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Sometimes You Have To Travel
By: Stephan Saint
Part 2
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Please keep me safe and show me a way to get back. Please reveal Yourself and Your love to me the way You did to my father.
No bolt of lightning came from the blue. But a new thought did come to mind. Surely there was a telecommunications office here somewhere; I could wire Bamako to send another plane. It would be costly, but I could see no other way of getting out.
Wheres the telecommunications office? I asked another gendarme.
He gave me instructions, then said, Telegraph transmits only. If station in Bamako has machine on, message goes through. If not. He shrugged. No answer ever comes. You only hope message received.
Now what? The sun was crossing toward the horizon. If I didn't have arrangements made by nightfall, what would happen to me? This was truly the last outpost of the world. More than a few Westerners had disappeared in the desert without a trace.
Then I remembered that just before Id started for Timbuktu, a fellow worker had said, Theres a famous mosque in Timbuktu. It was built from mud in the 1500s. Many Islamic pilgrims visit it every years. But theres also a tiny Christian church, which virtually no one visits. Look it up if you get a chance.
I asked the children, Where is Eglise Evangelique Chretienne?
The youngsters were willing to help, though they were obviously confused about what I was looking for. Several times elderly men and women scolded them harshly as we passed, but they persisted. Finally we arrived, not at the church, but at the open doorway of a tiny mud-brick house. No one was home, but on the wall opposite the door was a poster showing a cross covered by wounded hands. The French subscript said, "And by His stripes we are healed."
Within minutes, my army of waifs pointed out a young man approaching us in the dirt alleyway. Then the children melted back into the labyrinth of the walled alleys and compounds of Timbuktu. The young man was handsome, with dark skin and flowing robes. But there was something inexplicably different about him.
His name was Nouh Ag Infa Yatara; that much I understood. Nouh signaled he knew someone who could translate for us. He led me to a compound on the edge of town where an American missionary lived. I was glad to meet the missionary, but from the moment Id seen Nouh Id had the feeling that we shared something in common.
How did you come to have faith? I asked him.
The missionary translated as Nouh answered. This compound has always had a beautiful garden. One day when I was a small boy, a friend and I decided to steal some carrots. It was a dangerous task. Wed been told that Toubabs (white men) eat nomadic children. Despite our agility and considerable experience, I was caught by the former missionary here. Mr. Marshall didnt eat me; instead he gave me the carrots and some cards that had Gods promises from the Bible written on them. He said if I learned them, he would give me an ink pen!
You learned them? I asked.
Oh yes! Only government men and the headmaster of the school had a Bic pen! But when I showed off my pen at school, the teacher knew I must have spoken with a Toubab, which is strictly forbidden. He severely beat me.
When Nouhs parents found out he had portions of such a despised book defiling their house, they threw him out and forbade anyone to take him in; nor was he allowed in school. But something had happened: Nouh had come to believe that what the Bible said was true. Nouh's mother became desperate. Her own standing, as well as her family's, was in jeopardy. Finally she decided to kill her son. She obtained poison from a sorcerer and poisoned Noauh's food at a family feast. Nouh ate the food and wasn't affected. His brother, who unwittingly stole a morsel of meat from the deadly dish, became violently ill and remains partially paralyzed. Seeing God's intervention, the family and the townspeople were afraid to make further attempts on his life, but condemned him as an outcast.
After sitting a moment, I asked Nouh the question that only hours earlier I'd wanted to ask my father: Why is your faith so important to you that youre willing to give up everything, perhaps even your life?
I know God loves me and I'll live with Him forever. I know it! Now I have peace where I used to be full of fear and uncertainty. Who wouldn't want to give up everything for this peace and security?
It couldn't have been easy for you as a teenager to take a stand that made you despised by the whole community, I said. Where did your courage come from?
Mr. Marshall couldn't take me in without putting my life in jeopardy. so he gave me some books about other Christians who'd suffered for their faith. My favorite was about five young men who willingly risked their lives to take God's good news to stone age Indians in the jungles of South America. His eyes widened. I've lived all my life in the desert. How frightening the jungle must be! The book said these men let themselves be speared to death, even though they had guns and could have killed their attackers!
The missionary translator said, I remember the story. As a matter of fact, one of those men had your last name.
Yes, I said quietly, the pilot was my father.
Your father? Nouh cried. The story is true!
Yes, I said, it's true.
The missionary and Nouh and I talked through the afternoon. When they accompanied me back to the airfield that night, we found that the doctors werent able to leave Timbuktu after all, and there was room for me on the UNICEF plane.
As Nouh and I hugged each other, it seemed incredible that God loved us so much that Hed arranged for us to meet at the ends of the earth. Nouh and I had gifts for each other that no one else could give.
I gave him the assurance that the story which had given him courage was true. He, in turn, gave me the assurance that God had used Dad's death for good.
Dad, by dying, had helped give Nouh a faith worth dying for. And Nouh, in return, had helped give Dad's faith back to me.
