African Heartbeat: And A Vulnerable Fool

By Jim Harries

Can a white man thrive living as an African in a village in Africa? Philo’s adventure takes him to the fictional African country of Holima, where he is adopted by an African tribe.
Should Philo follow Western wisdom, and cause problems through generous giving? Or can he convince Western people that a vulnerable approach is the best w

• Language: English
• Publisher: Faithbuilders
• Release date: Jan 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781912120895

Jim Harries

Jim Harries (b. 1964) has a PhD in theology (Birmingham, UK) and degrees in Biblical interpretation, development and agriculture. Following a call to serve God in Africa, Jim has lived in Zambia then Kenya since 1988. Jim's ministry to indigenous churches, which includes bible teaching and relationship building, is engaged using the Luo and Swahili languages. Jim has many published articles related to his work in Africa. Jim chairs the Alliance for Vulnerable Mission. My talk on Vulnerable Mission

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: HOW TO JUMP IN

My name is David Candomble. As I write, I am in the USA for a period during the elections that are going on in Holima. My organization evacuated through fear there might be violence around the time of the election. I am using this period to complete a writing project.

My objective is to relate a story in which I have been closely involved. Our world today is very different to the way it was when this story begins. Amazingly, although this is as yet little known, much that I observed in Africa has contributed to the global state of affairs we have today.

My story revolves around the life of a missionary from the UK who I first met in Zambia. Before going on to the heart of his story, I want to relay something of Philo’s history from his own mouth. I asked him to write a short biography for me in 2016, 18 months ago. This is his account below:

* * *

Even more merry than a graduation party, is a good business deal. Richard and I had just completed our agricultural studies together. We had become good friends since we met at the college in 1983. Richard’s face was long and thin, and black hair, bushy in those days, crowned it. I was always struck by his preferred dress style. It struck me as dated. He dressed like a country gentleman; smart but baggy. Richard was more of one of the lads than was I. But, unlike some, he was not dependent on the approval of a crowd. He could think independently. If the crowd he was in looked like they were going to take him where he did not want to go, he would abandon them. Richard not being interested in being one of the lads perhaps contributed to his being married a few months after completing his studies. Perhaps that same tendency, to want to be more than a pleaser of his peers, is what caused us to be friends?

It was the evening of our graduation party, but since neither of us were drinkers, the partying was less interesting to us. Outside, the sounds of revelry dimmed. We walked. We went past a line of outbuildings into the dairy unit, various pungent smells hitting our noses, reminding us we were at an agricultural college. Leaning on parallel rails, we stood looking at some cows.

It was one of those cool, summer, picture-book nights. A crescent moon was centre piece to a sky full of stars. There was a lot of feel-good factor from having completed undergraduate studies. It was good to be alive, and it was good to be young, and it was good to be successful.

Philo, it’s fool proof, Richard told me.

Fool proof? Yes! I agreed. Life was good. Richard had an excellent business head.

You have to come on board, Richard said. You will make an excellent communicator of this new idea, he added.

One of the cows was restlessly troubling her colleague. She stood. Her neighbour mounted her.

She’s on heat, I said. We need to tell the cowman so that she can be inseminated.

I was at that time very agriculturally in tune! I wanted to complete teacher training, then to take up Richard’s offer. He could wait for a year. I could easily make £100,000 annually, he told me. His idea was a simple one: to preserve grass quality. Cows’ transponders, already used to determine how much they were fed at milking time, would be used to assess grazing density, resulting in the automatic shifting of an electric fence, thus minimizing the trampling of grass, resulting in optimum grazing conditions. This was an entirely new idea. Its details were still shrouded in secrecy. Richard was already successfully marketing it.

It was flattering to be wanted. It felt good to have promising prospects. The position Richard wanted to offer me fitted well with my skills. But I was going to run into a problem.

***

It was some months after my conversation with Richard. I had taken up a course at teacher training college, and found myself struggling with a profound problem. At least, it was a problem in the sense that it would prevent me taking up Richard’s offer. Sure, the promise of business success was enticing, but I could not escape something quite different which was pulling at my heart-strings. I felt the call of God.

No matter how much I might have liked to join Richard in his business, I felt God calling me elsewhere. As a result, in October of that year, I committed myself to spending my life working for the poor in the majority world.

