4/24/2004
Ansokia
NUMBER FORTY-TWO
THE MIRACLE IN ANSOKIA VALLEY
That they may see and recognize and consider and gain insight as well that the hand of the Lord has done this. Isaiah the Prophet
When Waji Chefraw was a very small boy, his valley was green. The hillsides were covered with trees, there was corn and wheat and every kind of vegetable growing in the fields. There were papaya trees and banana trees and much grass for the cattle. A river fed by mountain springs watered the valley. The rains came every year, on time and in abundance. Life was very good in Ansokia Valley.
In time, the people began to multiply. They became careless with the trees and the water. They took the rich deep soil for granted. They used too many trees for building and for fuel. They took too much pride in their growing herds of cattle and did not see the pastures begin to die.
Soon the forest began to shrink, but the people did not see the state of the forest. Each person only saw the single tree to be cut for some good purpose. They said all would be well because the rains were good and there were still many trees.
More time passed. As a young father, Waji often sent his children to collect firewood. Many others sought the same wood. They had to go farther and farther to collect enough. Some began cutting the fruit trees for fuel.
As the forest continued to shrink and the people continued to multiply, the rains came less often and brought less water. The hot noonday sun reflected off the barren spaces back into the sky. The nights got colder, and the rain clouds were fewer and smaller. The people looked to the river for help, but it was beginning to fail. Across all the highlands of Ethiopia there was a drought. Even the springs were drying up.
The river fell, the wells ran dry, the valley withered. Hyenas came out of the hills seeking food and the people were too weak to fight them off. The cattle were dying. Cholera, typhus, measles and malaria stalked the land. The very old and the very young began to die.
By this time, Waji had five children. He wondered how he would feed them in the days ahead. He marveled at how soon the green valley had turned brown. Some said this valley could feed a million--now thirty thousand were facing starvation.
A government messenger was sent to the capitol, "Help us, we are dying" he told them. And they heard him.
While they waited for the messenger's return, Waji and Hulita stretched their last basket of grain as far as they could. Each day the flat bread she baked to eat with their meal grew smaller. Finally, there was no other food to go with the bread. On the day the food ran out and the last of the grain was baked, they shared it with their hungry children in the shade of their hut on the mountainside. Below the brown valley baked in the hot sun. There was not a cloud in the sky. They watched the dust devils dance, twisting in the dry wind above the bleached bones of fallen cattle. They wondered what the next day would bring.
The next day brought rumors of food being given out at the head of the valley. Waji and Hulita collected their children and started out. It was a long, long walk.
A t the head of the valley they found thousands who had come already. Most arrived with nothing more than the ragged clothes on their backs. Many had walked days to reach the camp and were now sitting, dull-eyed and silent, waiting patiently for rations.
Workers fed the weaker ones by hand or with a tube. Many were too weak or too sick to take care of themselves -- there was filth everywhere. The nights were bitter cold. Few had blankets. The people huddled together for warmth. In the morning those who were able gathered up the dead and carried them outside the camp to be buried.
For Waji and Hulita the memory of these terrible days has faded now. The sight of their children wasting away, of the terrible helplessness of not being able to provide, to help, to protect could be called up but is not at the edges of their minds anymore. But even after five years one memory is strong and bright—they will never forget the people who came from the capitol and from across the ocean to help them. These people not only saved them from starving but also stayed on to help them save their valley. Somehow Waji and his whole family survived and became part of a miracle.
Today he sits in his dooryard and looks across a valley that is green again.
Some of the trees planted with his own hands are already over thirty feet high. Papaya and banana trees rise above the shocks of maize beside his house. He smiles upon his children splashing in the clean water of the community fountain in the center of his village. The children are healthy and strong. And so are the oxen that will soon draw his plow thru the rich soil again in preparation for another planting. He hears his wife singing at her cooking, grateful for the full storage bins and harvests to come.
