The Mother on the Metro

Stories from our Cairo adventures.

The best way to describe our first experience as a team of 10 getting on the Cairo metro is to relate it with your idea of trains in India. People are packed in like sardines and the challenge is in the exchange of people getting on and people getting off, and doing this before the doors close and the train moves on.

We entered the metro ready to squeeze 10 people together on the same car. This was unrealistic since the cars were packed. So Nelson rushed to a car that was further, and I followed, until our leader said, “Not this car!” So I obediently followed Nan, one of our group,  onto another car. Nelson made it to the far car without me, and I made it with Nan, but Adam was literally pushed off of the metro by an older man that was not about to be squished. The doors closed and it was just me and Nan sandwiched in with a car full of men. (Our team was riding together on the mens car. ) Nan knew that we had two stops and then we needed to get off. It was a little intimidating but we felt secure together and after all,  it was only two stops!  We also knew that we would need to wait for our leader because he did not make it on that car.

However, The situation was a little "hair-raising" in that car of men. The older gentleman was not happy about being squished like a sardine. So when we got to the first stop he began to yell at the passengers getting on. He was angry! Yelling in Arabic, one of the men who had jumped on responded back to him. An argument ensued and each one needed to have the last word. One man tried to calm the angry guy down but there was no stopping him. He just kept yelling getting angrier and angrier.

Nan and I were just a little overwhelmed but reassured by the thought that we would be off at the next stop. Still, it was somewhat unsettling. Then we came to the stop. Whew!

We reunited with the group and went on to the next train. This train was not so crowded but we still had to stand. I ended up standing next to a woman who was seated with her small son and baby nursing on her lap. I smiled at the little boy and his mother, trying to make a connection. The mother looked at me with lifeless eyes. She was obviously poor, perhaps even a beggar but she did not beg from us.

The baby was over dressed and must have been so hot. He stopped nursing and was squirming a little on her lap. The little boy was agitated too because he didn’t have enough room to sit. Then suddenly the man sitting next to the mother insisted that I take his seat next to the mother. I refused at first, wanting to offer it to someone else, but he was insistent. So I sat down, and then I noticed that the baby was falling from the mother’s lap. The little boy tried to help, but the baby was hard for him to handle. I gladly took the baby in my arms to help. However the baby was so upset and really wanted his mama. So I tried to place him back in his mother’s arms but she was unresponsive. She stared blankly and her body was stiff. I wondered if she was having a seizure. We had a nurse on our team and so Sheila went immediately to her side, but she didn’t seem to know what was going on. The only other explanation was spiritual. Perhaps there was something demonic going on with the woman. We began to pray and I grabbed water bottle from a team member to share with the baby. The baby gulped the water and settled down.

Then one of the men on the train rushed over to help. He began screaming in the woman’s face. Another woman came as well. The woman tried to get the man to stop screaming, but he insisted. Our leader said she was telling the man that it could be a medical problem. However the man recognized it as spiritual. He called it a Jin. and then he turned to a man behind him that had a Quran. They began reciting stuff out of the Quran and yelling in her face. With every recitation she became more stiff. Yet we saw tears falling from her eyes and running down her face. He turned around and we began praying and speaking in tongues under our breath. Every time he turned,  I looked the mother in the eye and I said “Jesus!” She would soften. Her eyes would respond. This went on for a while. The man would check the Quran and I would get near her with the baby and say Jesus. I spoke Jesus over the baby. I spoke it to the woman. And every time she would soften. He would return and she would stiffen. Finally, he was giving up and got out of her face.  We all kept praying. Something released and she put her hands on her face and screamed.

Once the was responding I quickly handed her the baby. She held her babies close and cried. We just kept praying. Someone handed her water bottles, but she refused them. This never made sense to me. We were getting near our stop.  It was one of the many moments I have struggled with leaving a baby, wondering about the future of that little one, when everything within me wants to keep the baby!

We walked off the car and I knew that this was a divine appointment. The Lord had arranged it all. God as always, on mission, and giving us amazing opportunities to join him, to represent him and to be his hands and feet.

And I knew that moment was for Jesus to use my arms to hold that baby. My voice to speak his name in the face of that desperate woman. However, It was not a moment just for me to experience, it was a moment for Jesus to take on flesh in that metro car. It was a moment for His name to be exalted and powerful in the face of evil. It was God on mission and incredibly he chose me to join Him.

To think that we would not have met that woman had our leader not been pushed off that metro car. I know that woman will never forget that moment. It has to be inscribed in her memory banks. and I believe that a seed was planted, something was happening and I cannot wait for heaven when I will see the results. Yet while we may not know the rest of the story there is one thing remains incredibly clear. The power in the name of Jesus!

Therefore, God elevated him to the place of highest honor

and gave him the name above all other names,

that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,

in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord,

to the glory of God the Father.

The day they called him Pastor

....he wasn't preaching a sermon. 