I recall meeting with the chaplain of the teacher training college. Rob, the chaplain of the teacher training college, was an older man. His grey hair was like a picture frame to the bald top to his head. His eyebrows seemed excessively bushy. He was a little too high church for me. His behavior, it seemed to me, contradicted his appearance. From his physical experience, especially given his age, probably approaching sixty, one might have expected someone slow and cumbersome. He was lithe, agile, and refreshingly thoughtful. His voice was gentle, rather than chiding, as one might have expected judging from appearances.

We met mid-morning. The teacher-training college was very urban, not a quiet rural location as had been the agricultural college. I could hear the hum of traffic, apparently from all directions, coming through the window. Footsteps and scraping chairs indicated that a class was beginning below us.

Tell me about your calling, Rob said to me after we had completed the polite conversation at the start of our time together. I felt very privileged to have this audience with him. His office, on the first floor above some of the classrooms in which I was being taught, seemed exactly how one would expect a chaplain’s office to be. The old oak furnishings were a dark brown. More than one cross adorned the walls. One sensed something ancient in the very feel of the room. Rob was wearing his dog collar. All that though did not represent the way I saw myself going. I was breaking new ground. I was going to fulfil Old Testament prophecies perhaps, but in action. Certainly, I was a believer—but that did not mean I would ever have a serious interest in theology. I certainly was not interested in anything that smacked of stuffy churchiness.

I looked at Rob, his head situated, according to my vantage point, alongside the cross behind him. Looking at him and thinking of his career had me reflect on my own anticipated trajectory. I have an ego. Someone sitting quietly ready to listen in a place like that was certain to feed it. I appreciated such an opportunity to talk about myself. I shifted my rear-end trying to make it more comfortable on the flat hard surface that was the chaplain’s office chair. Where to begin?

I was saved at aged twelve, I told him. I loved reading my Bible, especially the New Testament letters, and I was enthralled by the words of Paul. They spoke directly into my life, even at that age.

I loved farming, so I went to agricultural college, I went on. I could have said much more. Like that I used to rear my own chickens and rabbits. How much I had loved working with the shepherd tending sheep. How I had reared orphan lambs on the bottle, and one had been called Tanya! I did not tell him about my family ancestry—of my parents’ upbringing as Anabaptists. Although by the time I was around as a child my parents had very little contact with Anabaptists, the memory and impact of their upbringing very much affected the way we children were brought up. At the same time, my childhood period was filled with their comments on the irrelevancy of the church. To some, Rob’s role was antiquated. Why should we still have chaplains in the secular UK! But then—why was I there with him? Rob smiled. He did not seem to realize that he was antiquated. He seemed very much alive. And he was available to students. I guess he’d heard many sad and happy stories in this office.

I preferred agricultural college to university because I wanted to do real practical farming, I told Rob. "While at agricultural college, I had been an active member of the Christian Union. Our Christian Union would invite speakers. Sometimes they would come from far away. They presented us with a variety of challenges. Many Christians with an agricultural background seemed to have overseas experience, and we had many people come and relate of their experiences beyond British shores. They were people who had been involved with tropical agriculture. That sounded challenging to me.

One particular challenge was left to us, it seemed to me, time and time again. That is, ‘Why not use your agricultural knowledge and skills in poor parts of the world where people are hungry, instead of in Europe where we already have mountains of food?’"

It had once been thought that a direct export of European agricultural methods would be the best to cut the mustard. By this time, one did not have to read very widely to discover that these methods had not worked. A new approach was needed. That was, by trial and error in practice in the majority world, to develop more appropriate means of assisting people to build on their pre-existing agricultural knowledge. I was asking myself; was there a role here for me?

That challenge, to use our agricultural knowledge where it seemed to be really needed, had troubled my mind on and off for a number of years. ‘Did God want me to devote myself to service overseas?’ I would ask myself. I felt far from adequate. Who was I to be given an assignment like that? No—surely such a challenge should be to other more capable people. I was not particularly intelligent—as demonstrated by my A-level grades, having been C, C, E (E was for maths) whereas both my brother and sister were around A, A, B! They might have chosen to go to Oxbridge. I went to agricultural college. I was far less bright than many of my friends, I said to Rob.

