tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81352207078174832122024-03-08T06:34:35.120-05:00off the pathUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger130125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-48630546206208465372022-07-23T07:27:00.000-04:002022-07-23T07:27:07.880-04:00Oshkosh Bound<p>The Experimental Aircraft Association's (EAA) annual <a href="https://www.eaa.org/airventure">AirVenture</a> fly-in is the largest airshow in the world and it's held every year at the end of July. It's held at Oshkosh Wisconsin's Wittman Regional Airport and most folks in the aviation community simply refer to the annual event as '<i>Oshkosh</i>'. Attending Oshkosh is on every pilot's <i>must-do-at-least-once</i> list. </p><p>A team from <a href="https://www.jaars.org/">JAARS</a> makes the annual pilgrimage to have a presence at Oshkosh with the goal of engaging the aviation community and getting the word out about our vision and mission.</p><p>I'll be part of the JAARS team this year, so if you're going to Oshkosh please swing by the JAARS tent and say hello. </p><p>Also, I'm delighted that <a href="https://airborne.wanderprone.com/">Airborne at the End of the Earth</a> was selected by the EAA to be featured in their Authors Corner. So if you're attending Oshkosh swing by the Authors Corner at the <a href="https://www.eaa.org/eaa/place/EAA_Wearhouse_-_Authors_Corner?id=0D989B0351174CF18AA5ED17931B00AC" target="_blank">EAA Wearhouse</a>--I'll be there signing books on Monday at 4:00 pm, Thursday at 9:00 am and Saturday at 5:00 pm.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_0fWhuodcxJ0prEAquO24WjqHdGDSKf0uyoIC4dfcurRGJldItlug5KmM-7AaM13TwVaOWQcGx-wFfF_WW7ClBrO7QqkGJzd8QCAZnV0tNsckQ_Xd4km8zy_IVviZqRuJsIgQqZU4HEujGZUHR26neuD3c-EgiSqwfWhoE-RL_fsioDy3pbdfuwcpQ/s1504/Screen%20Shot%202022-07-18%20at%2011.28.00%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="1504" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_0fWhuodcxJ0prEAquO24WjqHdGDSKf0uyoIC4dfcurRGJldItlug5KmM-7AaM13TwVaOWQcGx-wFfF_WW7ClBrO7QqkGJzd8QCAZnV0tNsckQ_Xd4km8zy_IVviZqRuJsIgQqZU4HEujGZUHR26neuD3c-EgiSqwfWhoE-RL_fsioDy3pbdfuwcpQ/w640-h490/Screen%20Shot%202022-07-18%20at%2011.28.00%20AM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-58288631021389378412022-07-12T21:38:00.002-04:002022-07-12T21:39:43.781-04:00InterviewOur JAARS Engagement team set me up with a radio interview recently as part of the lead up to our JAARS' presence at the EAA Airventure air show in Oshkosh Wisconsin later this month. <div><br /></div><div>You can listen to the interview <a href="https://www.kneo.org/mp3/Authors/20220710AC3-Nate%20Gordon-Airborne%20at%20the%20End%20of%20the%20Earth.mp3">here</a> or click on the link in the JAARS post below.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
<a href="https://www.kneo.org/mp3/Authors/20220710AC3-Nate%20Gordon-Airborne%20at%20the%20End%20of%20the%20Earth.mp3"><iframe allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="true" frameborder="0" height="594" scrolling="no" src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2FJAARSinc%2Fphotos%2Fa.424506847719%2F10160021795882720%2F%3Ftype%3D3&show_text=true&width=500" style="border: none; overflow: hidden;" width="500"></iframe></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-68107981582297460302022-02-02T07:18:00.001-05:002022-02-02T07:20:04.221-05:00Kindle version of Airborne is now available<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://amzn.to/3csvSsB" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="776" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9feXDnWb4c5QMUZpxbOwyeYdWgMQ2Vk6bYAPOB3p0vIUDWI28Pass_t6OL5G33QK5bRpsZ73Hy74RV6QF0pNHMfZRoUOkM896yqkCCtfsqjX3bwqssSXzbeEACEgv1MGQUfVmioVfBVJFseNeI6r_cwPv0o8kQoGnvjri7M_OddxQ2uri-BMlUfsQaw=s320" width="219" /></a></div>For all the non-paper people out there, I'm happy to announce that the Kindle version of <i>Airborne at the End of the Earth</i> is now <a href="https://amzn.to/3csvSsB" target="_blank">available on Amazon</a>.<p></p><p>Thanks again for those who have left kind reviews on Amazon--really helpful!</p><p>If you're just now learning about <i>Airborne</i>, I encourage you to visit the book's website at <a href="http://airborne.wanderprone.com">airborne.wanderprone.com</a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-44450085750523900182022-01-14T08:36:00.000-05:002022-01-14T08:36:13.331-05:00Kindle version of Airborne coming soon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjX-RXFib_1JQiLIoA3Au3W6bhDEBJrK-_7BTex745h-AFf0vQaOBGYszFpBzn4qQjhG6ZXzILxJowqcKjo2o3cUT0uRXrtWe-mEmTaMd_7Mmwbq8Z4yYT8ZoKZsAVGw5Z_m8xNLU0jN-JoZn9Ay7WIxW1BjanJMM7WPKe79KYc9yob1960AhcH6xFCVg=s2861" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2039" data-original-width="2861" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjX-RXFib_1JQiLIoA3Au3W6bhDEBJrK-_7BTex745h-AFf0vQaOBGYszFpBzn4qQjhG6ZXzILxJowqcKjo2o3cUT0uRXrtWe-mEmTaMd_7Mmwbq8Z4yYT8ZoKZsAVGw5Z_m8xNLU0jN-JoZn9Ay7WIxW1BjanJMM7WPKe79KYc9yob1960AhcH6xFCVg=w400-h285" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Really encouraging to see the sustained interest in <a href="https://amzn.to/3csvSsB" target="_blank"><b><i>Airborne at the Ends of the Earth</i></b></a><b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>and excited to announce that the Kindle version will be released soon.</p><p>If you've read <b><i>Airborne</i></b>, please consider leaving a review on <a href="https://amzn.to/3csvSsB" target="_blank">Amazon</a> or sharing a link on social media--thank you!</p><p>If you haven't read the book yet, check out the book's website at <a href="https://airborne.wanderprone.com/">airborne.wanderprone.com.</a></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-26915460947744173402021-11-30T20:40:00.001-05:002021-11-30T20:40:27.016-05:00Airborne Update<p>We've been overwhelmed by the positive response to the publication of <i>Airborne at the End of the Earth</i>. Excited that it seems to be a blessing for those who are reading it.</p><p>It's doing well in its (admittedly small!) category. It's also been as high as #5 in the Aviation category which was both a surprise and an encouragement.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://amzn.to/3csvSsB" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="1172" data-original-width="2024" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-acqj3c5XNbbtqjHvMWJWuYxzIpsj2njPgxxvppba0pVoM_cEznoPSR2fKr-8SIXlpoXrDqMC985zc0YbXhFepR2ZhaSnVNOXqS3ifzxivL1YwmqtTiuqiuhwW4mpz-Kip0MadVPST29R/w640-h370/image.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">For those of you who have shared links to <i>Airborne</i> on your social networks, thank you! There is no marketing campaign here, so you're the ones making this happen.