Brandon Holmes in the Congo!

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Petitions to God

Prayer Requests:
Please keep Beni, the North and South Kivu Provinces and DR Congo in general in your prayers.
As of the past couple weeks violence has increased and though we nor the city aren’t in current imminent danger, we hope to see things change.  After a recent attack by a rebel group in a nearby city, Kasindi, 3 new Congolese National Soldier battalions have made camp in and around Beni to work alongside the suddenly active UN battalions here from Nepal and Jordan.  Over three weeks ago, however, 2 national soldiers were accused and charged with murder of a Congolese civilian journalist here in Beni for reasons still yet to be heard.  And so, for the sake of this area’s peace and God’s redemption please keep these things and a new peaceful future here in your prayers.
Much obliged, Brandon

Bethany in the Congo!

Worlds Collide

Thursday, December 10, 2009, 9:45am

For a solid 20 minutes, I have been sitting in a storefront that is still being built. Leaning against the raw brick, unfinished wall, sitting on a stone to keep me off the dirt floor – we are grateful the builders had already attached the metal roof to the building. The rain continues to pour from the heavens, the ground is saturated already, we had rain just two days ago. Sitting so near to the ground, amidst the unending rain, I am overwhelmed by the smell of the earth. Fresh, clean, wet, dirt. It almost reminds me of my Mom’s garden.

I’m not the only one taking shelter inside this future-store or boutique. With me is a boy who looks like a college student – clearly late for classes, but with the understandable and acceptable excuse of “the rain came!”

There is a middle aged woman, sitting on a small stone similar to my own, in the middle of this “room.” She is either a great faker, or else she has somehow managed to fall asleep while sitting on a stone, surrounded by strangers, in the midst of the thunder crashes. In some ways I’m a bit jealous of the ability she has to sleep just where she has happened to be.

Near to the mama is her taxi driver, who has also decided to close his eyes and try to catch some sleep, sitting on top of his motorcycle.

My taxi driver is under the overhang, just outside our door, as if he’s keeping watch for the precise moment this rain will end.

There are several others out there near him, and undoubtedly more in the attached rooms to our particular store. We are a hodge-podge of people, all put together unexpectedly. We listen to the lulling sounds of the rain on the roof and the newly paved road.

Occasionally people will pass by on foot – soaking wet. I wonder why they don’t stop and take shelter from the rain. But then I realize that rain is a part of life here. Life doesn’t stop when the rains come. And neither do they.

Across the road is Enra, where there is processing and manufacturing of Mahogany, and a large forest within the compound as well. It’s surrounded by what looks like a 5 or 6 foot wall. I watched at first in surprise as I saw things falling from or off of that wall. I finally realized that what I saw were sticks and branches. Someone was throwing wood over from Enra. A few minutes later, I saw three children climb over the wall, laughing and dancing in the ever-increasing rain. One of the two girls seemed to take rest under a tall tree. The boy and other girl would occasionally dance, especially when a car would pass by – practicing a new dance move, perhaps? But eventually, life beckoned – the responsibility of the task they had been sent on was remembered and they all started loading up on the sticks and branches they’d collected. And in spite of the thunder, lightening or the rain, they started making their way up the road.

A while later, I saw a woman walking up the hill towards us, carrying a heavy load on her back (likely from her garden). She also had an umbrella in her hand, covering her head. It took just a moment to realize the reason – on top of the large sack she carried on her back, was her young baby. Even though she had hundreds of veggies and wood, she still wanted to protect her baby from the rain, without stopping on her journey to get out of the rain. It was both beautiful and heartbreaking.

By 10:15, I was once again on the back of the motorcycle, on my way to UCBC. It was still sprinkling a bit, but compared to the downpour of the past 50 minutes, it wasn’t so bad.

On my mind though are the people I saw while sitting in that room, and the ones I shared the room with. Our worlds met for less than an hour. An opportunity we wouldn’t have had if it hadn’t rained.