Rob listened as I articulated my conundrum. Do what God has called you to do, Rob told me. I could see a glint in Rob’s eye. His position as chaplain was probably not well paid. For all I knew he was a volunteer. I got the impression that he did it for moments like this—when he could be a positive formative influence on young people—especially when he could encourage them to seek God. Rob reminded me of biblical characters who felt the call of God. Paul saw the light on the road to Damascus. He changed his whole life orientation, never again to look back. Paul certainly did not have an easy life. The difficulties he faced never seemed to have him regret or change his mind. Is that what God was asking of me? Peter the apostle, when he was condemned to crucifixion, apparently preferred to be crucified upside down. He did not consider himself worthy of the same death as Christ, his Lord. Moses had led God’s people through thick and thin based on his belief that God had called him. As Rob spoke, more inspiring biblical characters flowed into my mind. I made a mental note that a list of such examples of faith was to be found in Hebrews 11, thinking that I should read through it later. One of my favorites is Gideon, called a mighty hero, just when he was hiding. These were heroes who did incredible things by faith! They were challenging examples. But that was in Bible times, and despite what Rob said, the question still niggled in my heart: did God call people like me in my day?

Let’s go for a cup of tea, Rob suggested. After closing his office door behind us, we walked down an extremely noisy set of stairs, below which was a rustic kitchen. Rob cobbled together two cups of tea, and we sat on stools around a rough wooden table. I didn’t know these kinds of places existed anymore. Rob pointed me to another Scripture: He who saves his life will lose it, but he who loses his life for my sake will save it, he related. That gave me more food for thought. Unexpectedly, like a rush from a forgotten paradise, a memory of Richard flooded my mind! Richard, a top businessman already proving his mettle from reports I was hearing, had a job waiting for me. I was to earn £100,000 annually. Was I ready to lose that? The tea was strong yet tasteless. That may seem to be a strange combination of qualities. It is not so strange for Brits like me who did not know that one could drink tea without milk. I had not yet finished with Rob though. One big question remained in my mind. I wanted someone to whom I could ask that question. This seemed to be just the right moment to do so, whether the cobbled-together tea was good or not.

A lot of people these days like to try out their calling, I said to Rob, the chaplain. Hence they accept a short-term of service. That’s how they find out whether God really called them. I guess that depends on the value of their experience as they perceive it. If they have a good experience, then they’ll go back again and do some more. If they have a bad experience and don’t like it, then they’ll stop. I wanted Rob to help me with this dilemma. But I had more to explain before I gave him a chance to answer.

Doesn’t that mean, though, I asked him, that we are choosing to serve God only if we like it? Is serving God about being fulfilled, contented, and happy or is it about devoting oneself regardless? After all—perhaps God would want one to have had a bad first year. Does the fact that you have a bad experience at the beginning mean that God does not want you in the field? That did seem a crazy logic to me. Are we Christians seeking fun and joy, or are we wanting to be used in sacrificial service?

A vision swam in front of my eyes. I saw myself driving a Range Rover with a beautiful woman sitting beside me, and two children in the back. There was a pamphlet on the dashboard that included a prominent picture of Richard and some business contact information. I was driving to a spacious house at the end of a tree-lined lane surrounded by paddocks grazed by cattle and horses. It was a vision that, the more I talked, I was killing.

I was not yet done. Rob’s eyes widened as he listened. Was it in shock, perplexion or joy; I am not quite sure. He clearly heard testimonies from many students. Widening his eyes might have been no more than his regular strategy for encouraging someone to continue. It worked for me.

I asked, But what if I commit myself to serve for life, and then other people do not accept the legitimacy of my calling? Do I carry on anyway? Or do I stop? Do other people have a veto on how God calls me? If yes, then what is the point in seeking a calling from God? One might as well just try to keep people happy. If no, then do I just go on regardless of any opposition that might arise to what I am doing? In my mind were plentiful examples of biblical characters who are recorded as having met major opposition to their exploits, but who carried on serving God in the way they felt called. Not least Jesus himself. Had the legitimacy of his task been based on his success, would he have been encouraged to continue? What of John Mark? What of Jeremiah whom many people seemed to hate!

Good questions, Rob responded. He was a college chaplain, and probably less accustomed to questions of missionary strategy. He paused. Had he a pipe, I guess he would have puffed on it. Use wisdom, he said simply, but he seemed to be speaking mostly through his eyes.

I had to gasp at myself. What was I letting myself in for? Was this what I wanted out of life? I don’t think I was having any premonitions, but it was a little worrying. The biblical characters, I knew, did not have an easy ride. John Mark was martyred. Jeremiah went through all kinds of misery. Jesus was crucified. What was I letting myself in for? Did we need religious lunatics in modern times? I suspected not.