Waji Chefraw marvels at how far they all have traveled together in just five years... Five million new trees planted, a hundred miles of hillside terraced, roads and a bridge built, ten new wells dug and enough springs capped to provide clean water piped to all the villages.
There are health clinics in place; the children have been immunized. The people are learning how to read, about new crops to plant and especially about new ways to care for their valley.
They have all gained together a profound new respect for the land and the water and the trees. And they have gained a profound respect for the Creator of the land who sent His servants to help them when they needed it most. Together they will work to care for their valley so that it will care for them and their children and their grandchildren.
In Ansokia today there are thirty thousand people in seventeen villages who have lived a miracle together. They are thriving, and they are facing the future with new wisdom, new confidence and new hope.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The word “Famine” is little more than an occasional headline these days in a world full of “breaking news” and exploding “Crisis.” The story of Ansokia Valley is a reminder that famines are always with us and that it is possible for a few caring people to make a very large difference.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The King will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, you did it to Me.’
Matthew 25.40
THE MIRACLE IN ANSOKIA VALLEY
That they may see and recognize and consider and gain insight as well that the hand of the Lord has done this. Isaiah the Prophet
When Waji Chefraw was a very small boy, his valley was green. The hillsides were covered with trees, there was corn and wheat and every kind of vegetable growing in the fields. There were papaya trees and banana trees and much grass for the cattle. A river fed by mountain springs watered the valley. The rains came every year, on time and in abundance. Life was very good in Ansokia Valley.
In time, the people began to multiply. They became careless with the trees and the water. They took the rich deep soil for granted. They used too many trees for building and for fuel. They took too much pride in their growing herds of cattle and did not see the pastures begin to die.
Soon the forest began to shrink, but the people did not see the state of the forest. Each person only saw the single tree to be cut for some good purpose. They said all would be well because the rains were good and there were still many trees.
More time passed. As a young father, Waji often sent his children to collect firewood. Many others sought the same wood. They had to go farther and farther to collect enough. Some began cutting the fruit trees for fuel.
As the forest continued to shrink and the people continued to multiply, the rains came less often and brought less water. The hot noonday sun reflected off the barren spaces back into the sky. The nights got colder, and the rain clouds were fewer and smaller. The people looked to the river for help, but it was beginning to fail. Across all the highlands of Ethiopia there was a drought. Even the springs were drying up.
The river fell, the wells ran dry, the valley withered. Hyenas came out of the hills seeking food and the people were too weak to fight them off. The cattle were dying. Cholera, typhus, measles and malaria stalked the land. The very old and the very young began to die.
By this time, Waji had five children. He wondered how he would feed them in the days ahead. He marveled at how soon the green valley had turned brown. Some said this valley could feed a million--now thirty thousand were facing starvation.
A government messenger was sent to the capitol, "Help us, we are dying" he told them. And they heard him.
While they waited for the messenger's return, Waji and Hulita stretched their last basket of grain as far as they could. Each day the flat bread she baked to eat with their meal grew smaller. Finally, there was no other food to go with the bread. On the day the food ran out and the last of the grain was baked, they shared it with their hungry children in the shade of their hut on the mountainside. Below the brown valley baked in the hot sun. There was not a cloud in the sky. They watched the dust devils dance, twisting in the dry wind above the bleached bones of fallen cattle. They wondered what the next day would bring.
The next day brought rumors of food being given out at the head of the valley. Waji and Hulita collected their children and started out. It was a long, long walk.
A t the head of the valley they found thousands who had come already. Most arrived with nothing more than the ragged clothes on their backs. Many had walked days to reach the camp and were now sitting, dull-eyed and silent, waiting patiently for rations.
Workers fed the weaker ones by hand or with a tube. Many were too weak or too sick to take care of themselves -- there was filth everywhere. The nights were bitter cold. Few had blankets. The people huddled together for warmth. In the morning those who were able gathered up the dead and carried them outside the camp to be buried.