I love this post!! it was like reading a book, it made me feel like I was there standing in the rain!! Cant wait to hear more from Bethany.

If you would like to hear more about Bethany Erickson’s  journey, her blog info is, www.bethanyerickson.blogspot.com

And as always keep all of our Brother&sisters in your prayers!!

Brandon Holmes in the Congo

Over a year’s time I am working with United World Mission and the Congo Initiative to disciple and grow Christian leaders in the DRC. At the same time, I will be teaching courses at a local Christian University for the Congolese while working micro-enterprise programs with other organizations and groups.

Being Congolese: A Short Story

So, I wanted to tell you all, my supporters and readers, just what its like for the people I live around everyday but I couldn’t think of any better way other than simply sharing what I believe to be a day in the life for a Congolese here.  Here’s my story:

The morning sun silently seeps through the cracks of my bedroom’s wall giving my eyes a pleasant awakening.  Still stretched lazily on my cot I see the sunrise yet to reach over the mountains and know that it’s about 5:30 and will be a hot day to come.  Undisturbed by the day about to unfold I rest peacefully knowing that if I survived yesterday I can today as well.  My eyes close again as I soak in the last bits of my well rested sleep not yet worrying about the day’s tasks ahead of me.  Today will be like yesterday and yesterday like the day before and the day before yesterday like the months that followed before.  Routine gives assurance rather than monotony and so I welcome it gladly.

I open one eye again and one ear as well to see if I can hear my wife outside our 3 room hut.  As usual I hear her fanning the charcoal fire outside the curtain door preparing some porridge and boiled water to begin our day.  Still only 5:35 my 4 children are outside playing although their mother asked them to fetch water from the neighboring well.  Each of them have their own jerry can that carries either 20 liters or 5 according to their size and strength.  My youngest, Zawadi[1], is only 11 months old and carries nothing but is rather carried on the back of my second youngest daughter, Soki, who is only 4.  She is her responsibility for the day as my wife has enough to do and can rely on the other children to care for her.

Finally I arise and rub my eyes while reviewing what hours that day I will be driving my motorcycle as a Taxi and which hours I need to be back to tend our garden.  No longer lying down but still slouched over with my elbows on my knees about to stand up I say a short prayer to God.  Its wet season and although our crops are strong and the water buckets are full if it rains again today no one will ride my taxi moto and we will still be without money.  “Lord, you are Alpha and Omega, our Shepherd and Father, please, provide for us again today, our lives are in your hands.”  I stagger slowly to the back of the house before saying good morning to my family so as to bathe from the bucket my wife has already filled and placed for me near the shade and privacy of the banana tree.

Refreshed and now beginning to really awake I walk back in and get dressed for work.  My children tell me that my shirt says something about an American family named Davis that had a family reunion in 1995.  They must have worn the shirt once but apparently didn’t care for it much afterwards and so it made its way here to the piles of clothes sold downtown by a lady who got them for free from some military group called Salvation Army.  I put on my jeans and my neon blue plastic sandals that say China all across the bottom, my second pair this month.  I walk outside finally and am greeted by my wife and neighbors.  Some men have gathered at the corner general store 20 feet away where mendazi[2] is being freshly made. I speak to the papa who, as usual, sits peacefully on the bench with his back against the wall watching the day pass.  “Jambo Papa” “jambo”, “habari ya leo” “mazuri, na wewe?” “salama”[3].