Yet much thought and prayerful consideration were taking me towards this option. Was God calling me to serve him in the majority world? If he was, then who was I to refuse? If he is calling me—then what should I allow to block the calling? Even marriage. When God called Jonah, would it have been better had he decided to get married, instead of taking a ship to Tarshish? Had his fellow sailors discussed his plight with him, would that have changed things? Had they listened to him, and agreed with him that it was not right for him to go to Nineveh, would that have calmed the stormy sea? Was he not obliged to heed the call that only he had received and only he knew of? For Jonah, the success of his mission eventually made him depressed! What was I letting myself in for? Perhaps a shipwreck.

I reiterated the same question to Rob aloud: What am I letting myself in for? I asked Rob, albeit rhetorically. Rob responded by telling me a little of his own life. He even read the Magnificat to me, pointing out that later Mary would have to watch Jesus being crucified. That’s as much, really, of an answer that Rob gave me. My commitment was my decision, and Rob could not make that decision for me.

I said nothing to Rob about Richard, although thoughts about his proposal lingered deeply in my mind. Sometimes I wished I’d never had such a bright and successful friend as Richard. God’s ways are higher than our ways! God’s ways are not always the most pleasant, but that does not mean that they are not true. Was I ready to go through unpleasantness for God’s sake? A negative answer hardly seemed to demonstrate any faith at all! How could I refuse passing through valleys in order to subsequently reach some hilltops? If I did end up succumbing in a valley—might that not be a part of God’s plan anyway? Are we to avoid suffering or to anticipate it and seek to thrive through it? I reflected wryly on a comment I had heard people make, that Christianity was a crutch. For me it seemed my faith was more like a rocket about to launch me into a great unknown.

For a few days after our conversation, I continued to reflect much on the above issues, (more often than not, between classes, daydreaming during a class, or while walking to and from the campus). A few days later I came to the conclusion that my excuse, that I was too weak and incompetent and therefore the wrong man for the task, just would not do. I wasn’t going to rely on my strength and intelligence anyway. I made up my mind right then and there, and committed myself to lifelong service to God in the majority world (those days known as the Third World), come what may, that was how he was calling me. To me—no other call made any sense. No one else knew at the time that I had made that commitment. It was between God and me. Even Richard was, at this point, still hanging. When I told him a few weeks later, of my decision to become a missionary, he was so shocked that he put the phone down mid-sentence.

CHAPTER 2: MY HERO

Everyone wants to meet their hero, and my hero was Max. Advising Tearfund about rural development, he was the expert I needed to speak to if I was to use my agricultural knowledge to make a difference in the lives of ordinary Africans. Max had an office at Reading University. He had agreed to meet me at lunchtime at a pub near the university.

Tearfund was, to me, a heroic organization. Anyone advising them had to be a giant of a man. That was Max. When, years before, he had accepted our invitation to speak to us at my agricultural college, we were thrilled. Slides were a part of his presentation. One particular slide stuck in my mind. The image was of a light aircraft. Around the aircraft were hordes of mostly poorly-dressed black people, especially children. Max, my hero at that point, stood in the midst of the crowd in the picture. They had no money economy, he told us, but inevitably it was going to come, so we felt no guilt in introducing them to it. There he was in the middle of a jungle or bush area surrounded by people whose way of life seemed to me to be an utter mystery. Then he reflected on as profound a thing as the consequentiality of having a money economy! My mind boggled at his words. How can people not have money, my twenty-three-year-old agricultural brain asked itself? To think that the man standing in front of me had part-responsibility for introducing money to that community of black people was more than incredible.

Max was a few minutes late for lunch. As I waited for him, I felt myself almost quiver with excitement. It was as if nothing could faze this awestruck young man who was about to receive advice from the one who was, on his own reckoning, by far the most qualified to give it.

Max was a little taller than I, slim, greying and modestly dressed. His facial expression, while seeming to be one of empathy, also carried hints that he was not a stranger to difficult relational circumstances. I could, of course, not know the battles that may have worn him down. He survived them, perhaps, as it appeared to me, by bowing his head and grimacing in the light of onslaught.

To me, this made him no less prestigious. Now, this prestigious man, with an office in what to me was a high-ranking institution, a world expert in tropical agriculture (and what could be more exciting?) was taking the time to sit with me for lunch.

