Rural Witchcraft

We’re told in the sixth chapter of Ephesians that our battle is not against flesh and blood but against the rulers, authorities, and powers of this dark world, and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.  Believer, we are engaged in a battle but not one we can fight with physical weapons of war.  This battle can only be fought through prayer, because it’s a spiritual battle.

Wherever you live, there’s a spiritual battle raging.  In Africa, perhaps because there’s such a long history and engagement with witchcraft, I believe the battle is more intense.  Simply put, more ground has been voluntarily offered to the enemy.

Each of our children has been touched in some way by witchcraft.  Whether being taken to witch doctors to be treated for bad dreams—the treatment includes being cut on various parts of the body to allow the evil spirit haunting the dreams to escape—or being taken to a traditional pray-er who prays to the spirits for the student to do well in school and gives the student a talisman to carry, which ensures academic success, the    families of our children have involved them at some level in dark spiritualism.

There’s great misunderstanding about a believer’s identity in Christ and the power to overcome the forces of evil that comes along with that identity.  Causing even greater confusion is the mixing of traditional beliefs with scriptural teachings, which takes place in many rural churches.

The result is communities bound to the satanic traditions of their ancestors living in fear.  People fear cats, because they believe demons might be using the cat’s body as a host.  People refuse to carry food in clear containers, because they believe that a witch might see the food, put a curse on it and they’ll die of poisoning.  Doctors, when unable to identify the cause or treatment for an illness, refer patients to “traditional doctors” to seek alternative healing. 

The elderly with dementia are thought to have been put under a curse.  Those suffering from HIV/AIDS are thought to be cursed—there’s little buy-in to the scientific explanation of how the disease is contracted and transmitted.  Young people who die of walking pneumonia, cancer, and other common illnesses are thought to have been marked by a witch.  Sufferers of autism and downs syndrome are thought to be cursed.  On and on the list goes.

And so a community, spiritually violated over thousands of years, continues to invite the enemy to be its bedfellow.  It’s hard to change traditions, harder still to change beliefs.  The door remains open to the spiritual forces of darkness.

The hope?  These children.  This generation.  They are the hope for the future.  Does it sound cliché?  It’s true.  It’s always been true.  If these children commit to renewing their minds, if they commit to transformed lives through seeking the face of God, this community will begin to change.  But it will take time.  Change always does. 

Bottomless Babes

This naked baby was spotted in the field behind our house.  She was contentedly playing alone, brandishing a blade of grass like a sword.

It’s typical to see babies running around with tops and no bottoms.  At first, you might wonder if the parents can’t afford to clothe their child.  But the real reason for the bottomless babes is the lack of diapers. 

While disposable diapers are available in town, they’re unaffordable for members of our  agrarian community.  For some reason, cloth diapers aren't a hit here, either.

During the week, babies are left to roam naked and handle their business wherever they choose.  If they wet on a mud floor, someone throws a handful of dirt over the small puddle and the mess is forgotten.

On Sundays, all the naked wee ones are forced into church clothes, and their bums are well-padded with one or more hand towels.  They waddle around like cowboys since there’s so much padding between their legs.  Rest assured, those towels are coming off as soon as they get home, and they’re free to run around in naked liberation until the next Sunday service.

Summer Fun

The kids have been inviting friends from school over on Saturdays for some friendly, athletic competition.  Each week, a group of kids comes for a soccer match.  Nobody’s keeping track, but we won last week.

After digging an old badminton net out of the storage shed last Saturday, volleyball has become a part of the afternoon activities.  We don’t have a volleyball, but the girls pictured here make do quite well with a soccer ball.

Of course, the little kids aren't invited to participate in the games, so they stay entertained by jumping on the trampoline.  They also enjoy climbing and   hanging out of the trees and playing their own version of dodge ball.

Speaking of field days, we’ve got a 5K race and soccer tournament coming up this weekend with our sister orphanage.  The kids always enjoy some competition.

Movie Night

Packing children into our living room each Friday and Saturday night is somewhat akin to the circus clowns who cram into Volkswagen bugs.  The prevailing philosophy is there’s always room for one more—or ten.

The children look forward to movie night, and they often request their favorite movie Home Alone, which many of them refer to simply as, Kevin.  (If you don’t know who Kevin is, it’s time to dust off your old VHS copy of Home Alone and re-watch it.)

After watching Home Alone for about 17 weekends in a row, Sherwood and I decided it was time to invest in some additional films.  Topping off their new favorites are any of the Three

Stooges shows, George of the Jungle—with real Swahili words, and Cool Runnings. 

I find watching movies with the kids to be much like watching Mr. Bean with my brother as a child.  My brother and his friend would roll around on the floor in front of the TV in uncontrollable laughter, and my dad and I would laugh right along with them.  The difference?  They were laughing at Mr. Bean.  We were laughing at (with?) them.  While the children, and admittedly, my husband, laugh hilariously as the Stooges clamor theatrically across the screen, I can’t suppress my own laughter at the uproarious peals of delight emitting from them.

Watching a movie in a room jam-packed with children, the temperature raised to an uncomfortable level due to body heat, isn't the most comfortable way to watch TV, but it certainly makes the Three Stooges a lot funnier. 

