The Debris of Drugs and Alcohol: Finding Peace in the Midst of the Broken Pieces: A Mother’s Journey of Overcoming the Mess

By Mimi Kashira Haws

As people, we all struggle with stress, moments of panic, times of confusion, and other times that we feel overwhelmed and we can't sleep. And if it was up to the devil, he would be more than happy to medicate all of us with his fake remedies of alcohol and drugs. He is an opportunist, experienced in using our problems, our vulnerability, our wounding, our pain, our traumatic past experiences to get us where he wants. He is good at offering temporary relief for deeper crises of the soul.

This is my true story of God stepping into my messy, shattered, and broken family life and rescuing me. You see, freedom, according to Satan, is being away from God. I don't think my son had any idea of who the devil was or how cunning he could be. He befriends to destroy, he gives to take away.

As a mother of an adult struggling with addiction, my life was paralyzed. Every breath increased my pain of hopelessness and despair. I felt afraid, alone, and abandoned by God. God seemed distant, absent, silent, and unconcerned. I felt like running, but there was no place to hide. Was God punishing me? Where and how did I go wrong?

Sharing my painful journey was not an easy step. I tried at all costs to hide this painful part of my life. It took years in my classroom of pain for my mind to be unshackled by the Teacher, the Holy Spirit. I no longer need to hide nor be ashamed of my challenges with my prodigal son. Nevertheless, breaking free from shame, stigma, and judgment is a process that took years.

When we only let others see the beautiful parts of our stories, avoiding our broken painful chapters, we mislead people, and perhaps they envy us for what they falsely think are perfect lives. Worse, we misrepresent the power of the good news that reaches down into our broken souls, hearts, and lives to provide peace from our broken pieces.

Dear waiting, praying, and expecting parents of struggling children, I believe God wants to usher you to your own breakthrough, healing, and freedom. You can learn to relinquish your child(ren) to God. Do not lose hope. Have faith. In his time, he will make all things beautiful for us! God wastes nothing, even our pain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888325018

Book preview

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The Debris of Drugs and Alcohol: Finding Peace in the Midst of the Broken Pieces

A MotheraEUR(tm)s Journey of Overcoming the Mess

Mimi Kashira Haws

ISBN 979-8-88832-500-1 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88832-501-8 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Mimi Kashira Haws

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The unexpected and heartbreaking mess of life I've experienced firsthand as a mother has birthed this message I am about to share with you—a message of God stepping into my messy world, binding up my mother's broken heart, finding me in my deep dark hole, liberating me from my cave of fears and anxieties as a mother, offering me a divine gift of inner peace, renewing my strength, giving me a new hope instead of my sorrow, clothing me with a garment of praise instead of a spirit of shame and despair, and sending me out as an instrument of healing and new hope for others all for his glory. I call him Abba Father. I am a woman on a mission for her heavenly Father. God wastes nothing, even our undesirable mess.

—Mimi Kashira Haws

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Introduction

A Little Girl with a Dream—My Story

Chapter 1

My Childhood Faith

Chapter 2

Chosen for Service: My Father's Story

Chapter 3

1996 Chaos: My Leaving Goma

Chapter 4

When God Opens Doors No One Can Shut

Chapter 5

The Crossing to Canada

God Always Finish What He Starts

Chapter 6

Rev. Dr. Charlie Foster: A Hero Story

Chapter 7

A Rescue Mission in Kinshasa—Dr. Alison Froese's Story

Chapter 8

Ministry, Working for Jesus, When God Calls the Unqualified, and How I Joined Ministry

A Thief in the Family

Introduction

Chapter 1

My Son's Background Story

Chapter 2

My Dream—A Warning I Didn't Understand

Chapter 3

When the Thief Sent a Friend Request

How It All Started

Chapter 4

Attack on the Mind, the Seed of Deception

Chapter 5

Destruction of Relationships

Chapter 6

Destruction of Finances

Chapter 7

Destruction of Health

Chapter 8

Destruction of Identity, Dignity, and Purpose

Challenged But Not Destroyed: A Mother's Painful Journey

Introduction

Chapter 1

Crossing Over: The Power of Letting Go

Conclusion

About the Author

The unexpected and heartbreaking mess of life I've experienced firsthand as a mother has birthed this message I am about to share with you—a message of God stepping into my messy world, binding up my mother's broken heart, finding me in my deep dark hole, liberating me from my cave of fears and anxieties as a mother, offering me a divine gift of inner peace, renewing my strength, giving me a new hope instead of my sorrow, clothing me with a garment of praise instead of a spirit of shame and despair, and sending me out as an instrument of healing and new hope for others all for his glory. I call him Abba Father. I am a woman on a mission for her heavenly Father. God wastes nothing, even our undesirable mess.

—Mimi Kashira Haws

Foreword

A year ago, I didn't know Mimi; and now I feel I know her more than I imagined possible in such a short time. When we were introduced by email through a mutual friend, Mimi asked me to give a first edit to her manuscript for this book. After many years as a freelancer copy editor, I undertook the task simply as an assignment. I could not have guessed how much Mimi's story would draw me in and imprint on my heart. I met the real Mimi through the pages of this book, just as you will.