Submitted by Richard
By: Stephan Saint
Part 2
<>< <>< <>< <>< <>< <>< ><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><> <>< <>< <>< <>< <>< <>< ><> ><> ><> ><> ><> ><>
Please keep me safe and show me a way to get back. Please reveal Yourself and Your love to me the way You did to my father.
No bolt of lightning came from the blue. But a new thought did come to mind. Surely there was a telecommunications office here somewhere; I could wire Bamako to send another plane. It would be costly, but I could see no other way of getting out.
Wheres the telecommunications office? I asked another gendarme.
He gave me instructions, then said, Telegraph transmits only. If station in Bamako has machine on, message goes through. If not. He shrugged. No answer ever comes. You only hope message received.
Now what? The sun was crossing toward the horizon. If I didn't have arrangements made by nightfall, what would happen to me? This was truly the last outpost of the world. More than a few Westerners had disappeared in the desert without a trace.
Then I remembered that just before Id started for Timbuktu, a fellow worker had said, Theres a famous mosque in Timbuktu. It was built from mud in the 1500s. Many Islamic pilgrims visit it every years. But theres also a tiny Christian church, which virtually no one visits. Look it up if you get a chance.
I asked the children, Where is Eglise Evangelique Chretienne?
The youngsters were willing to help, though they were obviously confused about what I was looking for. Several times elderly men and women scolded them harshly as we passed, but they persisted. Finally we arrived, not at the church, but at the open doorway of a tiny mud-brick house. No one was home, but on the wall opposite the door was a poster showing a cross covered by wounded hands. The French subscript said, "And by His stripes we are healed."
Within minutes, my army of waifs pointed out a young man approaching us in the dirt alleyway. Then the children melted back into the labyrinth of the walled alleys and compounds of Timbuktu. The young man was handsome, with dark skin and flowing robes. But there was something inexplicably different about him.
His name was Nouh Ag Infa Yatara; that much I understood. Nouh signaled he knew someone who could translate for us. He led me to a compound on the edge of town where an American missionary lived. I was glad to meet the missionary, but from the moment Id seen Nouh Id had the feeling that we shared something in common.
How did you come to have faith? I asked him.
The missionary translated as Nouh answered. This compound has always had a beautiful garden. One day when I was a small boy, a friend and I decided to steal some carrots. It was a dangerous task. Wed been told that Toubabs (white men) eat nomadic children. Despite our agility and considerable experience, I was caught by the former missionary here. Mr. Marshall didnt eat me; instead he gave me the carrots and some cards that had Gods promises from the Bible written on them. He said if I learned them, he would give me an ink pen!
You learned them? I asked.
Oh yes! Only government men and the headmaster of the school had a Bic pen! But when I showed off my pen at school, the teacher knew I must have spoken with a Toubab, which is strictly forbidden. He severely beat me.
When Nouhs parents found out he had portions of such a despised book defiling their house, they threw him out and forbade anyone to take him in; nor was he allowed in school. But something had happened: Nouh had come to believe that what the Bible said was true. Nouh's mother became desperate. Her own standing, as well as her family's, was in jeopardy. Finally she decided to kill her son. She obtained poison from a sorcerer and poisoned Noauh's food at a family feast. Nouh ate the food and wasn't affected. His brother, who unwittingly stole a morsel of meat from the deadly dish, became violently ill and remains partially paralyzed. Seeing God's intervention, the family and the townspeople were afraid to make further attempts on his life, but condemned him as an outcast.
After sitting a moment, I asked Nouh the question that only hours earlier I'd wanted to ask my father: Why is your faith so important to you that youre willing to give up everything, perhaps even your life?
I know God loves me and I'll live with Him forever. I know it! Now I have peace where I used to be full of fear and uncertainty. Who wouldn't want to give up everything for this peace and security?
It couldn't have been easy for you as a teenager to take a stand that made you despised by the whole community, I said. Where did your courage come from?
Mr. Marshall couldn't take me in without putting my life in jeopardy. so he gave me some books about other Christians who'd suffered for their faith. My favorite was about five young men who willingly risked their lives to take God's good news to stone age Indians in the jungles of South America. His eyes widened. I've lived all my life in the desert. How frightening the jungle must be! The book said these men let themselves be speared to death, even though they had guns and could have killed their attackers!
The missionary translator said, I remember the story. As a matter of fact, one of those men had your last name.
Yes, I said quietly, the pilot was my father.
Your father? Nouh cried. The story is true!
Yes, I said, it's true.
The missionary and Nouh and I talked through the afternoon. When they accompanied me back to the airfield that night, we found that the doctors werent able to leave Timbuktu after all, and there was room for me on the UNICEF plane.
As Nouh and I hugged each other, it seemed incredible that God loved us so much that Hed arranged for us to meet at the ends of the earth. Nouh and I had gifts for each other that no one else could give.
I gave him the assurance that the story which had given him courage was true. He, in turn, gave me the assurance that God had used Dad's death for good.
Dad, by dying, had helped give Nouh a faith worth dying for. And Nouh, in return, had helped give Dad's faith back to me.
Submitted by Richard
i could sit and read your posts all day!