For Waji and Hulita the memory of these terrible days has faded now. The sight of their children wasting away, of the terrible helplessness of not being able to provide, to help, to protect could be called up but is not at the edges of their minds anymore. But even after five years one memory is strong and bright—they will never forget the people who came from the capitol and from across the ocean to help them. These people not only saved them from starving but also stayed on to help them save their valley. Somehow Waji and his whole family survived and became part of a miracle.
Today he sits in his dooryard and looks across a valley that is green again.
Some of the trees planted with his own hands are already over thirty feet high. Papaya and banana trees rise above the shocks of maize beside his house. He smiles upon his children splashing in the clean water of the community fountain in the center of his village. The children are healthy and strong. And so are the oxen that will soon draw his plow thru the rich soil again in preparation for another planting. He hears his wife singing at her cooking, grateful for the full storage bins and harvests to come.
Waji Chefraw marvels at how far they all have traveled together in just five years... Five million new trees planted, a hundred miles of hillside terraced, roads and a bridge built, ten new wells dug and enough springs capped to provide clean water piped to all the villages.
There are health clinics in place; the children have been immunized. The people are learning how to read, about new crops to plant and especially about new ways to care for their valley.
They have all gained together a profound new respect for the land and the water and the trees. And they have gained a profound respect for the Creator of the land who sent His servants to help them when they needed it most. Together they will work to care for their valley so that it will care for them and their children and their grandchildren.
In Ansokia today there are thirty thousand people in seventeen villages who have lived a miracle together. They are thriving, and they are facing the future with new wisdom, new confidence and new hope.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The word “Famine” is little more than an occasional headline these days in a world full of “breaking news” and exploding “Crisis.” The story of Ansokia Valley is a reminder that famines are always with us and that it is possible for a few caring people to make a very large difference.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The King will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, you did it to Me.’
Matthew 25.40
4/17/2004
A Prayer For Ms.
NUMBER FORTY-ONE
Feminism no doubt had its origins in the worthy goal of improving the lot of women and children in a male-dominated society. It began well but didn’t take long to go off the track. Somehow, in the name of helping women, feminism has stripped women of everything feminine, except for their skin.
Today, among many women, the only remnant of the glory and beauty of womanhood to be seen is the mid-riff slice, an ever-widening band of bare flesh around the waist, bounded on the north by a top three sizes too small and on the south by a bottom two sizes too small.
Reflecting on the shambles that rabid feminism has wrought, I recall a poem I wrote in 1968. Even then the leaders had their doubts.
A PRAYER FOR MS.
"Not knowing where we are going ourselves, and thus not knowing where they are going, we realize that it is terribly important that we love them." Love is the only thing we can guarantee our children.
Colette Dowling
"I suppose that what really made me go see Simone de Beauvoir was the feeling that someone must know the right answer, someone must know for sure that all the women who have thrown away those old misleading maps are heading in the right direction, someone must see more clearly than I where the new road ends...I found...there are no gods, no goddesses..."
Betty Friedan
A PRAYER FOR MS.
Lord,
Regard not lightly
Those who, scorning the stale air of this snug harbor,
Put out upon an unknown sea
Lacking chart, compass, knowledge of the stars...
Hoping chance may reveal
Some better place.
Lord,
Regard not lightly
Those blind souls who, burning all their bridges, depart
For reasons strongly felt
To places less than dimly seen...
Hoping for a cloud of fire
Or some other sign to meet them
In the way.
Lord,
Regard not lightly
Those who face the shrieking gale
Or grope within the blinding fog
Or wait in vain for some small breeze...
Hoping still for time and chance
To bear them to
More friendly seas.
Lord,
Illuminate their way
Or, lacking that, comfort them at least,
In their great dismay as they approach the void
And see, too late, the going was the best of it
For those who travel unknown seas
Lacking chart, compass, knowledge of the stars.
6/68
009
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised.”
Proverbs 31.30
Feminism no doubt had its origins in the worthy goal of improving the lot of women and children in a male-dominated society. It began well but didn’t take long to go off the track. Somehow, in the name of helping women, feminism has stripped women of everything feminine, except for their skin.
