It was a wet afternoon. The rain had overtaken the compound yard and transformed it into a muddy river. The gate opened slightly, and a frail, elderly woman, half bent over and leaning heavily on her bamboo cane, limped onto our compound. She had two young children in tow whom she was bringing for our consideration. She sat under the slight shelter of our makeshift porch gingerly rubbing her knee as the rain continued to pelt.
About twenty minutes after they arrived, someone came to tell me we had visitors. Nothing moves fast here. The rain had abated marginally, and I picked my way through the muddy mire of our front yard. Mud and crutches usually do not mix too well.
One of our staff introduced me to Abuba (“Grandmother”). I looked at her weathered face with its deeply ingrained wrinkles that framed feisty eyes. Instantly I liked her.
Her eyes flashed as she told of losing her children to the war. The silent regret of a mother having to bury her babies is an all-too-common reality here. Her son had died in the war. Her daughter-in-law had left the children at the grandmother’s doorstep because her new husband did not want them. I looked down at the cherub-faced children, ages eight and ten, fiddling with their clothes. Grandma obviously loved them. Her bringing them to us was a decision of last resort.
She went on to describe how difficult life in the bush was with the pain in her knee. She could not work, earn a living or even handle basic household chores, which in these parts does not mean unloading the dishwasher or tossing a quick load into the laundry machine. Basic chores means what most of us would consider a full day of manual labor: walking two miles to find water, pumping the water into twenty-liter plastic cans (I cannot even lift one of these, let alone carry it!) and carrying them back on your head, washing the family’s clothes by hand, gathering firewood and cooking a meager meal over an open fire, tilling the family garden and so on. My heart went out to her.
These children belonged with their grandma. They had already lost enough. I felt a nudge in my spirit to pray for her knee.
So I asked her, “Abuba, may I pray for Jesus to heal your knee? Then you can take the children home with you and be able to care for them yourself.” Her eyes turned soft, and she willingly nodded.
I knelt down in the mud in our little front yard and placed my hand on her knee. I commanded it to be made whole in Jesus’ name. I asked the Holy Spirit to come and fill her and remove every pain in her body. It was a simple prayer. It was a prayer one of my five-year-olds could have prayed. It took about two minutes.
I looked at her, and her expression had not changed. She had stared open-eyed at me the whole time. There was no “receiving” posture, as in many places in the West. She just waited and watched as I prayed. Jesus whispered into my spirit, Have her test it.
So often it seems that the testing of a healing releases its fullness. I stood up from the mud that now coated the bottom half of my skirt. She looked at me and “tsk-tsked” me for getting dirty on her behalf. I motioned for her to stand up and bend her knee. “Abuba, keif intum? Giwaja kalaas?” (“Grandma, how are you? Is the pain gone?”)
She stood up and began to stamp the ground with her foot. Then she began to squat up and down. A look of relief and joy filled her face, and she began to laugh almost incredulously. Then she began to dance. Her knee was completely healed. She did not need to say a word; her face and actions said it all.
She grabbed me in a hug and handed me her bamboo cane. With the step of someone half her age, she took her grandchildren in hand and with a final shukran (“thank you”) disappeared through the gate.
I stood there holding her bamboo stick, watching her leave. It still adorns a corner of my room. It serves as a reminder to me of the supernatural realm that God desires to be interwoven into our everyday goings-on of life. These miracles are not reserved only for a select, anointed few. These are simple miracles of childlike faith that happen in the mud all around us as we learn to live in God’s heart of love.
Soccer Balls from Heaven
“Mama, Mama, Mama, nina deru footballs.” (“We want footballs.”)
“Aye, ana arif itakum deru footballs.” (“Yes, I know you guys want footballs.”)
At that point in time, however, I could not give footballs (soccer balls) to them. It was not that I did not want to give them footballs. We just did not have the money for it. We barely had enough money for food. I did not have the ability to give them this desire of their hearts. But I knew Someone who did!
So we embarked on an evening ritual of sorts. For three weeks my boys came up to me every day asking for footballs. About four in the afternoon a small group headed by one of our older boys would come knocking on my door. “Mama, we want footballs.”
Again I would explain that I could not give them footballs but that I wanted them to have footballs, too. They would smile. I would suggest, “Let’s stop and ask Papa for footballs.” (Papa is my term of endearment for our Father God. He is our Papa in heaven. You might call it my personal, contemporary English version of the Hebrew word Abba.)
“I cannot give them to you right now, but He can.”