In Mimi's engaging journey, there is much adventure. She lived through the Rwandan genocide, then had a front row seat to a violent uprising in her native Congo. From escaping on foot through the jungle to fleeing her country as a wanted woman to settling in Canada as a refugee, in telling her story, she has poured out her heart in raw detail, vividly describing experiences most of us will never know. When Mimi shares about the agonizing challenges she faced when her son descended into drug and alcohol addiction, she hasn't tried to gloss over her weaknesses or limitations as a mother. Yet the pages of this book chronicle many life-changing steps as Mimi has grown by leaps and bounds in her relationship with God and her understanding of his kingdom.

Mimi addressed her writing to a specific group of readers: mothers who are waiting for their own prodigal children to turn back from addiction. But this book will stir, inspire, and challenge anyone else who reads it! Mimi has written a powerful testimony of faith, of failure and redemption, and of a miracle-working God breaking through and changing situations.

You'll really enjoy getting to know Mimi. She has truly found peace from her broken pieces.

—Jane Banyard

Acknowledgments

Thank you to all my family, faithful friends, and ministry supporters.

Dear friends, I would like to take this time to express a heartfelt thank-you to all of you for being part of my life in many various ways. You know who you are. Thank you. Some of you with your prayers, friendships, fellowship, financial support in ministry here in Kingston helped my people (widows, orphans) back in the Democratic Republic of the Congo with cheers, godly counsel, listening ears, food, visits, and phone calls. Thank you, and again, thank you. I would like to specifically thank Jennifer and Phil Wilson for their generous financial contribution to help with the cost of the production (first copyediting) of this book as well as Jane Banyard for walking the first step of copyediting with me. Thank you.

I never would have imagined writing a book from my painful story without encouragement, guidance, and incredible support from Matt Hawksley, the CEO and founder of Ledogo. Matt is an entrepreneurial leadership coach who happened to have a special and compassionate heart for my son Jonathan. Matt was introduced to my son through our common friend Justin Mosbey, a Queen's graduate from Kenya. Matt committed his time, free of charge, to helping both my son and me. While he was helping my son with free professional counseling, Matt became aware of how our story can help others. Together, we worked on the outlines for the production of this book. With our weekly video conferences for professional, very-needed feedback and guidance, Matt was very encouraging and played a huge role in the making of this book. I never would have been able to get to the end of my writing without his cheers, feedback, and professional guidance. I hope you know how grateful I am for the important role you played in this undertaking. Thanks to friend Justin Mosbey for introducing us to you. I believe this was all part of God's bigger plan.

I would like to thank all my family members—all those who supported me, prayed for me, encouraged me, especially my sisters Maombi Kashira and Christine Kashira and brother Benjamin Kashira for their cheers during my times of need, defeats, and hopelessness.

I'd like to thank my dear husband, Paul Haws, and his family for holding me in prayer during this process and cheering me up and encouraging me to share my journey with the world in writing, particularly the times when I felt like quitting altogether.

I'd like to thank the Lord my God for refilling my strength on the journey. Like the Psalmist I can echo, If the Lord had not been on our side when men attacked us, when their anger flared against us, then they would have swallowed us alive, then the floods would have engulfed us, then the torrent would have overwhelmed us, then the raging waters would have swept us away (Psalm 124:2–4 BSB).

Introduction

When my son was only fifteen years old, he started acting out. His behavior and attitude began to take a different shape and direction, and I sensed he was not doing well. With each day and year that went by, we slowly lost our sense of mother-son fellowship as well as the constructive discussion and communication between us. Our relationship became increasingly strained, and before I knew it, we had become almost estranged from each other. My sweet, polite son who I used to call Cheri (meaning honey) as a little boy—who was raised in the church as a Sunday schoolkid and disciplined growing up, excelled in academic achievements, was well organized and clean—now seemed determined to push all the standards and boundaries to their limits. My mother's intuition told me something had gone terribly wrong with him, but I just didn't know what. I had a terrible feeling as I watched his poor choices of friendships, and I could see he was going down a rebellious path.

Unprepared for the challenges, the single mother in me felt angry, betrayed, hopeless, frustrated, and helpless. I didn't know what was hitting us, and I was not equipped to know how to respond either. As our relationship quickly deteriorated, bitterness, resentment, and loss of trust also found their way into our home. I had just found out he was smoking marijuana when he ended up in the psych ward at the Kingston General Hospital (KGH) with his first episode of psychosis.

As I visited him at the hospital, he said, I am an addict, Mom. You just didn't know about it. I love my marijuana, and I will never quit smoking. Live with it. I am an addict! Then he laughed.

My mother's heart sank. I was frantic.

As I will describe later in this book, when life handed me these painful events that caught me off guard, I found myself in a club I'd never signed up for: the Club of the Crying Mothers. Compassionately, God used these unfortunate events as stepping stones to promote me into a level of spiritual maturity I never thought possible, and through it, he shaped my understanding of who he is, making me a new person. The person who is writing to you now is not the same person I used to be, before this agonizing journey with my son. My graduation from this classroom came with a high price as I will describe in the book. It's called pain. Excruciating pain. Agonizing pain.

You see, as people, we all struggle—some more than others. All families have their joys and celebrations as they have troubles and challenges, some struggles, some pain, some experiences that make them want to cry, hide, or give up hope. This is part of being members of a fallen humanity. What makes the difference in our struggles—what determines whether we make it through and survive or go down to the abyss—is how we handle, how we respond to these challenging life circumstances.