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">If you've had a chance to read the book and you're inclined to leave a review on <a href="https://amzn.to/3csvSsB" target="_blank">Amazon</a> that would be a huge help! Apparently reviews factor into the Amazon's algorithm in getting the book in front of as many eyes as possible. Thank you!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">If you visit <a href="https://sites.google.com/wanderprone.com/airborne/airborne" target="_blank"><i>Airborne's</i> website</a>, you'll see there are a couple new options available:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Some have requested signed copies and there's a way to request those directly from the site now.</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Discounted bulk copies are also available and there's a way to order those from <a href="https://sites.google.com/wanderprone.com/airborne/airborne" target="_blank"><i>Airborne's</i> site</a> as well.</li></ul><div><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-15682056147479915812021-11-17T14:08:00.003-05:002021-11-17T20:53:17.629-05:00Airborne at the End of the EarthOver the years the occasional friend would say to me, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://amzn.to/3csvSsB" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="599" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWSkopaP6uInhFf7ZJRnz7KjdjL5qppM2RsVstV6TctsMbwBFMaM1n_jHMgrnlyGFwUkLTcueTS7jphACYJ54_eW42OwQ8t3dYObjaYHpm4ONlbtFMarKNuGmYOswdgFcLfl1gJcokAkg/s320/airborne+cover+vertical+grey.png" width="228" /></a></div><br /></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"You need to write a book!" </i></div></i><div><br /></div><div>While I genuinely appreciated the encouragement, I didn't give the idea serious thought. But occasionally someone would add something along the lines of: </div><div><br /></div><div><i>"I've been so moved by the stories of what God is doing in Papua—others need to hear this. These stories need to see the light of day."</i></div><div><div><br /></div><div>That would stick in my head a bit longer. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so, for those who have encouraged me to give these stories a wider audience, here is that book. You know who you are. You told me to write this. This is your fault.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you'd like to learn a bit more about <i><b>Airborne at the End of the Earth</b></i> (including what the reviewers are saying), visit the <a href="https://sites.google.com/wanderprone.com/airborne/airborne">book's website</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>The book is <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0578316188/ref=as_li_qf_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=porterdude-20&creative=9325&linkCode=as2&creativeASIN=0578316188&linkId=b228d1266d0cdad5e6fa01ee6049f9b1" target="_blank">available on Amazon</a>.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-83452318156098407392019-02-19T13:30:00.001-05:002019-02-19T13:30:15.654-05:00The Delegation<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I couldn’t
sleep.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The long hike in to <a href="http://offthepath.wanderprone.com/2018/09/marbata-mama.html" target="_blank">Marbata</a>, the
celebration, the runway inspection, the pig feast and the icy bath in the
stream were all behind us.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">It was night
now.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I was bone tired and desperately ready
for sleep.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">I had a decent
sleeping mat and the woven floor of the hut had enough spring in it to be
comfortable, but the rhythmic beat of the dancers’ feet outside the door and
the cadence of their chants kept my brain from shutting down for the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That, and the embers in the fire pit in the
center of the hut were making it uncomfortably warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I glanced over at Mark, the only other
occupant of our sleeping quarters—he appeared to be dozing soundly under a
mosquito net.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thinking uncharitable
thoughts about Mark, the dancers and the embers, I stripped down to my boxers
and once again shut my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjvm3KydZaiURalk1_rF6KW7_cNO3KiRNJInHeVcjyD6uA7wdNJdi45E3uZPpzXRpfM4uh1-SgCGsxLt4mT8lZUNaoRv5Aong8GVCyRFTWkuBueucUcJt0MLSQwmB4-oF1K4u7sy-aHyCu/s1600/20180322_170217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjvm3KydZaiURalk1_rF6KW7_cNO3KiRNJInHeVcjyD6uA7wdNJdi45E3uZPpzXRpfM4uh1-SgCGsxLt4mT8lZUNaoRv5Aong8GVCyRFTWkuBueucUcJt0MLSQwmB4-oF1K4u7sy-aHyCu/s320/20180322_170217.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only photograph I took of the hut that night. <br />
Fire pit in the center of the floor.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Time passed, and sleep
still eluded me.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">I heard some rustling and
figured Enos had come in for the night—I knew he and another companion from the
hike were going to share the hut with us that night.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">Some time later,
still unable to sleep, I rolled over and in the process must have accidentally jostled
open my heavy eyelids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the glow of the
fire pit I could make out a stunning image: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a group of men, seated in a semi-circle around
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">The one closest to me
spoke my name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Demi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now the once-droopy eyelids stood at full
attention having auto-adjusted to the position commonly referred to as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wide open</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I counted 12 men in the hut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure how long Demi would have waited
for me to open my eyes, but my guess is a very, very long time—the Ketengban do
not share their Western brothers’ lack of patience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whipping on a t-shirt, I made a mental note to
find my bucket list and cross off <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“opening
eyes to find self surrounded by 12 men while self clad only in boxers.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">Demi, a long-time
friend who helped with the New Testament translation for his Ketengban people,
explained that these men were the elders from three distant villages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had hiked through the mountains—some of