So diligently every day, afternoon and evening, a concerted prayer effort for footballs swept the compound. I marveled as I watched God’s hand in motion. There was something much bigger at play than a potential game of football.
Our part of Africa has no postal service or banking infrastructure. If we want to collect our mail or withdraw necessary funds, we must embark upon an eight-hour trip to Uganda over unpaved, often inaccessible roads plagued with regional instabilities. It was time for another trip, and I just hoped that the transfer of funds would be there to greet me. Our family had enough food for three days. It would take me one day to travel, one day to do the business needed and one day to return. I was cutting it close.
I left a friend who was visiting us at the time to oversee the compound in my absence. I waved good-bye as I walked out of the gate to the bus stop in the pre-dawn light. Soon I was bouncing on my way, surrounded by goats and chickens, the only Westerner for miles. As the large metal monster creaked and groaned its way closer to the city where our bank is located, I prayed, “Jesus, please take care of my kids. Please let the money be there.”
Eight hours later we rolled into the dusty border town of Arua that is our nearest contact with the outside fiscal world. I found a room at a local guesthouse and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning I made my way to the bank. My heart sank when I realized the transfer had not arrived yet. We had such a close window of time. Jesus, please do something! I sent word to the compound that I was delayed, and my prayers were echoed back home as food began to dwindle. Even if the money came the next day, it would be another two days before I reached home.
On day three the mamas cooked the last food in the storeroom. We could only wait to see what God would do. A virtual world away from my children, I was completely helpless and could do nothing but pray.
That day the money did come, but I could not get back any sooner than the following evening. Pictures of my children hungry ran through my mind’s eye. Jesus, help.
When I arrived home the following day I was unsure of what I would find. Having not eaten in almost two days, would the children be crying out from hunger? Would the staff be upset? Would the visitors be on the next plane out? I did not know.
I honestly did not expect what I found. I was greeted by beaming faces and excited voices bubbling over to tell me the story of what God had done. I should have known the heart of our Papa in heaven better!
The day before at lunchtime they had cooked and eaten the last food in the house. As dinnertime neared the children began to pray. Not long afterward a truck honked at our gate. At that time our ministry was less than two months old, and no one knew we were there. Yet into our compound pulled a pickup truck filled with USAID food and supplies, and the driver asked for us by name.
Our visiting friend was skeptical at first. She informed them clearly that we had no money with which to pay them.
“No, no, you do not understand. Your compound is on our distribution list. We just need your signature. We have to deliver this food to you.” Amid shouts of joy from our family, the USAID men began to offload basins of beans and rice and sugar. Dinner was served! And it only got better.
One of the men stood on the back of the truck and quieted the cheering crowd. “We heard you had kids here and thought you might have a use for these . . .”
He pulled out a huge sack of—you guessed it—soccer balls. Our kids began to jump, dance and clap, shrieking with delight.
“Wait, wait . . . If you like these,” he said as he held up the soccer balls, “then we thought you might also like these.” With that, he held up a second sack overflowing with soccer jerseys. The squeals of glee might have been heard clear up to Juba!
I arrived home to find my children eating their favorite meal of beans and rice, playing a game of football in the mud and wearing their new soccer jerseys. Indeed there was something much bigger at play!
Jesus was strengthening my faith. He was proving to me that He really would take care of our little family. He was showing us all that He is concerned with not just our basic needs but our deepest heart desires as well. That still undoes me.
Our children have never forgotten how Papa fed them and brought them soccer balls from heaven. Neither have I. In His Kingdom, there is truly more than enough.
Ania Smiles
I have been privileged to witness the blind see and the deaf hear. But honestly some of the greatest miracles I have witnessed are the ones when the hearts of our children are healed by the power of God’s love. The transformation of their little hearts from shattered, traumatized and rejected to loved, restored and cherished is something only heaven could bring to pass.
Ania’s (not her real name) story was a miracle that happened quite literally in the mud. From this little girl I have learned more about God’s extravagant grace and persistent compassion than I have from any other person in my life to date.
Ania came to us at three and a half years old with her two brothers. She was a shadow of a little girl. She refused to play. She would not let anyone touch her. She had radar for the dirtiest, filthiest place on the compound. She would find it, lie down in the dirt and wail for hours.
If someone tried to pick her up, she would scratch, flail and head straight back to the filth as soon as they let her go. Most of the mamas gave up trying and let her lie on the ground and cry. Her cries were especially haunting.
Often I wondered how many times before she had cried like that and no one heard her or came to her. She had the epitome of an orphan spirit. She was sure that no one would love her or want her, and to prove her point she made it as difficult as possible for us.