As a mother, I realized that the idea of the perfect happy family I had imagined when I first came to Canada as a refugee existed only in my own imagination, based on Hollywood movies and the soap operas I was watching on TV back then. The reality of my own life told me a different story. As I struggled with addiction in the family, I spent years trying to hide my pain—denying, pretending, putting on my faith mask, and hoping the pain would go away.

I want to share my life journey with mothers who are feeling as if all hell has been set loose against them; mothers who are feeling defeated in the battle over their children; mothers whose pain feels like a rock thrown into their souls as they experience one test after another.

I want to speak to mothers who have been bringing their broken hearts before God for days, months, even years, and yet feeling as if God has been unconcerned, uncaring, unresponsive, uncompassionate. Mothers who are wondering if there is a God who is rejoicing to see them suffer after all. Where is he when life hurts so bad? Mothers who are waking up each morning, fearing what the day will bring, wondering why this is happening to their children or to them. Why their children? Why their families? Mothers who are wondering why they can't have a break or a happy life like everyone else out there. Mothers living in pain that no one sees.

I want to speak to heart-sisters who have been praying for a breakthrough—a jailbreak for their children or family members—pouring out their hearts before the Lord, yet it seems as if nothing is changing or it is actually going from bad to worse, and nothing seems to make sense at all. Heart-sisters who are in a season of life, feeling helpless and betrayed by God, seeing their life dreams shattered, experiencing their worst fear coming true as they witness their children heading in wrong directions, joining the clubs of the ungodly, scoffers and mockers of God; trying unsuccessfully to stop what looks like a high-speed train heading straight for derailment.

I am sharing my life story with the many loving, imperfect, well-intentioned mothers who have tried all the loving, encouraging, praying, fasting, supporting, different tricks and methods—even enabling, bribing, ultimatums—until they have run out of ideas, yet nothing seems to work. If you are one of these dear heart-sisters, then I want to share my life journey with you. Let's hope together as mothers and parents. There is hope, not because our circumstances change but because when God steps in, we are changed through and by our adversity and those out-of-control circumstances. We are made alive in Christ anew—we receive a supernatural gift of strength, courage, resilience, and life's purpose through adversities. Cheer up, mothers, heart-sisters! There is hope for you and me. Praise be to our God!

I want you to know that my story is not yet a testimony about how God has rescued my son from addiction, even though that has been one of my deepest mother-cries before the Lord year after year. My son is still doing his own things as I write. This story, though, is about how God delivered me as a mother, showed me mercy, and changed me through my struggles with my son. This story is about how I experienced God the Father's love as a mother when everything around me was crashing. I experienced his loyalty, his presence, his compassion, his forgiveness, his healing, his goodness, his promise of restoration, his hope, and his inner peace. My story is about how God renewed my strength and stretched my faith while I was in his waiting room.

It took years in my classroom of pain and affliction, as I call it throughout this writing—my deep dark hole, God's waiting room—for my mind to finally be unshackled by the Teacher, the Holy Spirit. Christ in me, the hope of glory! I don't need to hide anymore nor to be ashamed of my challenges with my son. Yet breaking through many barriers—of shame, stigma, judgment—and letting go of the unhealthy habits I'd developed from years of pain was a process that took years as well, as described in this book. By sharing my life journey with you, I am embracing the gift of freedom that set me free and brought me inner peace. I am a mother of a still-struggling son, yet a mother who has found freedom, hope, and peace in Christ and has been released into a journey of soaring above her storms, just like an eagle.

I would have never claimed nor won the title of the Mother of the Year. I was an imperfect mother who deeply and wholeheartedly loved her son and did the best I could with the tools I had to raise him with a loving heart and to train him in the ways of the Lord (Proverbs 22:6). I was an ignorant mother when it came to parenting. You see, being a mother and knowing how to be a parent are two different things. I was naïve, ignorant, untrained in many ways, in a new country as a twenty-nine-year-old single mother, and found myself responsible for two boys from the Congo (my ten-year-old biological son and a six-year-old adopted nephew to whom I was a mother). I also had no background, training, nor any awareness of the challenges of parenting between two completely different cultures (Congo and Canada). That by itself was a recipe for a parenting disaster!

We were a family in ministry. Yet it took me many years as a follower of Jesus to grasp that faith that isn't tested cannot be trusted. Since our struggle with addiction was mostly kept as a family secret. It took a long time for me to realize that I was not the only mother on the planet who was clinging so hard for dear life on this battleground against addiction, with mental illness included in its package. It took time for me to realize that addiction does not discriminate. I was not aware of its ravages in our Canadian society, in families, communities, schools, churches, workplaces, almost everywhere—the rich among us, the middle class, and the poor alike; educated and unschooled families alike; single parent families and families with moms and dads alike; all ethnicities and backgrounds; people of all religions or no religions. This monster of addiction breaks through the doors of famous and no-names, clergy, and atheists—all people.

Back in the Congo, the whole family—parents, in-laws, uncles, aunties, brothers and sisters, even neighbors at times—are involved in the raising up of each child. Here in Canada, I was all alone, the sole breadwinner as a single mother, trying to make life work, making sure bills were paid and putting food on the table. Parenting the way I understand it now—the hard work and sacrifice that it involves—didn't seem to make it to my priority list back then. As well, there were various challenges of raising boys I was not aware of, many red flags and warning signs that didn't catch my attention. There were many things about being a boy that the mother in me didn't understand. I was limited in my parenting skills and awareness. Yet, with all that, I guess I naïvely still hoped to produce perfect and successful children, according to what I perceived as success. All of these combined put me on shaky ground.