Today, among many women, the only remnant of the glory and beauty of womanhood to be seen is the mid-riff slice, an ever-widening band of bare flesh around the waist, bounded on the north by a top three sizes too small and on the south by a bottom two sizes too small.
Reflecting on the shambles that rabid feminism has wrought, I recall a poem I wrote in 1968. Even then the leaders had their doubts.
A PRAYER FOR MS.
"Not knowing where we are going ourselves, and thus not knowing where they are going, we realize that it is terribly important that we love them." Love is the only thing we can guarantee our children.
Colette Dowling
"I suppose that what really made me go see Simone de Beauvoir was the feeling that someone must know the right answer, someone must know for sure that all the women who have thrown away those old misleading maps are heading in the right direction, someone must see more clearly than I where the new road ends...I found...there are no gods, no goddesses..."
Betty Friedan
A PRAYER FOR MS.
Lord,
Regard not lightly
Those who, scorning the stale air of this snug harbor,
Put out upon an unknown sea
Lacking chart, compass, knowledge of the stars...
Hoping chance may reveal
Some better place.
Lord,
Regard not lightly
Those blind souls who, burning all their bridges, depart
For reasons strongly felt
To places less than dimly seen...
Hoping for a cloud of fire
Or some other sign to meet them
In the way.
Lord,
Regard not lightly
Those who face the shrieking gale
Or grope within the blinding fog
Or wait in vain for some small breeze...
Hoping still for time and chance
To bear them to
More friendly seas.
Lord,
Illuminate their way
Or, lacking that, comfort them at least,
In their great dismay as they approach the void
And see, too late, the going was the best of it
For those who travel unknown seas
Lacking chart, compass, knowledge of the stars.
6/68
009
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised.”
Proverbs 31.30
4/11/2004
Blessed Are The Meek
Blog #40
Blessed Are The Meek
There are always refugees in the world. Here is a brief look into the heart of just one of millions.
This morning I have a name. I am Meak. It feels very good to be Meak again. Yesterday I was "72". In our tent "1" to "71" were lined up ahead of me and "73" to "100" came after.
They call this place Sa Kaew. It is good to see the sun rise once more, even in Sa Keaw.
Before I was a number I was "the adult pneumonia with malaria near the corner pole." They picked three thousand of us for the tents. We were the "lucky ones." We were the ones nearest death. On that first day, one label, "refugees" covered all thirty thousand of us.
We had come from the jungle, just across the line that divides Thailand from Cambodia. We were all fleeing, most from our homes in Cambodia and most from the wrath of the Khmer Rouge. Some had traveled very far. I met a woman who had walked nine months with her child, all the way from Viet Nam.
It is not good to be a number-even animals have names. Think of the tiger sliding thru the jungle, his muscles rippling beneath his golden coat, fire in his eyes... Call him by a number? It would not do. Think of the elephant, his back like a stone, his legs like pillars, a heavy teak log in his trunk... Call him by a number? It would never do.
Criminals are given numbers. Those who lose wars are given numbers. It is a terrible thing to lose your name, to be reduced to a number.
This morning I am Meak again. When we came, we were too sick to speak, and our nurses were too busy to ask our names. They spoke English and we spoke many languages, none of them English.
Yesterday a brother came, all the way from Australia, to speak for us. He gave our names to those who care for us. When the nurse called me "Meak" this morning her eyes glistened. My name was a great gift--it moved her to be giving it.
I have counted six nurses and one doctor coming to our tent. Tomorrow, if I am stronger, I will try to learn their names.
They are here at sunrise and rush through the day, trying to keep us alive. There is no electricity--it doesn't matter, by the time the sun sets they are exhausted.
There are always one hundred in the tent. Some die, others are "cured," at least pushed back far enough from the edge of dying to face life in the camp outside.
New ones come to fill the empty spaces. Yesterday morning 7,21,22,34, and 68 were wrapped in their ground sheets and lined up near the end of the tent. They were picked up and buried without their names. It is a terrible thing to die among strangers who don't even know your name.
