from church-goers who attended “just as regular as anyone ever could.”  This church was always a part of their spiritual living.  It was in believing that their “mother had a hand in it even though she is in heaven.”

I can tell them the character of my great-grandfather encourages my soul.  A man I had never met but blessed to be told of his stories from old.  He was the most “gentlemanly man among men whose voice they never heard raised that lived a life as an example for all.”

I have no reason to believe that these stories aren’t true. It’s written and passed down by my ancestor who walked and talked with the one who did such marvelous things for them.

There’s another beautifully written narrative where we each share a story of a man that lived a life as an example.  His character is revealed in Scripture. He has advice which is “wonderful the way He gave it and no children can say otherwise.  I have no doubt His stories are true.  It’s written and passed down by those who walked and talked with the one who did such marvelous things for them.

“We will tell the next generation about the glorious deeds of the Lord about His power and mighty wonders.  He commanded our ancestors to teach them to their children so the next generation might know them - even the children not yet born - and they in turn will teach their own children.  So each generation should set its hope anew on God not forgetting His glorious miracles…then they will not refuse to give their hearts to God.”

It’s from where we’ve come.

Psalm 78:5-8