Donkey Days or Kenyan Traffic Jam

I’m really just a big-city girl at heart.  My husband, who grew up in Camden, NJ might disagree.  Before I first took him to Oakwood, the town where I grew up, I told him it was a suburb of Atlanta—after his first visit, he was quick to point out that if Oakwood was a suburb of anything, than it was a suburb of Gainesville but certainly not Atlanta.  I guess after moving to Atlanta and   gaining some perspective, I’d have to agree. 

 Regardless of where I grew up, I love the activity and hustle-and-bustle of the city.  I love live theater and a variety of restaurants.  I enjoyed being able to step out my front door and walk to the library, the community center, the pizza place, and Dairy Queen.  Even so, I remember as a little girl being enchanted with the quaint lifestyle Laura Ingles Wilder described in her “Little House” books. 

My favorite book in the series was On the Banks of Plumb Creek.  Wilder described the isolation, the outhouses, the unvaried diet, and the life of a pioneer family with such sweet nostalgia I thought that was the type of environment for which I was made.  I have since realized that even though I love eating fresh foods straight from our garden, it’s the variety of diet and energetic, constantly moving atmosphere of the city that I crave.

I remember days, especially Fridays, that I would sit in my car in bumper-to-bumper traffic for an hour to travel from the school where I worked to my home, a mere 15 miles away.  The certainty of traffic is one thing I don’t miss about the city.  All these thoughts flashed through my mind when Sherwood and I were stuck in a rural Kenyan traffic jam.  

We were riding on the slick mud of our rural road snugly situated in the deep ruts from which one dare not emerge, even in a four-wheel-drive vehicle, when the road is in such dire condition. 

As we traveled along, we came upon a donkey, sans owner, charcoal in sacks strapped to its back, making its way down the middle of the road.  We couldn't risk leaving the safety of our furrow to pass the determined beast, so we traveled behind it for several minutes.  Eventually, the donkey put on his right directional signal (I kid you not, he rotated his right ear with great aplomb) and promptly moved over to the right hand side of the road on the outside of the groove.  Once we passed him, he moved right back to his original path in the middle of the road. 

Even though there’s a lot to miss about city life, I must admit I’ve never been as amused in Atlanta traffic jams as I was the day we were stuck behind the donkey.

Joy in the Journey

The kids love piling into the truck for a ride.  They’re not concerned about the destination; their joy is in the journey.  People in our village don’t ride in cars much.  Motorcycles are the most common means of transport, public vans and cars come next, but private vehicles are a rare treat.

The little people’s infatuation with the truck isn't limited to going for rides.  They’re perfectly  content to sit in the parked car for as long as we’ll allow it.  They don’t want the radio on.  They don’t even necessarily want the windows down.  They just want to sit in the car.

When we return from a trip, the kids often remain in the backseat, and they can sit there, quietly, for over an hour—without wiggling.  It’s amazing.  We eventually have to go out to the truck and tell the kids it’s time to get out.  We’ve never actually tested how long they’ll stay in there, but this is undoubtedly one of the best babysitting tools we’ve found yet!

An Easter Reflection

Death.  Not generally a topic during polite,   dinner-party conversation.  It is, however, a realty for everyone, and it’s brought into stark, unsterilized focus in our rural village.  Last week, a 15-year-old neighbor girl died after giving birth to her first child.  Her 19-year-old “husband”—they were never married but living in a Come We’ll Stay arrangement—didn’t notice the warning signs until it was too late.

Another neighbor lost her third child at just a few weeks old.  We stopped by to offer our condolences.  We didn’t notice the small bundle wrapped in a blanket and lying on the mud floor of the hut until we nearly tripped over it.  Corpse of the babe.  Mother sitting in the same room with it since the moment of death.  The funeral was held in the backyard where the babe’s body was buried.

Why such morbid thoughts at the beginning of spring: symbol of the cycles of life and time of beginnings and new birth?  Because it’s on my mind after losing our young neighbors.  And  because during the Easter season, I recall another death.  Death significant for the masses of humanity.  Gentle God-man wrapped in human flesh and sent to an unbelieving and cruel world to save us from ourselves.  To teach us love as we showed him none. 

As we’re reminded at this time of year, Jesus was not murdered or martyred.  He willingly gave up his life to achieve the salvation of those souls who confess him as the Son of God and believe.  There were three long and terrible days when the world believed Jesus to be dead.  Some mocked and sneered.  Others cried.  Dark, dismal days of distress and  defeat for followers who expected a triumphal victory.  Thank God, the story doesn’t end there.  It never did.

When Romans 8:28 admonishes us that “God works all things    together for good,” the verse really means all things.  Imagine the confusion of the men who followed the Master.  His death was good?  If he hadn't died, we would all be without hope. Imperfect law-breakers.  But the law was never intended for us to keep.  Instead, it reveals our hearts and our need of a Savior.

Savior defied death.  “I have seen the Lord!” Mary proclaimed to men of unbelief.  He conquered death, and through that act offers us eternal life.

Our 15-year-old neighbor’s body is lying in a grave, and the babe, too.  But their souls live.  We are all creatures of eternity.  The question, where will it be spent?

As Jesus stretched his injured hand to Thomas, so he stretches it to each of us.  Do we turn away,       unbelieving, or do we proclaim with Mary, I have seen the Lord!?  Regardless of what we choose to believe, the fact remains.  Jesus Christ is risen!  He is risen, indeed.