them had been on the trail for days—to get to Marbata because they had heard
through the jungle grapevine that Mark and I would be here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One by one the elders made their case,
pleading with us to come to their villages and open the runways their people
had built. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">I listened to these
dear men speak with earnestness and humility. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it was time for me to speak, I wished
that I could promise them something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
I could do was attempt to convey how much our team cared for each of their
communities, but what a huge undertaking opening each new runway was for us,
and how limited our capacity was as a team.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">We talked deep into the
night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually we spent some time
praying together, asking the God we all worshipped to make a way for their runways
to be opened and their communities to begin to benefit from the ministry of the
aircraft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each man then filed past my
sleeping mat and we shook hands before they slipped out the door into the
night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">I looked over at
Mark’s corner of the hut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was still
dozing peacefully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More uncharitable
thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFGczMw6H5tH99JFsgTsFm77kYt21yLKHZOvJMhZsYyXsjfr6q6jcC8pAV8xGIOulnTI9kx3WUMWR0yYzpk8vK6MRP_Ks5fcMo8KgU46BPJ5jGJFUnwBCwWzSNYtO7DEtAx6taSJRG9-iN/s1600/20180507_072254+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1556" data-original-width="1408" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFGczMw6H5tH99JFsgTsFm77kYt21yLKHZOvJMhZsYyXsjfr6q6jcC8pAV8xGIOulnTI9kx3WUMWR0yYzpk8vK6MRP_Ks5fcMo8KgU46BPJ5jGJFUnwBCwWzSNYtO7DEtAx6taSJRG9-iN/s320/20180507_072254+%25282%2529.jpg" width="289" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Demi, a few weeks after the night in the hut.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">-----------------------------------<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">I write this sitting at
a kitchen table a world away from that hut deep in the Star Mountains of
Papua.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sheri and I miss many things
about living and ministering in Papua, but near the top of the list has got to
be the opportunity to fellowship with dear believers like those men in the
night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believers who, though so
radically different than us, love the same Lord and inspire us with their
patience, endurance and joy in the midst of lives much more difficult than our
own.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.6667px; text-align: center;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-41135509621717962242019-01-31T14:05:00.000-05:002019-01-31T14:05:14.842-05:00Goodbyes And Gifts<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">Our last month in Papua before leaving for the U.S. was filled with
goodbyes. We had a number of more formal
events with our aviation team at Yajasi, our greater Wycliffe team and with our
church that we will treasure. In the
more intimate setting of our living room or at a meal table, we shared warmth
and tears with many dear friends we’ve known for two decades.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKTh_rz50bSz23Uti7ktV4zhvXK6uU2IO0PqDuP-31R-0qR57UzD_FrbGnEXxylHAuWiBQ8z_rySvhUqYb6Ym469wQ_v0xZ4i8k6gUT0mHs9AUl9v6A-vVOulZmyEev5X1l_Qn3JSsDo_h/s1600/20180601_073641+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1190" data-original-width="1600" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKTh_rz50bSz23Uti7ktV4zhvXK6uU2IO0PqDuP-31R-0qR57UzD_FrbGnEXxylHAuWiBQ8z_rySvhUqYb6Ym469wQ_v0xZ4i8k6gUT0mHs9AUl9v6A-vVOulZmyEev5X1l_Qn3JSsDo_h/s320/20180601_073641+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the airport.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">As though the years of
friendship and privilege of serving our Lord together weren’t enough, some
brought gifts.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">These too we will
treasure.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">And we’ll treasure none more deeply
than a simple stone-aged tool.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In early May, I was on
my second-to-last flight in Papua.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
landing at a mountain airstrip in the Eastern Highlands, one of the village
elders told me that he’d heard through the grapevine that we’d be gone for a
while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He and the local pastor came over
carrying a stone axe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwQhRa1CNksOVf65aqSn0PVjVEoClzBuKYQ5W1pmvasbJ933_hf9kvkApZfWSg5zDUvt5pvtl5F8-_A0NDt9pMu5qbkTfSAzbM906RePqso25P9sM6Qg5C6W94WGqeGYtqHN6HTINKQUM/s1600/20180504_052848+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1218" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwwQhRa1CNksOVf65aqSn0PVjVEoClzBuKYQ5W1pmvasbJ933_hf9kvkApZfWSg5zDUvt5pvtl5F8-_A0NDt9pMu5qbkTfSAzbM906RePqso25P9sM6Qg5C6W94WGqeGYtqHN6HTINKQUM/s320/20180504_052848+%25282%2529.jpg" width="243" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">It’s one of
the last stone axes we have, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">passed down
by our ancestors. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">We want you
to take it with you to America, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">to remember
us back here in these mountains, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">and come back
and serve among us again.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Undeserving… and yet
so grateful, so appreciative of the enormous kindness of these friends with
huge hearts.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-73921622865558875142018-09-29T16:15:00.001-04:002018-09-29T16:15:48.758-04:00Marbata Mama<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">After 30 minutes of hiking pretty much non-stop
uphill, we came to a bit of a clearing. I
looked back at the airstrip where we had started the hike, now clearly in view. We had made it to the ridgeline that marks
the last section of the final approach to Omban’s short little runway. My mind did some quick math: the airplane
passes over this point 10 seconds before touchdown. It had taken us 30 minutes to cover the same
ground. Flying from Omban to overhead our
destination of Marbata takes 2 minutes.