Papa, what do I do? How do I love her? Immediately a passage from Philippians 2 came to mind:
Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness.
verses 5–7
Jesus came where I am. I must therefore go where Ania is.
So I did. I found her lying in the mud, and I lay down right beside her. I did not touch her or talk to her. I did not look at her, for I knew that would only make her wail louder. I simply lay down with her. She knew I was there. I was just there.
The next day I lay down beside her in the same manner, but this time I put my hand out in view. Nothing seemed to happen. Refusing to be discouraged, I tried again. The next time I found her I again lay down and put out my hand. This time her small hand found its way into mine. Slowly we got up together, only to have that scene repeated over and over again throughout the following weeks.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a miracle was happening in Ania’s heart. She began to realize that she was loved and safe and wanted. She was worth getting dirty for. She was worth looking foolish for. She was worthy of love. She was not alone or abandoned. Her cries no longer echoed unheard in the silence.
I will never forget when I saw Ania smile for the first time. I burst into tears. I could not help it.
Now she is five, and she smiles a lot. She curls up in my lap and loves to help our younger children. The other day she broke up a brewing fight. She plays and laughs and loves to be hugged.
Ania is no longer an orphan. She has come home.
Journeying with her has taught me about the richness of Papa’s grace. He did not tell me to get up out of the dirt of my own pain and shame. He did not ask me to get it all together and then let Him know when I was ready to shape up. No. He lay down in the mud with me. He put out His hand and just waited—for me to see, for me to trust, for me to put my hand in His and for us to stand up together.
I understand Ania. The only difference between us is that while her pain was evident, mine was hidden inside my heart.
God’s love is big. He comes and finds us in the muddy places of our deepest hurts and darkest closets. He loves us so much that He moves heaven and earth to show us His extravagant grace. He loves us so much that He embraces us even in the mud. And He loves us too much to leave us there.
Tourists from Another Realm
God wants His supernatural realm to become our normal, everyday reality. He wants to bring us miracles in the mud. I am sure of that because of how specifically He watches out for our needs—and our desires. Just look at the soccer ball scenario. He always waits to prove Himself real and strong on our behalf. Sometimes, however, I do not have eyes to see what He is doing in the moment. In the middle of caring for children, meeting needs and running a ministry, it can be easy enough to miss.
One morning one of our short-term volunteers and I had a powerful time with Jesus. As we spent time in prayer together, Jesus showed us a warehouse in heaven that is filled with different body parts. Eyeballs were blinking on a shelf. Lungs were inhaling in a corner. Bones were neatly organized in rows.
Yes, I agree, that sounds incredibly strange. It was indeed a tad on the sci-fi side. But since Jesus died and paid the price for our healing, it makes sense that He would have a room in heaven filled with what we need.
A little later that day the volunteer and I decided to go check email. The Internet café was a half-mile trek down a road on which even heavy-duty vehicles went only five miles an hour to keep from flipping.
We were walking on the muddy road and chatting about the things Jesus was showing us when a truck pulled up, seemingly out of nowhere. The whole scenario should have struck me as odd right away, but it did not. In front of us was an old Land Rover–esque delivery-type truck with safari memorabilia fixed to its patchwork rainbow paint job. It was driven by two very white, blond, European-looking men.
“Hi, guys, what organization are you with?” I asked nonchalantly. No one comes to our parts unless they are affiliated with an organization of some sort.
They hesitated and then smiled. “We are . . . well . . . tourists!”
“Wow, tourists? Where are you going?”
“Cameroon and Central African Republic. What do you do here?”
“We have a children’s home. That is our gate over there.” While I talked with them, my friend was peeking in the windows, thinking how strange it was that their truck appeared to be completely empty. She saw no luggage, no water, no food, not even a map! Yet the truck was actually there in the natural. It was there. I leaned on it.
“Which way is Maridi?” they asked. Maridi is a city to our west.
“Go to the end of the road, turn left, then go straight for nine hours. God bless!”
I waved them off in the right direction, and my visiting friend and I kept walking. I looked back over my shoulder not a minute later, and the truck had vanished. Hmmm. That is odd. Oh, well.
“Wow, tourists in Sudan,” I said. “Who would have thought?”
“Michele . . . don’t you think that was a little strange?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I guess so.”
“Try tourists from another realm! You really were entertaining angels unaware. I think they missed the how-to-blend-in-on-earth class!” We wondered about the encounter but then continued with our day, which went on without further angelic incident—and without any million-dollar pledges in my inbox.