Max sat with a gentlemanly composure. Perhaps his mind was like a thousand stallions, racing to give inspiring counsel, but not quite sure how to do it, given my overall ignorance? Or perhaps he had seen enthusiastic young men like myself all too often, and had a standard spiel? I do not know. Sitting at the corner table in the pub might have been an everyday event for Max. It felt, to me, a little like the most important meeting I had ever had, a first step into a great adventure. Of course, it wasn’t actually a first step; but it was one of many steps. In a sense, it was simply a part of an uphill slope into adulthood and into the prospect of responsibility.

Farming had been the love of my life; perhaps that was by default. My father had had no career other than farm working. Why shouldn’t I get infected with the same urge? Farming was a way, perhaps, of setting me apart. My secondary school and A-level college had been in a small town. My fellow students were townies. They weren’t like me. I spent my spare time roaming in forests and wide-open spaces, at times riding around in Land Rovers. It made me feel different but not uncomfortable. I felt a real freedom when I was in the countryside even at an early age. I was set apart; it seems destined to be different! It seems strange to ponder on that now. Especially as I reflect on the importance of the terms set apart in the new way of life for which I had been elected at aged twelve, the life, that is, of a Christian. A Christian is one who, in my understanding, follows Jesus. As he follows Jesus, he is filled by the Holy Spirit. The meaning of holy in that phrase Holy Spirit, is set apart, hence from aged twelve, I had been a follower of Jesus filled by that spirit of set apart.

I had three more conversations with Max in the months leading up to my departure for Africa. Although the very thrill of being with such an important person somewhat compensated for it, I was also disappointed. Max’s gentle, affirming voice perhaps lacked the flesh and bones, the heavy content I was searching for, the kinds of insights that I could take a hold of to make a difference in people’s lives. There was something wishy-washy in what he said, something lacking. I was about to embark on a course that would rock the foundations of the known world! There was something he didn’t seem to be telling me. His story was complete, but in the telling of it, fell flat. The fizz on my glass of lemonade sparkled playfully to the surface, as I meditated on one occasion on the content and underlying presuppositions behind what he said. His eyes were at the same time revealing and concealing something deep. I had by that stage in life not realized how many people went through painful experiences. I think he had been through some of those. Disappointments had moderated his once youthful enthusiasm. He walked with a slight stoop, and he talked with a slight stoop. He was very ready to help, for which I was grateful, but he was not about to reveal all. Certainly, I came away the more intrigued.

Goodbye, and see you again, Philo, he told me as he walked off, the sun sprinkling through the grey streaks in his black hair. He had some confidence in his step even as he stooped. He had made it. I was just a boy.

Max was not connected to my churches, the college I was at, or to the mission who were to provide my ticket to Africa. He had become a personal friend who I had grown to respect. Through Max, I had had an expert introduction. Max played no formal role in my selection, preparation or sending to the field. In effect, I had experienced some pre-field training. This was not entirely confined to meetings with him; I also had a week of residential training with the mission before setting out for Africa. How did pre-field training help me? It helped me to expect more than I was familiar with, might be in my answer to that question. It broadened but did not threaten my pre-understanding. Max seemed to have been careful not to threaten it. This would come later when I was on the field. From the West, from the UK, it is hard to teach someone a world they do not know. Instead of allowing explanations of the foreign to challenge and threaten prior knowledge, people tend to absorb it into what they already understand.

There were some forewarnings in Max’s words. Why was he not more articulate? Why was he not more specific? Why was he not more encouraging regarding what I would go on to do? At the time, though, I could not know much more. Max was the expert, but he did not give me answers. Between the lines, Max seemed to be saying there is much you cannot yet know.

CHAPTER 3: SHARING MY VISION BEFORE LEAVING FOR AFRICA

It was pouring with rain. My windscreen wipers ripped back and forth like the clappers. Torrents of water vanished down both sides of the gradual slope into a partly-blocked drain outside. Searching for a house number was rendered all the more difficult by the rain. I wanted number 54. That was 42. Then I got to 62. Backing the car the wrong way up the street was tricky, but necessary. I ignored the occasional gasps and grunts that emerged from my passenger. I did not have any rear windscreen wipers, and the house number was obscured by a dense bush. Then finally it emerged, 54 it was!

We should wait, John Mix, my passenger, told me. John had been a farmer-cum-gardener all his life. He identified with my own rural orientation. My home church had asked him to be my personal link person. John eventually became like a second father to me. For many, frankly, to be out on the mission field meant to be out of sight, out of mind, but not for John—who had an enormous compassionate heart.

