Tag Archives: God’s protection

Jungle Adventure? No, a Spiritual Battle!

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       At Last! The End of the Summer Blogging Break!

Jungle Adventure? No, a Spiritual Battle!

The Plan
“The SIL plane needs to fly to Brasilia for maintenance on Saturday.” The shortwave operator told us one morning. “It will stop in Barra do Corda to refuel and take on up to 400 kilos of cargo to drop off for you in the Canela village on the way.”
What an opportunity to bring in kerosene for lamps and bags of salt for the Canela, as well as fresh veggies, fruits, eggs, and meat for us.

Jo Teaching the Girls

On Tuesday I left Jo and our three small daughters in the village and rode the Tote Goat, an old motorcycle, seventy kilometres into Barra. There I bought trade goods and groceries and arranged to have them taken to the plane. But Wednesday morning the old motorcycle broke down and would not be repaired for several weeks. I had to wait until Saturday.

The Problem
There was neither phone nor short-wave radio in Barra at that time, I could not tell Belem centre so they could tell Jo of the delay. In the meantime, she was worried.

“Jack was supposed to be back on Wednesday,” Jo told the Belem radio operator. “Please pray that he is all right. I worry about him lying on the trail somewhere with a broken leg or worse.”

Satan’s Plan
Friends in Belem prayed that I would be okay. I was fine, but Jo was not. She was suffering with fever and severe pains in her belly. Our colleagues on the centre were alerted to pray for Jo as well.

Finally, on Saturday, the SIL plane overflew the school campus where I was staying to let them know to bring aviation gas to the airport. The pilot saw me standing out in the open, waving. Immediately he radioed Belem and Jo. “I see Jack; he’s okay.”

After refuelling and loading most of the cargo, we landed safely at the village. Jo and I hugged each other, right in front of the watching Canelas; she was so relieved after all those days of anxiety. Unloading quickly Paul continued on course to Brasilia.

“Besides my concerns about you,” Jo told me, “I had strong pains just to the right of my navel, had a fever and felt nauseous. So, I took massive doses of ampicillin antibiotic, and I am already feeling okay.”

The Rest of the Story
A year and a half later, just before Leanne’s birthday, we were in Belem, and Jo was preparing to bake a cake when she said,

“Jack, I am having those same pains again that I had that time in the village.” She went back to bed while I ran to get a colleague who was a nurse. She checked Jo thoroughly, turned to me, and ordered, “Get her to a hospital right now; she has appendicitis!”

“No, I can’t go to the hospital,” Jo argued, “I need to make a cake for Leanne’s birthday party tomorrow.”

We ignored her pleas and loaded her into the VW van. I sped to a small hospital about twenty-five minutes away. Within thirty minutes of our arrival, Jo was on the operating table, and the surgeons did an appendectomy.

“We found a lot of scar tissue when we took out her appendix,” the doctor told me after it was all over. “She must have had an attack earlier.”

“Yes, she did,” I said, “Nearly two years ago, she had these same symptoms when she was alone in an Indian village out in the jungle. She treated herself with massive doses of ampicillin antibiotics.”

“Good thing she did,” the doctor said, “your wife would surely have died in much pain without that treatment.”

God’s Plans
“Thank you, Loving Father in heaven,” I prayed as I walked back to the van, “for looking after my wife and the mother of our three little daughters back then. We so often ran out of antibiotics in those early years. But this time you guided Jo to take the right medication. No wonder I love you!”

It was also more evidence that we were involved in a spiritual battle. Satan tried to kill Jo, which would have stopped the Canela translation program. But God had other plans!

The above post is an excerpt from our next Memoir: From Adventure to Spiritual Warfare. (The Canela Decades)

Childhood Memories of Mama During World War 2

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Reports of the war and suffering in Ukraine filled my mind with emotional childhood memories of the Second World War in Holland.
A Thank You Letter to My Mother
Since Mother’s Day coincides with this week’s celebrations of the 77th anniversary of VE day—Nazi Germany’s unconditional surrender to the Allies—I thought of my mother who died at age ninety-seven, eleven years ago. Here is a letter I wrote her:

Dear Mama,
Seventy-seven years ago, Canadian soldiers fought their way through Holland to Hilversum, our city, and freed us from fear and oppression. I was seven years old when Papa took me to cheer the Canadian soldiers in their tanks driving down Main Street. Thank you, Mama, for shielding me from so much of the horror of the war.