So, at this rate we should get there in… my head began to hurt. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">Five hours later, when we crested the last of
many hills and finally saw the hamlet of Marbata, my head hurt far less than
the rest of me.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kFDcTeZ_D9fYTDpJc0idcnlHcVywuPd6JOqGv1FMBEik84FoZBZfBTYacMQFaq6AavWQLVGP2oKphaA0ZfilJ3deIgDiTU2wptKnM3rpNEDjMKDkd2miTDW1HPq-0tb4qhceJU61LDRQ/s1600/DSC_3274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3kFDcTeZ_D9fYTDpJc0idcnlHcVywuPd6JOqGv1FMBEik84FoZBZfBTYacMQFaq6AavWQLVGP2oKphaA0ZfilJ3deIgDiTU2wptKnM3rpNEDjMKDkd2miTDW1HPq-0tb4qhceJU61LDRQ/s400/DSC_3274.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">30 minutes in
to the hike, with the Omban airstrip behind us<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">There are hundreds of
isolated communities in Papua’s rugged mountainous interior whose people make
hikes far longer than ours to get to the nearest airstrip for access to
supplies, medicine, education and a connection to the outside world.</span><br />
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The people of Marbata
were willing to literally move part of their mountain to eliminate that
isolation. My colleague, Mark, and I made
the hike from the closest existing airstrip to ensure that they had sufficiently
rearranged the mountain to make landing an expensive 5000 pound projectile on
it a relatively safe proposition. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">T<span style="font-family: inherit;">he welcoming committee was something that is better experienced than described. Ecstatic. Rhythmic. Deafening. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's fifteen seconds of it:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz6Fb5zOX8mipSfXw3O-Xg6eXZQcIv1hn7KhAs5K21ZWYavtsHbrrBMphZkjXI9DnCJHIw0rS4IbpeWLlCs' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">With the hubbub somewhat
subsided, they led us to a roofed platform that they had special-built for the
occasion.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The pastor who had made the
hike with us from Omban (and didn’t appear to have broken a sweat in the
process) pulled out his Bible to share from the Word of God, as the entire
community sat on the airstrip.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Before he
spoke, a tiny old woman slowly climbed the steps to the platform and came over
to Mark and me.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">She had an ancient face but
her eyes held sparkle.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Someone
translated the words she spoke:</span><br />
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="margin: 0in 0.3in 0.0001pt 0.2in; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I have been praying that before I die, God would allow
our airstrip to be opened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you for
coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will die in peace.<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">-------------------------------------------------</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11.0pt;">Four weeks after walking through the
mountains to inspect the runway at Marbata, I had the privilege of returning. This time I took the easy way, landing an
airplane on Marbata’s runway for the first time. I marveled again at the amount of work these
industrious people had accomplished.
They had moved truckload upon truckload of earth by hand. Crowbars--and sticks sharpened to impersonate
crowbars--were their only tools.</span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">After working with
the community to install runway markers, we were preparing to leave when I saw
a familiar figure shuffling across the top of the runway towards the airplane,
steadied on the arm of her adult daughter.