I have never liked waiting. The rain pounded on the roof and flowed down all windows of the now stationary car. Was it worth breaking out of one’s comfort zone? Or was it better to wait in the hope that conditions might improve? I did what seemed the right thing. I respected the advice given me by John. I glanced across. John was twenty-eight years my senior. That put him at aged fifty-two at the time. A father figure already to me even then. His red face and coarse hands gave away his favorite pastimes—farming and gardening. Over the years John occasionally told me that he was learning from my example. I find that hard to believe. John had a massive heart of compassion and care. His whole life was one big exercise of concern for people. Often he cared for the lost—ex-drug addicts, the sick, and so on. I was also to benefit from a constant reaching out of his heart to mine, for well over twenty years. John was to continue to care about me thousands of miles away in Africa, when others seemed to forget.

The rain eased. We rushed to the house door. Well, I would have rushed to the house door, if I had not fumbled and dropped the car key. I banged my head on the car as I searched. There it was. I turned the key in the lock. Kerplunk—the mechanism latched. Stooped as if to dodge raindrops, I dashed to follow John. By the time I got there, Kerry, the lady of the house, stood beside her open door with a wide smile, ushering me into a warm, carpeted space where the house-group meeting was to be held. I was the guest speaker.

I talked. I based my message on Isaiah 58.

⁶ Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? ⁷ Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? ⁸ Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard. ⁹ Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I. If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk, ¹⁰ and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday. ¹¹ The LORD will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail. ¹² Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings. (Isaiah 58:6–12 New International Version (NIV))

I felt that this passage of Isaiah well defined what I was setting out to do. I was to loose … chains … untie … yokes … set [people] free … share … food … provide shelter … clothe [the naked] … [so that] … [God’s] light will break forth like dawn. I was going to spend [myself] on behalf of the hungry, and be a, repairer of broken walls. The fasting spoken of in Isaiah seemed to refer to an excessive religiosity. I was going to be the practical person who brought Isaiah’s predictions to productive fruition!

The critical time in such a meeting is often that when formal discussion has ended. The cakes put on the display table often troubled me; should I eat or not? My rule was—either eat nothing or make a meal of it. Just one biscuit would give me a sweet taste but certainly would not fill me up. Eating too many cakes and biscuits, however, could have people either comment, or look at me wide-eyed. I did ask myself why, when paying someone a visit in their home, one was put into a situation of temptation to gluttony? All too often I failed the test. How could I then possibly stand up to more profound or involved tests? Hence I never wanted to touch alcohol. Were I to do so, how did I know I was not going to get addicted? That night I went for the desserts on the table, and gorged myself. Meanwhile, Your mother must be proud of you, Kerry said. That’s the kind of comment that is difficult to respond to.

Yes, I said, or did I mumble? Was she trying to feed my ego? Was that a real heart-felt conviction? Was it intended merely to encourage me? Should I be drawing on that kind of praise as encouragement, or to refute it? In theory at least, I wasn’t looking for praise of man. Why was I setting out to serve God in Africa? Self-gratification, pride, to make a name, or in humble service? God knows!

One of the older men in the meeting identified with my experience. He had a somewhat bulging stomach, which was evident as he sat. His manner was warm and sincere. He began to lay out his own life-story. It was an impressive story. He had served as a VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas) volunteer, initially in Fiji in the Pacific, and then in Mali. He had met his wife in Mali. Both of them had been committed to further service in Mali. They spent a year after they married at missionary training college. But they never got back to Mali until twenty-nine years later for a two-week holiday! Did he look on himself as a failure?

Do you regret not having gone back to serve in Mali? I asked him.

I love my wife very much, he responded.

His wife, sat resting her hand on a large cushion beside him, chipped in, Once you have children of your own, everything looks different. She must have been a very beautiful woman in her younger years, I thought to myself. Her black hair continued to frame an attractive if slightly aging face.

At that point, I succumbed to the urge to visit the bathroom. Our conversation had reminded me of other people who seemed to live with regret. People that is, who had been at one point or another in their lives strongly committed to long-term missionary service in the majority world. But they had not seen it through. Would I be one of them? I continued to ask myself, as I reached for the towel. Did such people live the rest of their lives regretting? If marriage prevented them from doing mission, did they ever forgive their wives, really? Richard also came to mind at that point. Regret can work both ways, I realized! I might regret not having given myself in service to God. Might I also regret not