I was only two years old when the enemy overran our country. You sheltered me and you and Papa tried to live a normal life. The year the war started, you gave me a little brother, and cared for him day and night for nine months until he finally died of an inoperable heart defect. I often wondered if you ever got over that stress and loss.

Two years later, you gave me a little sister, and two years after that another little brother. All this time you and Papa kept searching for food to feed us all. I woke up some nights to the sound of gunshots in the neighbourhood. I got used to it and slept right through it. But did you, Mama? How could you, when you knew Papa was out there, in the night, after curfew, bartering for food? How could you sleep when you didn’t know where he was, or if he was safe? How did you live through those weeks he was gone and finally arrived with one jug of cooking oil?

When the grain for porridge was gone and there were only two potatoes left in the bin, I didn’t know. But you knew. And you prayed that God would protect a sack of potatoes Pake and Beppe, your parents in Friesland, had hidden in a fishing boat coming our way. Thank you, Mama!

I ran to the house one afternoon, excitedly pounding on the door to be let in, shouting, “De moffen komen eraan!” (German soldiers are coming!) You quickly yanked me indoors and shushed me, “Don’t shout this warning outside, tell me when you are inside.”
“The soldiers blocked off both ends of the street,” I said. “They are taking some men out of the houses and putting them on their trucks.”

I already knew those men would travel in train cattle cars to slave labour camps in Germany. Papa quickly dragged the buffet in the back room away from the wall, rolled back the carpet, yanked open a trapdoor, and clambered down into the darkness, telling me, “Help Mama push everything back into place.”

I was only five years old, and I was used to Papa often living under the floor. But, Mama, how could you sleep when you knew that any night, rifle butts could pound our front door and Papa would have to rush down the stairs into his hiding place?

Finally, in the last winter months of the war, our rescuers bombed all the railway bridges. That stopped the trains to Germany and the raids. Papa came out of hiding; we took our bikes from their hiding places. One day Papa took me for a bike ride out into the country. When we returned, I excitedly told you about the fun day we had.

“The airplanes came and Papa and I threw down our bikes, and we jumped down into one of those trenches beside the road. And I saw the Germans shoot at the airplanes. And then they hit one and I saw the smoke, and I saw the parachutes. And then we got to the farmer, and he put the rabbit in the bottom of Papa’s bike carrier and covered it up with vegetables. And then the soldier stopped us on our way home and poked his gun among the vegetables. And then the rabbit poked his nose out and sniffed the gun. And then Papa gave the soldier a package of cigarettes. And then the soldier walked away.”
No doubt you prayed hard during that fun day: that all three of us, including the rabbit, would arrive safely. Thank you, Mama.

Then, finally, liberation! No more night curfews. No more food smuggling. No more hunger. No more waking up from shots in the night. No more listening to the BBC news in Dutch on earphones from a secret radio hidden above the linen closet. No more trains of cattle cars with begging hands sticking out through the cracks in the boards.

Thank you, Mama, for looking after me during those terrible years.
Your grateful son, Jack

PS: And you 7,600 Canadian mamas—you whose soldier sons died to liberate our country—I continue to thank you for your sacrifice.

International Mother Language Day

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Turn the Canelas into Portuguese Speaking Brazilians, Get Rid of Their Superstitions
A German researcher frequently visited the Canela village in the last eight years that Jo and I worked there. We invited him over for a coffee, and he jumped at the chance to pick our brains about the Canela and their way of life. Since he spoke fluent Portuguese and English, we had no problem communicating.

What Do Canelas Fear?
He wanted to know what the Canelas were afraid of since he had heard about their fear of ghosts of recently deceased people.

“Yes,” I said, “These ghosts tend to appear at night to haunt the living. They have the power to kill sick and elderly persons or babies by staring at them. They are also afraid of evil spirits. For example, there is good soil for planting gardens out in the hills. But although the Canelas tried to make fields there, they abandoned them after several months, telling us, ‘Cupe jaroti jahto’ many evil spirits. They are afraid these spirits will hurt them or their kids.”

“But there are no spirits and ghosts!” he exclaimed. “That’s all just superstition. So why are you talking as if these are real?”