She looked more feeble than when I’d last seen her a month ago, and her
eyes seemed to have lost some of their sparkle.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvjVephMJsAMumLo1eBw8s0c20p8g1PXUoUBdtxtPihyphenhyphenO1iNBTA4V4bRaOk5z_w23vnFySdMUMai4O62hx9wYkpraoLyGk1MN1UsS135MzMdySaYxbHAZtqFbHoaO1aoqeXhGvMwOmwPTP/s1600/marbata+lady6.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvjVephMJsAMumLo1eBw8s0c20p8g1PXUoUBdtxtPihyphenhyphenO1iNBTA4V4bRaOk5z_w23vnFySdMUMai4O62hx9wYkpraoLyGk1MN1UsS135MzMdySaYxbHAZtqFbHoaO1aoqeXhGvMwOmwPTP/s640/marbata+lady6.png" width="425" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Reaching the
airplane, she clasped my hand. She came
to thank us again, but this was my time to speak.</span><br />
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="margin: 0in 0.3in 0.0001pt 0.2in; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Mama, you prayed that God would allow your runway to
get opened before you go to heaven. God
heard your prayers. He listens to you
just like he listens to me</span></i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The folks standing
around us did a quick translation. I saw
the flash of recognition on her face, and those eyes sparkled once again. Speaking with passion, she pointed her
walking stick at the heavens and said: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I prayed and
God heard.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvy1Gyy1DSb0bnTPmUarMtaYu7iIIhqm4rpRY_ioaF0noUidK7ao-gmzrvq1v3BZi8XBpbCkpe0o2duHEyEv9uT8SEhMq3oR7rs6QjRwO_BFYZWCeWHefT-c4dydCIpIigyNrBqW9YV4g/s1600/marbata+lady7.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkvy1Gyy1DSb0bnTPmUarMtaYu7iIIhqm4rpRY_ioaF0noUidK7ao-gmzrvq1v3BZi8XBpbCkpe0o2duHEyEv9uT8SEhMq3oR7rs6QjRwO_BFYZWCeWHefT-c4dydCIpIigyNrBqW9YV4g/s640/marbata+lady7.png" width="426" /></a></div>
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-86986886242943542502018-02-04T19:24:00.000-05:002019-01-30T14:53:59.310-05:00They Will Inherit The Earth<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Getting checked out
as a missionary pilot in Papua is a lot more than learning how to land on
short, slippery runways or navigate mountain passes. For many of us, learning to interface well
with the many different people groups of Papua is a steep learning curve. So, having passed along as much knowledge I could
dig out of my aging mind to my new colleague, Andy, it was time for me to quit
getting in the way and allow him to handle a complete ‘turn-around’—the time we
spend on the ground at a remote village.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyfAnQdtUTOxNFvA0YPWuBJl0i_AATb5V-kC_6qjQ0cSeVHzcGh4YGtFAckUcA1qkDpq4EeuBcliPQHEPFG_IUz5rHyDcXl6_RBHlrZlds_Xk-ru2hCTzpzOkBX-7je5w25pMc4pESyTG/s1600/20180111_074041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyfAnQdtUTOxNFvA0YPWuBJl0i_AATb5V-kC_6qjQ0cSeVHzcGh4YGtFAckUcA1qkDpq4EeuBcliPQHEPFG_IUz5rHyDcXl6_RBHlrZlds_Xk-ru2hCTzpzOkBX-7je5w25pMc4pESyTG/s400/20180111_074041.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 8.0pt;">The people of
Maksum come out to meet the airplane.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I turned to my friend Pies and said, “Let’s take
a walk through the village.” Pies led me
down the path that led to the picturesque village of Maksum. Weaving our way through the patchwork of huts,
Pies and I caught up on each other’s lives.
Floating through the open doorways came smoke from the morning cooking
fires and the warm Ketengban greeting, <i>Telebe</i>. I felt among family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">As we approached the
center of the village, I noticed a large, obviously temporary thatch-roofed
structure that had been erected in the center of the village and asked Pies
about it. “That’s where I’m taking you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Pies began to explain
that one of their elders had just passed away.
The large hut is where folks could gather and pass the hours of mourning
together. Most of the mourners had gone
up to meet the arrival of our flight, but a few men were still gathered around
a fire chatting quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“He must have been an
important person.” Half statement, half
question, I waited for Pies to respond. </span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Yes, he was.” Pies’ eyes
lit up.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Gerson was the first person to
receive the Good News in Maksum.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">When
the missionaries first came, Gerson protected them from hostility and told our
people that we needed to listen to the message these strange people were
bringing into the valley.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Pies told me that
Gerson was the first person in Maksum transformed by the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
He turned away from the darkness that
had gripped his people for millennia and towards the light of a restored
relationship with his Creator. Gerson
spent the rest of his life encouraging his people to do the same. And they had responded. It was obvious to me how cherished this man
was to his people.</span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Instead of heading to the mourning area, Pies grabbed my arm and led me
down a side path to a hut.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Inside, in a
handmade coffin of rough wooden planks, lay Gerson’s empty shell.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">On a rough shelf in the corner there’s a book--a
reminder that Gerson lived to see the day when God’s Word could be read in his
Ketengban language.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Some of his family
sat on the floor around the coffin.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">They
would bury him later that day.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZcjAD2OAeuL-6DWK5ICU5VcQUuQHNkuHjQnQpSOiZYjv1mJdjUszMrViFvrA7P0N5gvgcDzzQz0P16SPAyAoO7jF2frk4Nj2mzrYOhAyF35rJ7wlkOySyn-ypzfpJ06RTKtjdUhyKo7Cg/s1600/20180111_075000.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZcjAD2OAeuL-6DWK5ICU5VcQUuQHNkuHjQnQpSOiZYjv1mJdjUszMrViFvrA7P0N5gvgcDzzQz0P16SPAyAoO7jF2frk4Nj2mzrYOhAyF35rJ7wlkOySyn-ypzfpJ06RTKtjdUhyKo7Cg/s400/20180111_075000.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I expressed my
condolences, asked a few questions, and took a photograph. As I put my phone back in my pocket, I was
reminded of images of the kings of this world lying in state. Gilded caskets, honor guards, vaulted