Just as coronavirus affects and infects those who come in contact with it, I was affected and infected by the addiction that entered our home. I, too, became an addict, just in a different way than my son. It took years for me to respond to Jesus's invitation to turn from my addictive way of thinking and doing, to begin to renew my mind through His Word, empowering me to spread my wings and soar above my storms into the freedom Father God has already provided for crying mothers like myself. I call it the crossing over. I realized that crying mothers don't have to face a fierce storm alone: peace in the midst of our storms is possible with God! God gives us abilities and empowers us to rise above it.

When this thief of addiction finds its way into one's soul, he steals the most valuable treasures—love for God, the purpose, identity, giftedness, health, finances, relationships, sense of responsibility, and the most precious treasure which is peace.

In brief, the God of the Bible, my heavenly Father, wastes absolutely nothing; our pain, our out-of-control life events, our tragedies, our tears, our struggles, our trials, our hardships, our brokenness, our shame—nothing. In the midst of a raging storm, and fierce missiles of the enemy, I can testify that God is a miracle worker, debris remover, shield provider, soul's healer, fear extinguisher, hope restorer, faith renewer, strength refiller, shame remover, sleep provider, peace giver.

As you read my story, I'd like you to know that I love my son. I want to be clear about this: my sweet boy is dear to my heart to this day. I never had hatred or resentment in my heart about him. I hate the devil who broke into our house uninvited and stole from us. This book is not about how God rescued my son. My son still struggling with addiction, even as I write. This book is about how God changed me, the mother, through the painful journey with my son.

This book is about how God inspired, out of my mess, this message of peace with God that I am about to share with the world—how he turned my many years of being tested into testimonies of his promised presence, as I would describe in this book. This book is about the birth of my greatest ministry as the result of overcoming the mess and years of misery.

My hope and prayer in writing my life journey is that mothers and parents like me will be inspired by Mimi's 7 Life Principles extracted from the mess and struggles that I detail in this book, so you can find peace in your own journeys. This real peace originates from having peace with God, peace with yourself, and peace with the painful circumstances over which you have no control. I trust him as he uses my painful journey as a platform for my life calling and my soaring, just like an eagle (Isaiah 40:31).

Part 1

A Little Girl with a Dream—My Story

Chapter 1

My Childhood Faith

I was born and raised in a Christian family in the town of Goma in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DR Congo) at the border with Rwanda. In their own terminology, Canadians would have described my family as deeply religious. I have ten siblings—brothers and sisters. I am the youngest of the four girls in the family, followed by two younger brothers. My upbringing and values were rooted in the Bible. My father played a huge role in my own life as my pastor, my spiritual mentor, and also my friend. I would have not made it this far without both my father and my mother.

My father was a man of great faith—a charismatic church leader who was known as a peacemaker and a bridge-builder in a region of churches and communities that were ethnically and tribally divided and constantly at war with each other. With the help of Swedish missionaries, he pioneered the first Pentecostal church in our hometown of Goma, eastern DR Congo, as well as in many other areas in North Kivu Province and beyond. When he passed away to meet his beautiful Savior in April of 2003, people of various ethnic backgrounds who came to his funeral called him love without borders. For many people in Goma, his name, Kashira, meant love, unshakable faith, compassion, hospitality, kindness, inspiring generosity, vision, and servant leadership. His life was an incredible witness of Jesus in our city and beyond and is to this day.

Growing up in my father's house, life was always busy with hospitality ministry. Welcoming and feeding people every single day was part of our life. Our seven-bedroom house was built by a Swedish missionary—a Jesus-lover and volunteer named Stig Jacobson (who I got the chance to meet in person during my visit to Sweden in the summer of 2015). This house was run like a coffee house. When it came to serving coffee, my father's house would have won a competition over Tim Hortons here in Canada! Church people and non-church people, friends, and strangers would stop there on their way to work, and they would be served a free morning coffee, to their delight. The dining room table was oftentimes squeezed to fit up to fifteen people.

There were various full-time helpers in the house; the job of one of them, who lived with us, was to prepare and serve tea and coffee to the guests. Every person who showed up was welcomed at the table and left the house satisfied with a smile and a word of Thank you, Pastor. I later realized that for my father, it was not really about serving coffee; rather, it was about living missionally in an intentional way as a witness for the Lord in our community, making people feel welcomed, served, loved and cared for so that Jesus would be honored and glorified. It was never about coffee. It was all about Jesus.

People in Goma knew my father as Pastor Kashira. To taxi drivers, policemen, street vendors, street kids, he was Pastor Kashira. Oftentimes, taxi drivers inside their yellow taxis would drop off passengers to our house who were not even connected to us, for the simple reason that they were looking for a pastor or others they couldn't find. When these strangers unintentionally landed into our home, they were always welcomed as if they were our own guests. After serving them some tea or our famous coffee, my father would then help them find appropriate addresses. Financial limitations meant his hospitality ministry often involved simple cups of black coffee, served with love and a heart desire to connect with people. Nothing special. Just like running a bed and breakfast business, my father also took in a variety of out-of-town visitors—travelers from other African countries, European missionaries and tourists, and even visitors from Japan.