My Story
“Well, remember I am a Christian missionary-linguist. I believe in God, who is a Spirit. There are good spirits like angels and evil spirits like demons. I’ll tell you how I first learned about this fear of evil spirits. One day when I walked back to the village from Barra, night fell and thinking the village was still hours farther, I lay down alongside the trail to sleep. A Canela man jogging home found me there. ‘The village is really close; follow me, we’ll be home soon,’ he said. As we jogged the last twenty minutes to the village, he asked me, ‘You were all alone, weren’t you afraid of the evil spirits that roam at night?’

‘No, I’m not afraid of any ghost or spirit since the Great Spirit of our Father in the sky lives within me and protects me.’

“But you’re highly educated, a college graduate!” My German friend exclaimed, “I have never spoken with an educated person who believes in God and these superstitions.”

The Language God Gave the Canelas
We also talked about the Canela language, and I described its beauty and design and how we were fascinated by its complex grammar. When I told him we were teaching the Canelas how to read and write in their own language and were in the midst of translating a large part of the Bible into their language, he was amazed.

“Why don’t you just teach them to read and write in Portuguese?” he asked. “Wouldn’t that be a lot simpler? Besides, it would do away with a lot of these superstitions if they turned into Portuguese-speaking Brazilians.”

Yes, I thought, that was the “Kill the Indian in the child” philosophy behind the old residential school system in Canada, which forced indigenous children to speak English only.

“Here’s the reason,” I said. “We are translating God’s love letter to the Canelas. He wants to speak directly from his heart to theirs. That requires speaking their own mother language.” He just shook his head in bewilderment at my beliefs.

The Goodbye Speech
Our friend made many visits to the Canela village. After one extended stay, he was preparing to return to Germany. I saw the truck arrive at his house, so I ran over to say Goodbye. When he saw me, he jumped off the back of the truck.

“Jack,” he said, “I have learned a lot about you and the work you and your wife have done in this village. I need to say something to you, and you will understand why I have to say this in German.” He then laid both his hands on my shoulders and looked directly into my eyes. Since German is similar to Dutch, I could understand most of what he said. He thanked me for the nearly twenty years Jo and I had worked to help the Canelas; for all the lives we had saved and our educational teaching. He went on and on while tears trickled down his cheeks. Then he hugged me and climbed back on the truck.

I waved Goodbye as the truck drove away and thought, “You got it! You needed to express your deep emotion, and you could not do it in either English or Portuguese. You had to say it in your own mother language.”

Next Monday, February 21, is International Mother Language Day.
Bible translators like Jo and I are, of course, naturally pleased that this day is given special significance. But for all the thousands of Bible translators currently at work, and their many thousands of ministry partners who pray and give to support them, every day is Mother Language day.

And so it is also for God. He loves the multi-millions who are still waiting for his Love Letter to be translated into their Mother Language.

 

Reasons for Me to Remember

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The Tears
I was chatting with an old guy who when he mentioned he had served in the military service.
“I have a soft spot in my heart for the Canadian military” I said. “It was Canadian soldiers who liberated the Dutch city of Hilversum where I was born and grew up during the war. I was seven years old when the tanks rumbled down our main street. I was there to greet them.”
“Is that so?” he replied, “My father was a paratrooper in the Netherlands; I was eight years old.”
Tears stung my eyes and I choked up. I wanted to say, “Thank you for being without your Dad during those years.” But I couldn’t get past a muffled, “Thank you.”

Those Canadian soldiers rolling into town in their tanks and trucks were the best thing that had happened to me in my young life.

The Razzia
As a five-year-old, I was playing in the street in front of our house, when I saw German army trucks pull into both ends of our street and soldiers pounding on doors with their rifle butts, dragging men out to load them on the trucks. I ran into the house shouting “A razzia!” (A raid!) My dad and mom immediately ran to the back room, dragged a heavy dresser away from the wall, and folded back the carpet. Dad lifted the trapdoor and slid down under the floor, crawling into a tunnel that led to a neighbour’s house.

Mom and I replaced the trap door, rolled back the carpet and pushed the dresser back in place. I rubbed away the tracks the dresser had made on the carpet. Then I ran to the dining room and took away Dad’s plate and cutlery, and moved his shoes from the front door mat to the closet. Mom ran upstairs to take Dad’s pillow from the bed, and put all his clothing into a big box in the back of the closet. Fortunately, this time, the trucks filled up and left before they came to our house, so Mom and I dragged the dresser back again and lifted the trapdoor so Dad could come out of his hidey hole.