Last night there was excitement nearby. I heard cries of pain and the cries of babies that sounded different somehow. In the morning Che spoke of the two new babies born in the night. He says they are strong babies who can carry the future for the ones who've died.
The tent is not really a tent, just plastic stretched across some poles to keep the rain off. It rains everyday here. Those near the edge get wet, but they are closer to the breeze and can see the sky. It is hot after the rain.
Thai soldiers flattened a paddy for camp; it is a bog of mud. Today they took away our plastic ground sheets and gave us wooden pallets to lift us above the mud.
So there are two good things today; I am "Meak" now to the nurses and the doctor and I am above the mud, resting on something that reminds me of Phnom Penh, of home...No, there are really three good things, and the third is best of all; if I should die tonight, they will bury "Meak," not just "72".
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To him who overcomes, to him I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, and a new name written on the stone which no one knows but he who receives it.” Revelation 2.17
Blessed Are The Meek
There are always refugees in the world. Here is a brief look into the heart of just one of millions.
This morning I have a name. I am Meak. It feels very good to be Meak again. Yesterday I was "72". In our tent "1" to "71" were lined up ahead of me and "73" to "100" came after.
They call this place Sa Kaew. It is good to see the sun rise once more, even in Sa Keaw.
Before I was a number I was "the adult pneumonia with malaria near the corner pole." They picked three thousand of us for the tents. We were the "lucky ones." We were the ones nearest death. On that first day, one label, "refugees" covered all thirty thousand of us.
We had come from the jungle, just across the line that divides Thailand from Cambodia. We were all fleeing, most from our homes in Cambodia and most from the wrath of the Khmer Rouge. Some had traveled very far. I met a woman who had walked nine months with her child, all the way from Viet Nam.
It is not good to be a number-even animals have names. Think of the tiger sliding thru the jungle, his muscles rippling beneath his golden coat, fire in his eyes... Call him by a number? It would not do. Think of the elephant, his back like a stone, his legs like pillars, a heavy teak log in his trunk... Call him by a number? It would never do.
Criminals are given numbers. Those who lose wars are given numbers. It is a terrible thing to lose your name, to be reduced to a number.
This morning I am Meak again. When we came, we were too sick to speak, and our nurses were too busy to ask our names. They spoke English and we spoke many languages, none of them English.
Yesterday a brother came, all the way from Australia, to speak for us. He gave our names to those who care for us. When the nurse called me "Meak" this morning her eyes glistened. My name was a great gift--it moved her to be giving it.
I have counted six nurses and one doctor coming to our tent. Tomorrow, if I am stronger, I will try to learn their names.
They are here at sunrise and rush through the day, trying to keep us alive. There is no electricity--it doesn't matter, by the time the sun sets they are exhausted.
There are always one hundred in the tent. Some die, others are "cured," at least pushed back far enough from the edge of dying to face life in the camp outside.
New ones come to fill the empty spaces. Yesterday morning 7,21,22,34, and 68 were wrapped in their ground sheets and lined up near the end of the tent. They were picked up and buried without their names. It is a terrible thing to die among strangers who don't even know your name.
Last night there was excitement nearby. I heard cries of pain and the cries of babies that sounded different somehow. In the morning Che spoke of the two new babies born in the night. He says they are strong babies who can carry the future for the ones who've died.
The tent is not really a tent, just plastic stretched across some poles to keep the rain off. It rains everyday here. Those near the edge get wet, but they are closer to the breeze and can see the sky. It is hot after the rain.
Thai soldiers flattened a paddy for camp; it is a bog of mud. Today they took away our plastic ground sheets and gave us wooden pallets to lift us above the mud.
So there are two good things today; I am "Meak" now to the nurses and the doctor and I am above the mud, resting on something that reminds me of Phnom Penh, of home...No, there are really three good things, and the third is best of all; if I should die tonight, they will bury "Meak," not just "72".