I will always remember a Japanese tourist called Takeshi. He found himself stranded in this completely foreign land with no money and nowhere to go after losing his suitcase. I can't recall how my father found him, but he brought him home. Takeshi seemed anxious and fearful as he first entered the house full of Black strangers. Since welcoming strangers was part of our daily routine, we made sure our fearful guest felt safe. Before too long, he seemed comfortable and relaxed among friends. He stayed with us for almost two weeks!

This was my very first time meeting anyone from Japan. Some friends in our community accompanied Takeshi as he climbed the famous Mount Nyiragongo volcano, one of the main reasons for his visit to Goma. When it was time for him to leave, my father arranged some paperwork with the government officials so he could safely leave the country. A friend of ours, a businessman named Richard Mulegwa, gave him a ride all the way from Goma, DR Congo, to Kampala/Uganda. We lost touch with Takeshi since, but I believe he is living somewhere in Japan.

Another memory is of a British tourist. I have forgotten his name (it was hard for us to pronounce), yet just like Takeshi, he too landed at my father's house. He was a Christian singer traveling with his guitar for a mission tour in our part of the world. He truly landed at the right place with us! My father's house was filled with praying, singing, playing guitars, and drinking coffee. It seemed more of a coffee house or a Christian drop-in center.

I remember some of the songs the British singer taught us and how joyfully we sang them together as a family during our prayer time. Songs like Cast Your Burden unto Jesus. Others were Sing Hallelujah and Blessed Be the Name of the Lord (A Strong Tower). Years later, when I heard these songs in the church in Canada, they almost brought me to tears with memories of good old days with my family. I also realized how terrible our English was back then when we sang those songs. I guess it was all for the glory of the Lord!

In my father's house, we didn't have to know people in order to open our doors to them. There were no questions asked like, Who are you? Do we know you? Do we like you? Are you one of us? Where are you from? What is your tribe? Or even, Is there enough space in the house? Is there enough food for a big crowd? Absolutely nothing along those lines. There were no huddles, no cliques either. You come, you're in.

There was always enough food and enough space for us and for people, whether they were our guests, our friends, our relatives, or strangers. That's how my parents lived their faith in our community, and that became a normal way of life for us as a family. Oftentimes, our parents would ask us children to give up our beds for strangers, and with no questions, no grumbling, no tantrums, no screaming, we would move out of our bedrooms and sleep on the floor or on a red Persian carpet in my father's bedroom or we would share beds. By the time I was growing up, some of my older siblings had already moved out of the house—had married or gone to university. I can imagine their joy moving out!

Years later, as a grown-up resident of Canada, I decided to take a vacation and embarked on a journey to Cyprus to visit one of my younger brothers, Jonathan. I needed some time off, some rest away from my busy life with people, I thought. I learned later that this trip was the wrong idea! Arriving at his home in Cyprus was like landing into my father's house once again. All the African refugees and immigrants in Larnaka, Cyprus, where he lived were meeting at his place. Food was served nonstop. The house was opened like a refugee drop-in center. They even called him Pastor Kashira.

A couple of years later I visited this same brother in France, where he is now living with his wife and five children. Again, unexpected guests came for a vacation at his house while I was there. So I took off to Sweden and left him with his guests. It seems like all my siblings' houses are always filled with visitors. This is our story!

My father's faith was a radical faith. He trusted God in everything. As I've said, we always shared our food with strangers. I watched as my father shared everything he possessed with people—widows, orphans, strangers, church members, neighbors—for the glory of Jesus. However, the more he gave away, the more he also received from people; that's the kingdom principle. We survived through the generosity of people around us. Looking back with more mature spiritual understanding, it seems like our five loaves and two fish never ran out. And the few occasions that we did run out of food, God always sent someone to provide for us, just when we needed it the most. My father was generous—incredibly generous.

My sister Christine, who is two years older than I, was my friend and my playmate. We went to Sunday school together. I remember our first Sunday school teacher, Marianne Holmstrom, who was a beautiful young missionary from Sweden. She loved children and taught that Jesus loves children. There were dozens of us in her Sunday school, and when Marianne scheduled candy distribution, there were even more of us! We were Marianne's kids. In Swahili, we sang songs like Jesus Loves the Little Children.

On Monday afternoons, we would go to her house to play, and it was always delightful. We loved the swings in her compound. When Marianne left Goma to return to Sweden after many years of service to the Lord as a Sunday school teacher, we were very sad. To this day, there are hundreds of us—Marianne's kids—whose early faith was influenced by her Sunday school ministry. Many of us have become missionaries in other nations around the world.

A few years ago, around 2009, we welcomed a young Swedish couple into our International Students' Bible Study here in Canada. The husband, Johannes, had come to do some research at Queen's University for a semester, and Ulrika, his wife, made up his support team. I felt connected with this couple and their deep love for Jesus. As Swedes, they also reminded me of my childhood. I shared with them about the Swedish missionary named Marianne who had so influenced my childhood faith in my home town of Goma. To my amazement, my new friend Ulrika replied that the same Marianne Holmstrom was also her Sunday school teacher in Sweden! It happened that Marianne's ministry to children influenced both Ulrika and me as well as hundreds of other children throughout the years, both in Sweden and Democratic Republic of Congo.

