Help
arrived immediately. Out of the darkness, a beam of light shone
toward our struggle and a rough voice shouted, “What’s going on?”
as a person ran through the darkness toward us. My screams had
somewhat arrested my attackers, and this voice and light and physical
presence in immediate answer stopped them entirely. I was able to
break away from the grip of the two who were holding me. By this
time, others were arriving from the prayer hut with more yells. In my
eagerness to escape my attackers, I’m afraid I left my rescuers on
their own. I jumped past them and ran down a path toward the gazebo.
As soon as I saw that I was safe, I started crying. My niece, Kaye's
daughter Bethany, was the first person coming toward me on the path.
It was such a relief to see someone familiar and to realize that I
was safe and unharmed, and then I had adrenaline coursing through my
body and became so shaky I could barely walk. By this time, there
were several people around me (all strangers but Bethany), and
everyone was asking me questions and wanting me to get checked by a
doctor, but all I wanted was to sit down and be left alone, or with
just Kaye and Bethany. I kept telling them I was okay. They finally
stopped insisting that I see a doctor. I had so many feelings –
thankful for God’s deliverance, glad to be alive, embarrassed about
causing a scene, and just trying to calm down from defense mode. I
was completely overwhelmed by it all. I looked at my left leg, and
though I had known that the kid wasn’t cutting me, I almost
couldn’t believe that there was no blood. I was alive. And well.
My
“guardian angel,” was Karen (from Texas). Hers was an amazing
story of listening to the still, small voice of the Spirit and
obeying, even when it seemed ridiculous.
Karen
was pretty close by–-about 20 feet, maybe–-and as soon as she heard
me scream, she knew that that was it, that’s what she was there
for. She sprinted to the bench, flashlight shining. I think that the
excitement–and yelling while running–made her voice sound rough,
deep, male, all of which was enough to startle my attackers
long enough for me to get away. Anyway, by the time that she had
startled them, men were pouring out of the gazebo and running our
way, and the banditos could see that they were finished.
After
the attack, as I sat and calmed down, Karen and others prayed over
me, which was very comforting. Some prayed in tongues, which I was
beginning to get used to, but I still found a little discomfitting.
Still, I really appreciated their prayers, and I was keenly aware of
God’s presence, protection, and provision in that moment.
Afterward
I learned that the men who had come running up from the gazebo chased
after the three banditos, who ran for the wall. The banditos just
barely made it over the wall before our guys could catch them, so
they got away. I
was glad for them.
That
might sound strange, given the circumstances, but I really was glad
that they got away. I had seen what even the little children of Pomba
did to adults many times their size and strength who were even
suspected of a crime, such as stealing. They pelted them with the
heaviest rocks they could pick up and launch. They especially went
for the head (and they had good aim). Once the culprit was down,
everyone would descend on him, kicking, scratching, biting. It did
not matter whether he had been proved guilty of his “crime.” He
was guilty by accusation and by his reputation. If either seemed a
credible proof of his guilt, he received his punishment publicly, by
the people who knew him best.
These
young men who attacked me: they are the hopeless ones. The ones in
the generations skipped over during the hard years, who received no
education, no parenting, nothing but hardness and bitterness and
hopelessness. I could not hate them. I prayed for them then, and I
pray for them still. I will never know what became of them—whether
they're alive or dead now. But I do believe that prayer offered in
love is better for a person than a rock upside the head, so I still
pray for these young men; that they will see some love, some
gentleness, some understanding in the world around them. I believe
that God changes people. I believe that no one is beyond God's reach.
Epilogue:
Our Last Day at Pomba
Kaye
and I were in the visitors’ compound when someone came in saying
that there was a fire in the prayer garden, and we all needed to
bring as much water as we could carry. I grabbed a box of two-liter
bottles and ran out. The brush field behind the garden had been set
on fire by a resident kid, who apparently did it on purpose. By the
time I got out there, this fire had covered a large area and was
ready to really take off in the tall, dry grass of the field. It
wasn’t immediately dangerous to life and limb, since it went out as
soon as the grass burned up, but it was spreading fast, burning in an
ever-widening circle, as it searched for more grass to consume. The
one thing that was in harm’s way was a little prayer chapel at the
back of the garden. I don’t know whether there was anything else
important that it might have burned if allowed to go. Of course, as
it grew, and its outer edges grew wider, it took more people to try
to patrol its borders to put it out. There were dozens of us, running
around the edges, throwing water on it from anything we could carry.
I then saw that the Africans were beating it with green branches from
bushes and trees. I knew that theirs was a better way to do it. I
didn’t have my knife on me, but I was finally able to wrest some
little green, leafy branches from a nearby bush. My beater was far
more effective than my water bottles had been, though eventually even
the green leaves burned up. By the time the fire was out, my little
branches were leafless. We did get it put out, but it had burned an
area of maybe three-quarters of an acre. It stopped short of the
prayer chapel.
While
we were putting the fire out, dozens of villagers, hearing all of the
commotion from the Pomba side of the wall, had hoisted themselves up
and were sitting, lined up along the top of the wall, laughing,
shouting, jeering, looking like they were having a good time watching
us scorch our sandaled little feet while trying to put this fire out.
As far as I know, none of the villagers jumped down and came over to
help, but I can’t say for sure. It just seemed like they were
enjoying themselves, and the laughter and shouting felt a lot like
they were cheering for the fire. I felt discouraged by their apparent
glee over their neighbor’s misfortune.
On
the other hand, I myself was glad that the grass had burned. To me it
felt like the hand of God, sending his refining fire to burn up a
wicked and dark place. No one would be able to use that grass as a
cover for their evil purposes for a while.
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