Back at home that evening we began our favorite pastime of telling God-stories. With only one, lone, intrepid short-term volunteer and me to oversee our growing Sudanese family and with only one kerosene light, what else were we to do at night?
In the middle of our storytelling session God opened my spiritual eyes to see a myriad of angels step through the walls into the small room. That night I did not see them with my natural eyes. What I saw was with the eyes of my spirit. They were translucent forms superimposed on the room around me. God’s presence began to grow stronger and stronger. Then one angel stepped forward with a huge grin and held out a spinal column.
I needed a spine, too, but I saw that this one was for a person much taller than I. So I looked at my friend and asked, “Honey, you don’t by any chance need a spine, do you?”
Surprised, she replied, “Why, yes, I do. I have battled with scoliosis and am often in pain.”
“Well, I just saw an angel walk into the room carrying one that looks to be about your size. Maybe we should pray.”
I placed my hand on her back and immediately felt as if an electric current magnetized it there. God’s glory came so strongly that she was unable to sit up and slid off the bed to the floor, still with my hand glued to her back. It was not convenient. It was not comfortable. But it was God.
Waves and waves of current flowed down my arm through my hand. As she lay immobilized by God’s presence, I saw the angel place the spine on her back, and it dissolved into place. My hand was stuck to her back for almost four hours. Then she got up and went to bed. I did the same, thinking, Wow, what a day!
The next morning I opened my eyes to see my friend about three inches taller than she had been. “Whoa, check your back!” It was straight, and she had absolutely no pain.
Then it dawned on me. One heavenly visitation to the body parts room the morning before. One angelic encounter with a “delivery” truck on the muddy roadside in the afternoon. One supernatural delivery of a spine! It all went together and made a kind of otherworldly sense. Yet in the moment it felt completely and totally normal. Perhaps that was because it was supposed to be.
On the Road Again
The fact that we must drive across risky territory to a neighboring country in order to get our mail and to handle even basic financial transactions definitely keeps life interesting. The road we travel is frequented by what the United Nations calls OAGs, or Other Armed Groups. It can be especially treacherous after dark.
I was returning with some of our leaders from one such trip in our ancient Land Rover, “Lemonade.” (Remember our experiment in the power of prayer and the efficacy of duct tape?) We had been delayed by road conditions and reached the border of Uganda and Sudan at sundown. We still faced what should have been a five- to six-hour journey on a normal day. But with the impending night and the fact that the road was a mud bog, we were looking at potentially seven to eight hours across volatile territory in the dark. And on this particular trip we were carrying more resources than usual because of several projects in full swing. Help us, Jesus.
A common trick of armed groups here is to park cars across the road simulating an accident, effectively forming a barricade.
When vehicles are forced to slow down, the men jump out with guns loaded.
It was not too long until the faint headlight beam illuminated a line of parked cars across the road. None of them were running. They were not moving but were set in place in the growing muddy mess. Danger was tangible, and we could feel fear try to wrap its suffocating grasp around our hearts.
What does one do in the face of a likely ambush? We decided to try worship. It seemed to work for David.
We all simultaneously broke out into a chorus of praise and began to pray in the Spirit. Just as we were about to switch gears to slow down, the impossible happened before our eyes. It was as if a huge invisible hand came down between the end car and its nearest neighbor, pushing it horizontally out of the way. We drove right through without incident.
After our miracle of protection, we really began to worship and praised God throughout the rest of the trip. Before we knew it we were driving up to the gate of Yei. I thought, Wow, time flies when you are enjoying Jesus!
As our truck bounced its way up to our compound gate a few moments later I wondered, Why are the kids still up and the lights on? Our compound was on generator power for only two hours a day, from 7:00 to 9:00 p.m. I wondered why they all were up so late and the generator was still on. Then I glanced down at my watch. We had started this minimum six-hour journey at 6:00 p.m. It was only 8:15. Our six-hour journey had been completed in less than two and a half hours!
What lesson did I learn from this encounter? Perhaps that God is much bigger and better than I give Him credit. He is better than I believe and kinder than I conceive. He is bigger than armed ambushes, financial meltdowns and broken hearts. Even when the road we travel looks like a quagmire of obstacles, Papa is bigger than them all. We can trust Him even in the middle of the darkest parts of our journey. If need be, He will even reach down from heaven to move the things that try to block us from bringing the reality of His Kingdom into the places of our human impossibilities.