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To him who overcomes, to him I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, and a new name written on the stone which no one knows but he who receives it.” Revelation 2.17
4/05/2004
Annie, A Parable of Grace
Blog #39
A Parable of Grace
About a year ago, on April 2, our dear friend Jean Adkinson went expectantly off to glory. We miss her much. Little Orphan Annie, the stray who came to stay, remains with Jean’s husband Bob and in this poem.
ANNIE
A Parable of Grace
Abused,
Abandoned,
Sick unto death,
Tick ridden,
Coated with burrs,
A stray puppy,
Without a name,
A prospect, or
A hope in the world,
Showed up one day
On the porch
Of the house
On Bethel Road.
Jean knelt down,
Carried her in,
Cleaned her up,
Nursed her back
To life and health,
Gave her a name,
Adopted her
Into the family,
And taught her
The joy of obedience.
(Once,
When Jean no longer could come to the table,
We sat eating lunch with our plates on our knees.
Annie's inquisitive nose got too close to my plate
And I told her, "Lay down, Annie!"
She just looked at me.
Jean said, "You have to use correct grammar with this dog.
Tell her to lie down."
I did and she obeyed at once.)
At the time,
Jean saw nothing sacramental
In her service to Annie.
But the whole affair
Was a clear parable
Of grace.
As it was with Little Orphan Annie,
So it is with all of us
Who believe
As Jean believed.
We find ourselves
Outside the house of God,
Sick unto death,
Without hope in the world.
There is nothing in us
To commend us to God,
To earn his favor or his mercy.
Yet He comes out of His house,
And in loving mercy
"… raises the poor from the dust
And lifts the needy from the ash heap,
To make them sit with princes…"
He heals all our diseases
Gives us a new name
And teaches us to live in obedience
As adopted members of His family.
And it is all of Grace.
As we look back on Jean's dealings with Annie,
And as we look back on God's dealings with us,
We can begin to appreciate the truth
Of the old Portuguese Proverb:
“Deus escrive direito por lynhas tortas”
"God writes straight along crooked lines."
JS
4.13.03
A Parable of Grace
About a year ago, on April 2, our dear friend Jean Adkinson went expectantly off to glory. We miss her much. Little Orphan Annie, the stray who came to stay, remains with Jean’s husband Bob and in this poem.
ANNIE
A Parable of Grace
Abused,
Abandoned,
Sick unto death,
Tick ridden,
Coated with burrs,
A stray puppy,
Without a name,
A prospect, or
A hope in the world,
Showed up one day
On the porch
Of the house
On Bethel Road.
Jean knelt down,
Carried her in,
Cleaned her up,
Nursed her back
To life and health,
Gave her a name,
Adopted her
Into the family,
And taught her
The joy of obedience.
(Once,
When Jean no longer could come to the table,
We sat eating lunch with our plates on our knees.
Annie's inquisitive nose got too close to my plate
And I told her, "Lay down, Annie!"
She just looked at me.
Jean said, "You have to use correct grammar with this dog.
Tell her to lie down."
I did and she obeyed at once.)
At the time,
Jean saw nothing sacramental
In her service to Annie.
But the whole affair
Was a clear parable
Of grace.
As it was with Little Orphan Annie,
So it is with all of us
Who believe
As Jean believed.
We find ourselves
Outside the house of God,
Sick unto death,
Without hope in the world.
There is nothing in us
To commend us to God,
To earn his favor or his mercy.
Yet He comes out of His house,
And in loving mercy
"… raises the poor from the dust
And lifts the needy from the ash heap,
To make them sit with princes…"
He heals all our diseases
Gives us a new name
And teaches us to live in obedience
As adopted members of His family.
And it is all of Grace.
As we look back on Jean's dealings with Annie,
And as we look back on God's dealings with us,
We can begin to appreciate the truth
Of the old Portuguese Proverb:
“Deus escrive direito por lynhas tortas”
"God writes straight along crooked lines."
JS
4.13.03