As I write, Marianne is in her nineties, still living in Goteborg, Sweden, and still in ministry as a Sunday school teacher in her old age. When I visited Sweden in 2015, I talked to Marianne over the phone when she was just coming back from a kids' summer camp and feeling a bit sick. I thanked her for her faithful ministry to us as kids. Her memory was sharp: she remembered me and my siblings as well as all her time in Goma.

Only one life, 'twill soon be past,

Only what's done for Christ will last.

—C. T. Studd

As a teenager, I was not a Bible reader nor did I understand the power of prayer back then. Like many in my church, my Christianity didn't involve intentional reading, meditating, or studying of the Word. I was a pastor's kid with no understanding of the difference between attending church on Sundays (since it was mandatory anyway) and having a deeper relationship with Jesus. I picked up my Bible when attending Sunday church services, prayer meetings, or youth group, and put it back in the corner as soon as I got back home, not to touch it again until the next time.

We didn't have access to libraries as we have here in Canada, though somehow I always had a passion for books. I was very much interested in geography and world history, like the times of Napoleon, the French Revolution, and stories of ancient empires. I enjoyed reading comics and children's books like Tintin in Congo, about colonialism, written to make you laugh. However, there were also booklets at our church's library that I enjoyed reading. They were called "Yanipasa Nifanye Nini Nipate Kuokoka? that translates to What Should I Do to Receive Salvation?" There were different themes and topics, printed in different colors, mostly blue and red, I remember. Through reading these booklets, I got connected to scripture, and one of them was imprinted by the Holy Spirit into my heart to this day:

The message of the cross is foolish to those who are headed for destruction! But we who are being saved know it is the very power of God. As the Scriptures say, I will destroy the wisdom of the wise and discard the intelligence of the intelligent. (1 Corinthians 1:18–19 NLT)

I didn't grasp the meaning, but I remember feeling different inside every time I recited this scripture to myself in Swahili as I connected the message of salvation to the power of God.

In Marianne's Sunday school, one of the things we did was to memorize and recite scripture. While John 3:16 was on the top of the list, for me, 1 Corinthians 1:18–19 summed up the whole Bible. And every time I mentioned the power of God, I raised the volume of my voice.

In Lycee Chem Chem, the VIP Catholic girls' schools I attended for grades 7 and 8, I remember the unkind, ungenerous, inhospitable Belgian nuns. One of them in particular was my French and Catechism teacher. She always called my sister and me Les filles du Pasteur, meaning Pastor's daughters. This was her harsh way to let other girls know that we were not Catholics, therefore to look down on us, shame us, and ridicule us in front of other girls at school.

In grade 8, this same Belgian nun had selected special gifts for girls who successfully passed her Catechism quiz. As a pastor's kid and growing up in Sunday school, reading the Bible in my father's house, I had become more familiar with Bible stories than most of the Catholic girls in our school who had never seen nor read a Bible before. I successfully passed her Catechism quiz in front of everyone. She had no choice but to give me the gifts assigned to the best Catechism students. She was upset, furious with my classmates that her gifts would be awarded to la fille du Pasteur (the pastor's daughter). In front of the whole class, she angrily accused me of stealing the gifts that were not supposed to be for me. This is an example of the mood and animosity between Protestants and Catholics back then. Thankfully, that has now changed.

In secret, all the girls in her class had nicknamed her Sister Pum. Pum was the name of a cat in one of our French textbooks, a story about a cat that called himself, I am Pum, Pum, the devil and the story goes on. So we called this nun (secretly, of course) Sister Pum to identify her with the devil. She was a bully, unkind, and unloving, even to Catholic girls. Often angry and unhappy, she has been remembered as Sister Pum. Though she was the best French teacher anyone could have dreamed of, it was such a relief to get away from her. How sad!

It was only years later I could appreciate how blessed I was to grow up under the leadership of a father who knew scripture the way he did and who appreciated God and life as he did. A man whose needs were met and satisfied in his relationship with His Savior, Jesus, he always had enough, and when he needed a refill, he turned to God for more supply and provisions through prayer. He lived a dignified life. He never let himself be distracted by life events around him. Looking back, I realize what great riches my father possessed.

However, as I look back, I also want to recognize that I grew up in a context where Christianity in general is wide like an ocean, yet one meter deep—a shallow Christianity filled with Bible-ignorant Christians like I was for various reasons. First, because of illiteracy, many people didn't know how to read, and of those who did, many didn't own a Bible. Nowadays, with access to online Bibles and commentary in many languages, things have changed. Back then, there were too many new converts to Christianity from a pagan culture, left without discipleship due to lack of disciples.

Life even for Christians and new converts alike was more about daily struggle for survival, how to get daily food, clothing, shelter, school fees, and so on. There were no small groups of Bible studies that allowed people to grow in their knowledge of the Word. Only now I realize the challenge this lack of knowledge of scripture by the majority of church members must have presented in my father's ministry. It is clear that discipleship was needed and still is to this day.

Our family dinner was scheduled for 7:00 p.m. It was noisy, and the table was packed with people. There were stories and laughs around the dining table. Most of the time, Dad joined our conversations with a great sense of humor, and that was special for us as kids. We felt safe when Dad was around. I remember how anxious I was about the number of people versus the quantity of food. We, the little ones, oftentimes felt victimized by the older siblings and the strangers who knew how to eat faster than us. For this reason, Mother and Dad made sure we were served accordingly and compassionately.