Light of the Father
Our days have settled into a fairly normal routine. Living with us in our house are eighty children who wake in the morning to do chores and eat breakfast. (We care for many more children off compound as well.) Then the older children go off to school. Our younger children up to third grade join about two hundred more “scholars,” as they are called here, from the community in our school on the compound. We call it the Dream School, for we want our children to learn how to dream God’s dreams for them. The afternoons are filled with lunch, homework, playtime and a few more chores. Bath time is followed by dinner and evening worship. Then the children are tucked in and sent off to the land of sweet Jesus dreams with love and hugs. Our day is simply a family dynamic played out on a large scale.
I share this Kingdom adventure with a small army of 23 full-time Sudanese staff, a growing missionary team and a constant stream of visitors. In our muddy, everyday normality of ups and downs and highs and lows, our ministry team has been learning to embrace and expect the supernatural reality of God’s love to transform the mundane with the miraculous. In this place and with this family, Papa speaks to us about carrying His light into the darkness.
I awoke one morning, and Jesus whispered into my heart that He was bringing us a special baby girl soon whose arrival would speak to me of things that were on His heart. I was elated because all my baby girls at that time were rapidly becoming rambunctious toddlers—and because I love knowing more the heart of my Jesus.
A few days later a silent man in worn fatigues came and sat along our bamboo fence waiting for me. Holding a moving bundle, he asked if we could take his infant daughter to live with us.
“I went to the other children’s homes. They would not even look at her. They had no space. I am afraid she might die if no one helps her. You are my last option. Everyone says you will take any child brought to you. You love our people and do not turn anyone away who really needs help.”
I asked what had happened.
“My wife hung herself two nights ago. The pain was too much for her.” Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the grieved face of this father recount the full story. The mother had suffered a complication while giving birth. It took six months and a two-day trek to a special hospital in Congo to get to the root of the problem. By the time they discovered the cause, it was too late. Her uterus was rotting inside of her, and she was told she would die. So she walked 75 miles from the hospital in Congo in excruciating pain to bring her little girl home to a village near Yei, and then she committed suicide. The father was a disabled soldier who had no way to care for his baby. The mother had no living relatives, and her father’s family refused even to see the child. For me to send her away would be to give her a death sentence.
“Of course she can come live with us.” Where we would put her remained to be seen. But if need be, she would sleep with me. He laid her in my arms, and I looked into her small shining face. Yet another promise from heaven.
“What is the baby’s name?” I asked, smiling the goofy grin that always crosses my face when I see a precious baby.
“Noora Aba.” Light of the Father. I was stunned. Here she was. The little girl Jesus told me was coming.
Her eyes looked up and locked with mine. It was uncanny. It was as if she knew her heavenly Papa had brought her home and she was safe. She giggled a quiet little laugh, nestled into my arms and fell asleep as though she belonged there. And she did. She was my personal reminder that in the middle of the darkest of situations, the light of our Father’s love shines brighter still. She was helping me to learn that regardless of the road that leads me to His arms, I am safe in the Father’s love and at home in His heart.
Child’s Play
The night before an outreach in a small village, our kids and I were hanging out after evening prayers just laughing and being silly in our courtyard. Ten-year-old Viola, another of our miracles, grabbed a tree branch from the ground. She turned it into a makeshift microphone and started speaking in her best preacher’s voice. Her imitation was so powerful that I asked her to preach at the outreach the next day.
Amidst her giggles she shyly agreed. “What do I say, Mama?”
“What you just shared was awesome, but whatever Jesus puts on your heart to tell people about His love is what you say.”
So preach she did. The next day we took our team of older children to the village. It was a small crowd—about fifteen people in all. Here are the words from Viola’s first sermon:
Alleluia. We are ready to hear the word of the Lord.
If you are here, Jesus wants to heal you. If you are not here, Jesus still wants to heal you. He will heal the blind and open the ears of the deaf today.
He loves you and wants you to know that stealing is bad and so is poisoning people. Amen.
The crowd was enraptured. They had never seen anything like it. A little girl who had been abandoned stood in authority before them as a daughter of the King of kings, powerfully sharing the reality of God’s Kingdom. Half the crowd came forward to receive Jesus. Several were healed of various infirmities.
As I watched my Viola radiate His presence, I realized once again that shining His light and seeing His love break loose can be as simple as child’s play. Learning to recognize everyday miracles and unexpected encounters just might lead us into a life lived on earth as it is in heaven.
Yes, God desires that His supernatural realm be interwoven into our everyday lives. His miracles are for all of us, everywhere, even in the far reaches of southern Africa in the middle of the mud. All it takes is simple, childlike faith that lives in the heart of God’s love.
Miracles in the mud