I walk over to the motorcycle I drive as a taxi to inspect it before beginning the work day.  Fuel, check.  Air in tires, check.  Orange taxi man vest, check.  The bike is not my own but belonging to a man named Paluku who runs the moto business in town. I must make at least $5 a day in fares to turn in to him each evening in order to keep my job.  Anything I make beyond the five dollars is mine to keep but that is never really enough.  I pull the neon orange vest over my 1995 Davis Family Reunion shirt and am reminded that I am number 124 by the faded spray painted number on the vest’s back.  I check my pockets and find 600 franc[4], barely enough to buy the litre of mozut[5] needed to begin the day but it will do. I see my kids once more before beginning my search for customers.  My eldest son, Jacques, is in his white shirt and blue pant uniform finishing his work before trekking 2 miles with the other students to school.  Both the pants and the shirt haven’t been replaced in the past 2 years although he’s far out grown them but we remind him to take care of them because his little brother will need them soon enough if he were to begin school next fall.  Thirty-five dollar school fees consume all the money we have for the kids’ education each year and so we actually had to ask my sister for her son’s uniform that he wore before dropping out last year.  My three other little ones are already joyfully equipped with the hoes and sticks ready to help their mama tend our shamba[6] during the day.  Even our second youngest daughter Soki will work the garden while our youngest is strapped half-asleep to her back; all working hands are needed.

The work day begins as the sun just now summits the mountain’s ridge in a beautiful yet silent climax.  I pause once more while straddling my bike trying to decide whether I should position myself at the market or outside of the wazungus[7] house for the first clients of the day.  Everyone knows that they, those Americans, take the motos everyday to work; they don’t walk like we do, even if it is only a mile away.  I’m sure to make at least 500 franc for the destination they want to go.  Sometimes I try to barter hard with them knowing that an extra 100 franc taxed on is nothing for their pockets but they refuse to settle on more than what the others pay. They keep saying they’re not visitors and that they want the Congolese price.  They’re still not Congolese but I consent to the Congolese price because I don’t want to lose the opportunity of making a good first fare.  It’s lunch time now and the sun is just past the middle of the sky’s center.  God must have heard my prayers because it still has yet to rain although the clouds flirt annoyingly in the distance.  I find the shade of a tree near the downtown’s center round-a-bout to park for a while.  As customary I take out the ragged bills I’ve collected during the day thus far and replace my pocket with the neon-orange vest wadded up instead.  2700 franc[8], not bad for the first half of the day.  I spend 300 franc on rice and beans that the woman beside us is selling as well as a small plastic sandwich bag filled with cold water.

I sit and rest and pick up on the conversation of the 3 other moto drivers resting near me.  “I heard on the radio that Kabila[9] and his cabinet are trying to extend the term length for president”, “Who cares, he hasn’t visited or cared about us since last election, besides, whoever’s in charge in Kinshasa[10] cares only about the West”.  Politics has never been my favorite subject; it always seems that its always what everyone’s must upset with here but in the same breadth what everyone’s most patriotic about as well.  I fade in and out of the conversation closing my eyes to relish the shade during the midday’s sun.  Still with my eyes closed I hear another taxi driver park to rest under the tree and join in the daily gossip from the local radio’s news.  He starts talking about how he’s going to quit his taxi job and start working for the Chinese.  “The China men are paying a dollar fifty each day for 6 hours work making those roads.  I don’t know about you but I’m struggling to make 1 dollar with all the new taxis now in town.”  I keep my eyes closed but know in my mind I’m thinking the same thing as him.  Why does our boss get $5 each day while I only get one?  I’ve heard that that China company, Sino Hydro[11] will have all our roads paved and electricity for the whole city in the next 2 years and is hiring us Congolese to do the work.  Who knows, I just can’t gamble with this taxi job and with the possibility of being laid off by those China men.  I fade back asleep confident that few customers are needing rides during the heat of the day, most everyone knows to stay still for a while until the sun moves a little more away.