Mondays to Saturdays, we were expected to attend morning prayers called kijiji from six to seven, and on Sundays, we attended church services from nine to twelve noon at the earliest (often it went on till one o'clock or later) This was nonnegotiable.

My father was the maker of the law as well as the enforcement officer in the house: he knew how to apply tough love. Around him, there was a sense of order and discipline. All he had to do was look straight in your eyes, and that was enough for you to get the message that spelled behave. Though spanking was commonly used by parents for discipline, my father was not a spanker. Mother was always the person we would go to for comfort. She was such a gentle, sweet-hearted mother that it was very easy to take advantage of her graceful nature and kindness. Though she was generous in heart, when it came to discipline, we needed our father to restore order. They complemented each other.

Daily, after dinner, Dad led our family Bible devotions and prayer time. Each person was given a chance to share about their day and a prayer request, if any, and then we would go down onto our knees to pray. Oftentimes, Mom prayed long prayers, and with the kneeling position, this was a prime opportunity to fall asleep.

My parents relied on God for their daily provisions: they had no bank accounts to lean on, no budget to follow, no income to count on, except for my dad's $50 monthly support from the church. Looking back, I believe they wanted to invite us into their secret relationship with God as the source of provision for their daily needs. I didn't understand back then about the significance of God's Word and the power of prayer in a believer's life.

My father was a man with God-given wisdom that could never be earned from university. He knew the Bible from the heart and lived it. He worked well with others as a team. He was humble and spoke with wisdom and compassion. He identified with the poor, the lowly and the needy, the widows and orphans, the prisoners, and the sick. I was not abused as a child. My family was filled with love, laughs, and jokes. We were a family with our own struggles and many challenges, like everyone, but we were a family with values anchored in God's Word and biblical principles. Under my father's leadership, friends and strangers were included as part of our family. We were far from perfect as a family, yet we were God's people, a dynasty of sinners saved by grace through faith, Jesus-lovers and worshippers. To truly understand my story, as I will describe in this book, one needs to have a glimpse of my childhood faith and upbringing.

Chapter 2

Chosen for Service: My Father's Story

My father's entire story could fill volumes. As a Spirit-filled Bible reader and student of scripture, he had a small desk where he sat for his Bible reading beside his double bed. I can still picture his one and only Swahili Bible, which was falling apart. He woke up daily to pray so that by five thirty when the rooster crowed, he was already taking his morning cup of coffee and ready to head out for congregational morning prayer. The name of the prayer gathering was kijiji, a Swahili word for meeting place. He intentionally surrendered his life to align with the authority of scripture. His relationship with the Lord was personal, real, and deep.

He was called into ministry when he encountered an angel of the Lord in a vision. In it, he saw himself walking on the way home from work when all of a sudden, someone called his name, Kashira! As he looked to see who was calling, in front of him was an intense light and a person so bright he couldn't make eye contact. My father fainted. But the angel called his name again and said, Kashira, don't be afraid! I am here on an assignment with two gifts for you. You have to choose one of them, and it will be given to you. In the vision, the angel held a brand-new Bible in the right hand and brand-new bills of cash in the left hand as he asked my father to choose.

With no hesitation, my father picked the Bible, and the angel of the Lord said to him, So be it, as you have chosen. My father woke up from his vision.

Years later, we children wondered what would have happened if my father had picked cash instead. Would we be a wealthy family? I believe from Scripture that God is generous and that at times, he gives money to certain people with the purpose of them using it to serve him.

In his vision, my father was not coerced, forced, nor threatened by the angel to choose the Bible; he was given the freedom of his will to choose either the Bible in the right hand or the brand-new bills in the left hand. My father's commissioning into ministry was done by an angel in a vision.

Life with my father is a true testimony to God's power at work and his desire to be understood, not through academic minds and/or knowledge so that no one can boast, but to be revealed to everyone who is seeking to know him through his Word by the power of the Holy Spirit. This is my father's true story. Buckle your seat belt as you read.

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born, I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations (Jeremiah 1:5 NIV).

My father and his older brother, Abeli, were born into one of the poorest families in the remote jungle village of Mutakato, in the territory of Walikale, North Kivu province, Democratic Republic of Congo (DR Congo). They grew up under the care of their widowed mother.

Standing just five feet tall, my father was among the shortest men I know; he was hard to find in a crowd! With just two years of elementary school education, he had no degree nor academic achievements to boast about. From that very poor background, from a tribe considered to be one of the least among many tribes in the DR Congo, my father appeared destined for a mediocre, broken, miserable life of poverty. By society's standards, none of his credentials pointed to him becoming one of the most influential charismatic church leaders in North Kivu Province, DR Congo.

If you and I were members of a search committee, deciding who to hire for the leadership of the church, my father would have been dismissed, overlooked, and disqualified. Yet, out of the counsel of his own sovereign will, God picked my father and sent his own angel to personally meet with him in a vision, dedicating him for his service. God means what he says from his word: For God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart (1 Samuel 16:7 Amplified Bible).

My grandmother's name was Sipora. We called her Nyamuimbya, which means matriarch, a name that inspired respect and love for us as kids. As we grew up, she was indeed the matriarch of our family. We will forever remember her as a loving, brave, faithful, kind, generous, and courageous woman.