cathedrals, the world’s leaders lining up to pay their respects… and here? In a simple hut, in a tiny, isolated village,
totally hidden from the view of the powerful of this world, I can’t help but wonder
if I’m looking at one who will be a king in the next version of this world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Blessed are
the meek,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">for they will inherit the earth.</span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-39169357616065541612017-08-23T08:11:00.001-04:002017-08-23T08:11:26.139-04:00Any Given Day<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I took a day off a few weeks ago. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">As is my
habit when I’m not in the office, I logged in to our flight tracking site that morning to see what our aircraft were up to… and took the screenshot below.</span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0T0v8sBNws0Mz1-fhwW4VWi05heJrhDFMetBGIot95Cfl0_EqgX6TZW7FtMaS3hmKszopSj6c5LIrqtL6U8lrmpZ2uCfKu7UI8p03b44QUTCkgdtgSnA9JzEzVpYpg1dvmVnsc0wyx0c5/s1600/July+2017+v2+Screenshot+%25282%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="675" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0T0v8sBNws0Mz1-fhwW4VWi05heJrhDFMetBGIot95Cfl0_EqgX6TZW7FtMaS3hmKszopSj6c5LIrqtL6U8lrmpZ2uCfKu7UI8p03b44QUTCkgdtgSnA9JzEzVpYpg1dvmVnsc0wyx0c5/s640/July+2017+v2+Screenshot+%25282%2529.png" width="404" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
On any given day, you’ll see
our fleet, the yellow dots, streaming into Papua’s interior to touch the least
of these… and retrieve <a href="http://offthepath.wanderprone.com/2017/08/an-unwrinkled-nose.html" target="_blank">bundles off the ground</a>.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">On this particular day, the
yellow dots were out serving missionaries, picking up two sets of patients, and
flying for the local people of the Eastern Highlands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Would you pray for
those yellow dots? Each one represents a
generous gift God’s community has passed along to Yajasi to be used to reach
the isolated peoples of this region. Each
yellow dot has a pilot on board needing to make good decisions under pressure
all day long. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Each yellow dot has a
team standing behind it—a group of dedicated mechanics, finance people, ground
operations staff and administrators tirelessly doing their jobs to keep the
yellow dots in the air.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Pray for the dots!</span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-80038884330999032202017-08-07T02:51:00.001-04:002017-08-17T06:40:46.482-04:00An Unwrinkled Nose<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBUU8LCEoQPq7X5i70xxxhS5czFJVQAZ4IHWeWli_2RkWDGElH2_DBVRJs5kgBqFZBULtRaA6QchnjdNjKc59WB-AsU_gsHDTW1TqrOQ5ZyHTv0S14IzphTOIAKh-HawvGSIuVvfHHV_0/s1600/IMG_20170711_084532+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1385" data-original-width="860" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsBUU8LCEoQPq7X5i70xxxhS5czFJVQAZ4IHWeWli_2RkWDGElH2_DBVRJs5kgBqFZBULtRaA6QchnjdNjKc59WB-AsU_gsHDTW1TqrOQ5ZyHTv0S14IzphTOIAKh-HawvGSIuVvfHHV_0/s320/IMG_20170711_084532+%25282%2529.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">The bundle on the ground</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I walked from the
airplane to the bundle on the ground. The
first thing I noticed was the flies.
Then the </span>smell. The smell was the smell of death, and the
flies flew vulture circles around the bundle.
The bundle on the ground contained the perfectly still figure of a tiny
woman, the image of God clinging tenaciously to her tired features. All that is evil and broken in this world
sought to mercilessly destroy this weak and weary image-bearer. <br />
<br /><o:p></o:p>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">She’d been carried on
a makeshift litter over the steep mountain trail from a nearby village to reach
the airstrip where my airplane was now parked.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">
</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Her husband stood beside her, holding another bundle in his hands, a </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">noken</i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">—one of the net bags woven from
tree bark fibers that his people have been making for as long as anyone has
memory of this place.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I peered into the
</span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">noken</i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">It contained perhaps the most uncorrupted
vision of the image of God we’re likely to see on this broken planet: the woman’s
perfect newborn child.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">While the child’s
mother lay on the ground enveloped in a struggle for life, her baby slept serenely
in his father’s arms.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The miracle of
childbirth, cursed when our race turned away from God, now threatened the life
of the baby’s young mother.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHOb-l-ppOKLwnXaWMz_fwkL8rg9tQgEWWp8CZrZ-sp5vM12s7bNtu-cHgC-UHy6LzRA00hmOCG5GfJa_kVgqnpXoBvOCLSfakvp-JAXa4Z7JAUj1_HduK6QWgwgjF9XJaIyY7TA3CniCd/s1600/IMG_20170711_085159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHOb-l-ppOKLwnXaWMz_fwkL8rg9tQgEWWp8CZrZ-sp5vM12s7bNtu-cHgC-UHy6LzRA00hmOCG5GfJa_kVgqnpXoBvOCLSfakvp-JAXa4Z7JAUj1_HduK6QWgwgjF9XJaIyY7TA3CniCd/s400/IMG_20170711_085159.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Moving her into the aircraft</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Stepping out of the
airplane in Sentani, I went to help one of our ground staff with the
stretcher. As we gently moved our
patient from the airplane to the stretcher, I watched my co-worker’s face as
the stench hit him.</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Not a flinch.</span></i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Not the tiniest
wrinkling of the nose. I knew that the
only reason he didn’t react to his senses was out of respect for this little tribal
woman, wrapped in filthy, blood-soaked blankets. You
don’t wrinkle your nose at someone you believe carries God’s image. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Our team has had to navigate some really rough waters this
year. At that moment under the wing of
the PC-6, watching my colleague restrain the very natural instinct to gag, my
heart leapt and said, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><i>Yes! This is it.