Arismendy is from a coastal town in Dominican Republic. Before he enrolled in our missions training school (Comisión de Maestro Quisqueya - CMQ), he had never flown on an airplane, never even experience an extended road trip, and never walked very far to get places. There was always a mototaxi to get around town. Yet as a third year student in our missionary training program, his mission would take him by airplane to the far away jungles of Ecuador to live among the Shuar Indians. He would walk up to 6 hours on foot just to reach their villages and preach in their tiny churches. And though electricity is scarce in the DR, Arismeny spent six weeks in places so remote that only solar panel provided the meager moments of electricity.

Arismendy is six feet tall, a dark skinned Afro-Caribbean young man. For the Shuar, he was a foreigner in every sense of the word. When he first arrived to serve the Shuar tribe, the Indigenous people had difficulty pronouncing his name, so they would call him "Negro."  Arismendy felt so out of place, and the kids would often make fun of him as he tried to learn to play soccer. Soccer was new to Arismendy since he grew up playing only baseball and basketball in the DR.

He knew that he needed to connect with these kids somehow and win their respect. So he became determined to love the things that they loved. This meant that he needed to learn to play soccer and he needed to eat with them. Arismendy would learn to eat grub worms and play soccer for hours. The day he made his first goal was significant. After that day, he began to hear the kids calling him "Pastor" instead of "Negro." The more time he spent with them listening to their stories, eating the grub worms and drinking chicha* the less he heard them calling him “Negro.”  Though he had walked for hours to preach in the pulpits of the jungle churches, it was not eloquent preaching that won him the title of “Pastor.” It was eloquent loving.

*Traditional Chicha-makers grind the maize and then chew it to moisturize it. After the human saliva breaks down the starch, the balls of chewed maze are put in large clay vats and warm water is added. After several days of fermentation, Chicha is ready to be consumed.

Red Bean Pudding

I know. It sounds gross. Missionary life is known for adventures in eating. The best missionary stories usually include monkey brain soup or tarantula soufflé. Our food adventures here in the Caribbean have been mediocre in comparison. Yet, among the food challenges that have come my way in this missionary journey is Red Bean Pudding, or Habichuelas Con Dulce. 

Here in the Dominican Republic, as we approach Holy Week, the grocery stores are displaying proudly all the necessary ingredients for this most important delicacy. It is usually only served during Holy Week, and it is greatly anticipated. My wonderful Dominican friends and ministry family have always been so excited to share with me their particular version of the Red Bean Pudding, and even the ice cream shop has a Red Bean Pudding flavor! 

I must admit, those first years of living here, I had to eat it with a smile, while trying not to breath. Yet, while I forced this exotic desert across my palate,  I would see the beautiful expression on my Dominican sister's face. My friends were so excited to share their special tradition with me! I began to enjoy so much the sharing of this cultural experience, that the weirdness of eating sugary sweet legumes with sweet potatoes and raisins began to fade. TODAY, I am craving Habichuelas con Dulce, or Red Bean Pudding. And today, I will share it once again with my girls at Bethesda! Maria is making a big batch!!! She told me to bring some tupperware. And that is the way it works around here, you make enough to take some home in tupperware! 

Food is a funny thing in our missionary journeys. It is so much more than nourishment for the body. Learning to love what they love, what they have made, their special traditions,  is learning to love the people we serve. And so it was with Jesus.  Jesus went from eating at heaven's table to sharing bread and wine with common men. In the eating and the drinking at our table, we watched Jesus love us. Picking up my spoon today, I hope that my girls can watch me love them, because I have learned to really love their Red Bean Pudding. 

Independence Day

It’s Independence Day here in Dominican Republic and today is a day of celebration for sure. In fact, one day is not enough for Dominican patriots. Dominicans, who are “party people” at heart, celebrate during the whole month of February! Still, in the midst of all the celebration of national independence,I am so grieved to see the slavery that still rears its ugly face here in the developing world.  Today, while the school is closed for the holiday, there will be children standing at street lights begging for pesos only give the money over to help purchase the drugs and alcohol consumed in the home. And on this day that celebrates freedom, there will be too many women who will be captive to the atrocious abuses that are a result of unrestrained fiestas. 

So today, I sat down  with the Holy Spirit and my cafe Santo Domingo to join Jesus in Matthew chapter 21. I find myself standing with the crowds, palm branch in my hand, shouting Hosanna, celebrating my own Independence Day when Jesus triumphantly entered my life. Still, I am looking around at this crowd and I am seriously disappointed at the emptiness in their praise. It feels like they are celebrating just for the sake of celebrating. In just a few days, they will change their shouts from “Hosanna” to “Crucify him!” 

In fact, true celebration requires a sincere connection to the reason for the party. Otherwise it is empty and what could be a celebration of freedom ends up being a false fiesta for bondage. The Dominican Republic is the only country in the world with a Bible on the flag and the verse that is inscribed is “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” In the end the truth is not an idea or political philosophy. The truth is a person, and that Person is Jesus.  Today as the festivities and music fill my world, my prayer is that Jesus will triumphantly enter this patriotic fiesta. After all, Jesus is the only true LIFE of the party!