It’s now 4 pm and my legs are tired from being on the motorcycle so long.  Business has been good thankfully but I know that even that won’t secure tomorrow.  The rains may continue and our crops may grow, my son may be the best student in school and go to the university, and I may make $2 dollars a day for the next couple months but the fact still remains that my family’s future is not guaranteed, we are at the mercy of both Congo and of God; both whom I respect and fear reverently.  I can please God but if I don’t please Congo, or fit its strict and dangerous demands, my life could end in a moment.  Sometimes I fear my own country more than God himself as blasphemous as that sounds.  Less than ten years ago my family fled from rebels who could not be appeased, my father and my brother both lost their lives when they failed to pay what the soldiers demanded.  Malaria took my mother’s life last year while malnutrition took my second born son, whom is now buried in the forest near our house along with the many other dead children of our community.  Corrupt officials demand taxes we can’t pay and disease continues to kill the coffee beans we once used as bartering instead of money.  The same wave of thoughts seem to hit me at the same time at the end of each day, its truth evident everywhere around me.  I can’t and won’t complain though, because we all are equally close to death’s door step; few men the exception.  Some men interrupt my thoughts and ask if I want to grab a beer at a bar down the street, I decline knowing good and well that they just want to go get drunk.  They head on as I naturally fade back into the fog of my thoughts. From day one I was taught three important truths that are never to be forgotten: life is fragile, God is great, and Congo is my homeland. I don’t know if the order of those is of significance but it seems to me that life being fragile is what we know first and what we are reminded of in every second of every day.  Then that Congo is our homeland is the most undeniable foundation of truth that even if the first two truths lie this truth will always remain.  And then that God is great somehow often gets lost in between the two other truths, forgotten or disguised.  God is great, but is he always great in my favor?  I head home knowing that dinner is soon to be prepared and that the kids are again fetching water for the evening.  Amidst all my thoughts that seem to haunt me during the day, I always seem to rest assured in the comforting and simple pleasures of knowing that today has been given to us, that there is food on our plates and shelter over our heads, and that is more than enough to put a smile on my face and to live quite happily in anticipation of the next day.

I love this post and am blessed to be able to share it with you. It really puts things into perspective, about life in the Congo.

If you would like more information on Brandon Holmes and his adventures please contact him through  http://drcongohope.blogspot.com/

And as always keep all of our Brothers&Sisters serving in the missionary field’s in your prayers.

Chelsie Frank in the Congo!

This summer, the Upper Room Community came together to support vulnerable women in the Congo through a life-enhancing, life-supporting initiative. In the developing world, small animals, such as goats provide income, security, enhanced nutrition, and opportunity; hence our project: Goats of Grace. Through livestock education and the granting of goats to vulnerable women our community hopes to show the grace of our loving God in the Congo.

We all met at the church at 8:00am and walked a mile to the training site. When we arrived we found some women arrived early to prepare the greens and rice for the afternoon meal. The women were all under the impression that they were attending a free seminar on Ufugo ya Mbuzi (raising goats). Among the 55 attendees was a local government representative from the Social Affairs department sent to learn from our seminar.

The pastor started with songs of praise and a message about the widow, Dorcas, who was known for her generosity and kindness to the poor (Acts 9). Then one of the women prayed that we would all follow her example.

The training seminar featured all aspects of goat husbandry (how to raise goats): goat characteristics, profit/benefits of goats, building a home and paddock for your goat, diet, feeding, breeding, sickness and disease, and caring for your goat’s overall health.

The trainers taught about simple gardening techniques and composting as well. After the training, we announced that women would be granted goats. The women were surprised and a bit confused. I don’t think the reality set in until we walked outside and they were handed their goat. The women smiled and laughed amongst themselves as I asked them to pose for their picture.

For more information, http://www.chelsiefrank.blogspot.com/

Welcome!

Proverbs 3:5&6 “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He shall direct your paths.”

This blog is dedicated to all those who are currently serving in any missionary field. To hear their stories, to find out why God called them to the mission field. Every Christian is called to serve, whether to their families, friends, coworkers. Some though are called to serve the world, to give up their own lives and follow Christ, where ever He may lead them. Isaiah 6:8 Also I heard the voice of the Lord saying “whom shall I send, And who will go for Us? Then I said “Here am I! Send me.”

If you are currently serving as a missionary, or know someone who is, that would like to have a testimony or story shared. Please contact me at l_tibbs99@hotmail.com. Please keep all of our Brothers & Sisters who are serving as missionaries in your prayers.