The Firewood
During the winter that I was six years old, I scavenged for pieces of coal, firewood, or anything that would burn. For quite a while I was very lucky. Every day a large German army truck would drive down a neighboring street. Two armed soldiers sat in the cab and a man sat on the back of the truck with his leg chained to a bolt. He was sitting on a huge load of small wooden blocks. I didn’t know it at that time but these blocks were used to make wood gas to run truck engines.

Four of us boys used to wait at a certain corner, hiding in the hedges along the road. When the truck began to turn the corner, the prisoner on the back of the truck would shovel as many blocks off the back end of the truck as he could, while we rushed out from our hedges and within seconds picked up every piece, shoving them into the gunny sacks we carried and ran away. When the truck had fully turned the corner, everything the soldiers saw in the rear view mirrors was normal. My Mom was always happy to see the wood I had found. I didn’t want to worry her, so I never told her where I found it.

The Freedom
When those Canadian soldiers arrived, our lives changed. No more danger of men being dragged off to work as slaves in mines or factories. No more hunger. No more cold houses. I thanked God for those soldiers then, and I thank God for them now.

May God bless all the men and women who are dedicated to fight evil, combat crime, rescue the perishing, and bring aid to the helpless.

The “Useless Church People” Story

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The Beginning
The last job I had before attending Bible School in Calgary was with a seismic oil exploration crew based out of Three Hills, AB in the summer of 1957. I had told the crew I was a Christian. They noticed that I went to church on Sundays, my language was clean, and I didn’t smoke, drink or mess around with girls.

One weekend the boss gave us extra days off. My foreman, his girlfriend and another guy from the crew were driving his car to Edmonton. I asked him, “Can I ride with you as far as my folks’ house in Red Deer?”

“No problem,” my foreman said, “but be ready for us to pick you up at your house on Sunday. I’ll phone you to let you know what time we’ll come by.”

The Middle
That Sunday afternoon he called, “We’ll be at your house tonight at nine o’clock. Be ready.”

“I will be at church at that time,” I said. “Please pick me up there. The church is only one block off your route, right near the highway. You won’t even need to go all the way up the hill to my house.”

“Well, okay,” he said, but I sensed resentment in his voice.

That night, when I got in the front seat, my foreman, in the back with his girlfriend, yelled at me. “I hate like #*+# your changing plans on me, making me pick you up at a #@%* church, for *#@* sake!”

I didn’t say anything while he continued cursing “useless church people”. Eventually he turned his attention back to his girl.

Twenty minutes later, as we were driving down the two-lane highway at 100 kilometres an hour, the car ahead of us abruptly slowed down. Our driver slammed on the brakes, and to my horror, our car swerved to the left and slid sideways into oncoming traffic. The last thing I remember was seeing a pair of headlights only yards away through my side window.

When I woke up, my left wrist, knee, and head hurt. People ran up to help. I crawled out the driver’s door. A man helped me stumble to a nearby house where I sat on a couch to recover. A policeman came in, and after talking to the driver, asked, “Who was the front seat passenger?” I raised my hand. “You’re a lucky guy. If that car had hit your door, you would not have survived. Instead, it hit forward near the hinge door frame, which absorbed the impact.”

The Ending
The foreman’s car was a total wreck; he cursed and worried aloud about how we were going to get to Three Hills still eighty kilometres away. “I’ll phone my Dad.” I said, “He’ll come, pick us up, and take us to Three Hills.” I did, and Dad did, arriving a half an hour later.

At the end of the trip, Dad refused the money the foreman wanted to give him, saying, “Jack and I love Jesus, and we love helping people in trouble.” With that, he turned the car and drove home, completing a 225-km-long demonstration of Christian love. Five hours later he got up to go to work.

The cast I wore on my left wrist reminded my foreman for the next two weeks that “church people” might possibly have some use after all. Only God knows what impact, if any, this experience had on him. We all know, however, that Dad will hear Jesus saying, “I was stranded in a wrecked car and you drove me home.”

(This is an excerpt from Chapter 20 of my next volume of memoirs, The Adventures Begin.)

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