This is why we’re here. This is
why we fight on. This is why we don’t
quit when everything in us wants to. As
a flawed and broken team, we’re somehow being used to touch the least of God’s
image-bearers.’<o:p></o:p></i></span></blockquote>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Sometimes all that's asked of us is an unwrinkled nose.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_B31tSlLwEjkSDOh0CKLTKQzdh3hymZG3PsrIGfxI4zckzQoXfqdqSjpjhqITiRcKnnz82pkc56_tbG6_tWnPVIid5zFZ1S3hsSsOiYI2QhuLNgXf-hML47rlVy5NT7qAmEcfEj3PZHOX/s1600/IMG_20170711_085119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_B31tSlLwEjkSDOh0CKLTKQzdh3hymZG3PsrIGfxI4zckzQoXfqdqSjpjhqITiRcKnnz82pkc56_tbG6_tWnPVIid5zFZ1S3hsSsOiYI2QhuLNgXf-hML47rlVy5NT7qAmEcfEj3PZHOX/s400/IMG_20170711_085119.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">The brand new image bearer</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-69529354877827139752016-12-18T19:18:00.000-05:002016-12-18T19:19:16.821-05:00Bacon and Eggs<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">With a satisfying
smack of the hammer, the last runway marker was pounded into place and the job
was done. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Well, almost done.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">We still had to climb the hill.</span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">For the Ngalum
tribesmen helping mark their new airstrip at Diphikin, the walk back up to the
top of their new airstrip is one of the easiest in their entire territory. A different story entirely for me, the
middle-aged wimp whose middle-aged eyes are looking at the 14% grade that the
middle-aged legs will have to walk up if his middle-aged self wants to get back
to the airplane and fly home. Trudging
up the hill, I do my best to mute the awful rasping that my middle-aged lungs
are making, hoping to hide the racket from the maddeningly cheerful Ngalum for
whom this wouldn’t even qualify as a Sunday stroll. </span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUC54nbr2vaK0M7eEdVUKtd4ojcFKOuLpgX-3cIC13utMsc2W7WgKZPKUL0mfZj_lIbl2rrEYcqJH3aSVQXD_LOrHoZRAV3zPizVrgW-E6BlLGcnFTq6885cnGp7x6ODuRT2Ez_jbTnOV3/s1600/IMG_20140722_103754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUC54nbr2vaK0M7eEdVUKtd4ojcFKOuLpgX-3cIC13utMsc2W7WgKZPKUL0mfZj_lIbl2rrEYcqJH3aSVQXD_LOrHoZRAV3zPizVrgW-E6BlLGcnFTq6885cnGp7x6ODuRT2Ez_jbTnOV3/s400/IMG_20140722_103754.jpg" width="400" /></a><i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">14%.</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> The maximum grade for a road in mountainous
areas of the United States is 7%. In
Papua’s Eastern Highlands you’ll be hard pressed to find a straight piece of
land longer than 100 meters with only a 7% grade. For the Ngalum of Diphikin, the only straight
piece of land suitable for an airstrip site just happens to have this ridiculous
grade. Don’t mind landing on it, not one
bit, but walking up it is for the birds.</span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">To my delighted
surprise, I don’t pass out on the way up the hill. Cresting the top into the flat parking area,
we arrive to a hubbub in full kerfuffle.
The folks who stayed at the top of the airstrip are butchering a large
pig. A Ngalum man deftly uses an axe to
do the job. They will send out the
prized pork with me as gifts to our team in thanks for opening up their
airstrip for service. A huge
hind-quarter has my name on it--they present it to me dripping with blood,
ready for the grill. It’s easily a $150
piece of meat, probably worth much more. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">In the midst of this melee, a tiny little old woman weaves her way through
the crowd carrying one of those ubiquitous little black plastic bags that are everywhere
in these parts. She hands me her
treasure gingerly. “For the pilot,” she
says, and disappears back into the crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I peek in the bag. It’s full of tiny eggs from her chickens. I can buy much larger eggs back in town for
15 cents a piece. But these are worth much
more than money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHU7G3mC6pVsxsdQ5mEQNc3MorSNY6tO-U_h-A0ajG5rG2WNDIWqWkA0XH091zTVPaHGHe4e11p6Nno85JzSzi81uueNjWj-JnsevZKoc2w0q1mPF0erjPpBq_GIs1zBGiZZcERnemJTYV/s1600/IMG_20140722_081450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHU7G3mC6pVsxsdQ5mEQNc3MorSNY6tO-U_h-A0ajG5rG2WNDIWqWkA0XH091zTVPaHGHe4e11p6Nno85JzSzi81uueNjWj-JnsevZKoc2w0q1mPF0erjPpBq_GIs1zBGiZZcERnemJTYV/s320/IMG_20140722_081450.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The pork is given
with equal parts of pure gratitude mixed with hopeful expectation that we’ll
return the favor with frequent air service to the village. The eggs are given…why? She knows I don’t need them. She knows that I live like a king compared to
her. I really don’t know why she gave me
those eggs. All I can think of is that
she was simply being kind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I continue to be
blessed by these ‘little’ people who belong to the the Lord, scattered
throughout the hinterlands of Papua.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">May
I learn from them.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">May I grow to become
like the little woman in Diphikin who gives to those who don’t deserve, gives
without strings attached, and walks away with nothing but the sweetness of knowing
her Master is smiling.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">[originally written November 2014]</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-78158406361134621952016-12-02T19:24:00.000-05:002016-12-02T19:27:33.508-05:00Orchids In The Ditch<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">In the jungles of