When we were kids, the washrooms for our home were outside. Every time one of us needed to make a night trip to the washroom, we called Grandma. She was always ready with her night lamps or a torch, taking numerous washroom trips with us, without complaining, since taking care of us gave her so much joy. When she was invited to a friend's house for a meal, she often packed the whole meal and brought it back home to eat with us. Around her, we felt safe and loved. She treated both my parents so equally and lovingly that it was hard to know whether she was truly Dad's or Mom's mother. This is the kind of grandmother we grew up with.

From the little we know of my family history, my grandfather was beaten to death as a young man by the Belgian colonial power of those days for refusing to join forced labor. My grandmother never really talked about her husband. It could be because it was too painful; yet I also know that where I come from, people are superstitious about talking about dead people. As my father was just a kid when his father died, he told us he had no memory of him, nor was a single picture of his father ever taken. My grandmother never remarried, even though she was a beautiful teenager when her husband was murdered.

My father and his mother had a special friendship, like best friends and allies in ministry. They were so poor, struggling to survive, that at the age of fourteen, my father made the risky move of leaving his small remote village of Mutakato in the middle of nowhere. He walked about fifteen miles to a much bigger rural place called Walikale in hopes of finding a job so he could provide for his mother. That was the beginning of my father's journey.

With a divine connection (since I do not believe in what many call coincidences), in Walikale, my father met the Osterbergs, a Swedish missionary family that was stationed there. This was in the mid-1940s. My father was given his very first job as a maintenance guy—cleaning the property, raking leaves, and other tasks along those lines. It seems that my father was a hardworking young teenager—trustworthy, polite, wise, and with a good attitude. He earned the trust of Mrs. Osterberg, whom he called Madame Osterberg.

She upgraded him from being the outside boy into a housekeeper and cleaner, and as time went by, he was upgraded to be the chef for the family. Madame Osterberg trusted him. With his small earnings, he was able to provide for his widowed mother, left behind in the village fifteen miles away. His relationship with the Osterberg family grew so strong that when eventually it was time for the family to leave Walikale for their two years of missionary leave in Sweden, they took my father with them from the small center of Walikale into Bukavu, the big city and capital of the South Kivu Province, DR Congo, and left him there. This is how my father escaped from life in the jungle, into the city.

In Bukavu, my father found work with a Belgian family for two years. He never really talked to us about this part of his life. With the Belgian family, it was just work, but not a relationship as the one he had built with the Osterbergs.

When the Osterberg family returned from their missionary leave, they were reunited with my father. This time, instead of returning to Walikale where they first met my father, the Osterbergs were assigned to Gisenyi, Rwanda, at the border with Goma, DR Congo. Their assignment was to help launch the Pentecostal church there. Taking my father and his mother, Siphora, with them, they moved to Gisenyi, Rwanda.

In Gisenyi, my father and his mother were given lodging in the Osterbergs' compound, and so they became part of the family. They taught my father the Bible, and through them, he developed a great love for Jesus as well as the desire to learn more from the Bible. The Swedish missionary John Osterberg, who had become my father's spiritual mentor, enrolled him in a two-year program that opened in the church in Gisenyi (today the church is known as the ADPR which stands for Association des Eglises des Pentecôtes au Rwanda). The vision for this Bible school was to equip new converts with the knowledge of the Bible, and so training future church leaders in the region.

A few years later, sadness hit the family when malaria struck and Mrs. Osterberg died in Gisenyi, Rwanda. My father and his mother were among the crowd of close friends who buried and mourned for Madame Osterberg. Her only son, Ingemar, was left motherless at the age of seventeen. Brokenhearted and grieving the loss of his mother, he went back to Sweden to further his education. He and my father parted company and never saw each other again after that. A few years ago, Ingemar Osterberg returned to Africa for the very first time since leaving Gisenyi as a teenager. He visited one of my brothers and his family. Ingemar Osterberg was also one of the benefactors who later helped with my university tuition fees and so contributed to my education into law school.

In 2015, I had the privilege of meeting Ingemar Osterberg and his family in Sweden. He remembered my father who had played a role in his life growing up in the jungle. From him, I heard stories about my father that I had never heard before.

Mr. and Mrs. Osterberg invested in a young Congolese villager named Kashira, but neither lived long enough to see what the Lord had in mind for my father in the years to come. They faithfully did their part of planting the seeds. As it is written in scripture:

I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives growth. He who plants and he who waters are one, and each will receive his wages according to his labor. For we are God's fellow workers. You are God's field, God's building. (1 Corinthians 3:6–9 NIV)

My father was in his early twenties when the Osterbergs assigned him the mission of starting the first Kijiji in my home town of Goma, just across the border from Gisenyi. With the help and support of his mother, his older brother, Abel, and four friends, in the early 1950s, my father launched the first Kijiji in Birere, one of the poorest neighborhoods of Goma. He named it Ruzizi after a river. This very first Kijiji became the first Pentecostal Church in Goma. This is the true story of the birth of the Pentecostal Church in Goma known today as 8e CEPAC. It's one of the influential Protestant denominations in Eastern DR Congo.

In 1960, the first church building was inaugurated, built with the financial support of Swedish churches. As a kid, I remember hearing