Papua the men’s room is always easy to find: it’s located any place not
currently being used as a lady’s room. And
so it was at Sekame; no fancy signage, just a couple of bushes next to the
ditch at the side of the airstrip and I had found the vital facilities I was
looking for. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I looked down at the floor
of the ditch where something caught my eye as being out of place. Here, standing tall among the dirt and the
weeds, were wild orchids in all their delicate, regal beauty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinhxsXX94zEMMNE5pB_g0-1zK1wUCNXUuVKKqJqxdtqXn8Nfbw6Fb6ITF6SqSNMDl8EQ-sYAA1od11aFPtZTwAOr4mODkilvAXKO6_are6U0tH4l5frTpdId4-ohWypxpphxhI9c_l9Azo/s1600/IMG_20160822_071001_edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinhxsXX94zEMMNE5pB_g0-1zK1wUCNXUuVKKqJqxdtqXn8Nfbw6Fb6ITF6SqSNMDl8EQ-sYAA1od11aFPtZTwAOr4mODkilvAXKO6_are6U0tH4l5frTpdId4-ohWypxpphxhI9c_l9Azo/s400/IMG_20160822_071001_edited.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This one followed me home for my bride...</i><br />
<i>it's now a part of our garden </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Orchids in the
ditch. Considered by some the most
beautiful flowers in the world…costly, sought after, highly prized. And here they are, in a ditch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The thing is, the
orchids didn’t know they were in a ditch.
There they were, doing exactly what they were put on earth to do: bloom.
They screamed out God’s creative brilliance, his love of beauty and his desire
for us to be enraptured by that beauty. And
they are doing this <i>in a ditch</i>, just
like they would if they were the centerpiece attraction at a world class
botanic garden being oohed and aahed by professional flower people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I pay way too much
attention to the context in which I find myself. Am I willing to fulfill what God has me on earth
to do when I find myself in some anonymous ditch in a backwater village deep in
the interior of Papua? Or do I put in the
effort to shine only when I have an audience of professional Christian people from
whom I might coax an ooh or an aah? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Am I willing to
scream out God’s creative brilliance, the beauty of who he is, by producing my
best work and allowing joy to rule in my heart even when all I see around me is
dirt, weeds and the steep walls of the ditch I’m in?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Thank you, God, for
orchids in the ditches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-82055287061831609192016-08-13T05:27:00.000-04:002016-08-19T08:33:57.894-04:00The Tenth Leper<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I have
nothing with which to repay you.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoEnvelopeReturn" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">God will
reward you.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I heard those words
yesterday afternoon from the lips of a grizzled old man as we stood under the
wing of the plane at an isolated mountain airstrip. Tearful words of thanks for
adding on a flight to fly his grieving family home after burying their son in a
distant village. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">It had been a long,
hard, hot day with multiple stops, long delays, plenty of sweat and not a few
frustrations. At one point, I felt
something moving on my stomach and looked down to see a cockroach running
uphill on a beeline for getting under my shirt sleeve. Another one zipped across the instrument
panel. They must have jumped ship from
the evil smelling sago I had hoisted aboard at the previous stop. I smushed the one on my shirt a few millimeters
short of his destination. This didn’t
help the appearance of the shirt any… but I felt better. The day’s difficulties, like the cockroaches,
were multiple, ugly and unwanted. They filled
my senses, cried for the attention of my corruptible spirit and clamored for me
to conclude that <i>life stinks</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyElriAEH5bok4zLEvsLxV0Qw05e7Y34bbxyd-JYOuRWgBG6VM4vyCT80gSyQQdBW0mFQW3nYskJ4HcUyq3N1TeyrSTr9tYx_8ejytUxJLn0p3ijwLWwAIDcpAsn7oBAcgvkBASFZjV3d/s1600/IMG_20160315_091027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyElriAEH5bok4zLEvsLxV0Qw05e7Y34bbxyd-JYOuRWgBG6VM4vyCT80gSyQQdBW0mFQW3nYskJ4HcUyq3N1TeyrSTr9tYx_8ejytUxJLn0p3ijwLWwAIDcpAsn7oBAcgvkBASFZjV3d/s400/IMG_20160315_091027.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Touching lives...</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">And then the words of
an old tribal man challenge me to <i>see the
unseen</i>. To make real the
unreal. To believe the unbelievable. That there is a God. That he is watching. That he delights when his children make feeble
attempts at mimicking his love and mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">This place is overrun
with what I like to call </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">tenth lepers</i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Following in the footsteps of the original
tenth leper who returned to Jesus to thank him for wiping the scourge from his
skin, I find so many folks doubling back to say thanks for the smallest of
things.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(The most creative thanks I ever
received was written on a roll of toilet paper and left prominently on my desk…
appreciation from missionaries whose massive shipment of the vital stuff I’d frantically
stashed in a dry water tank by the side of the runway during a tropical
downpour.)</span><br />
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">What about me? What about you? Are we one of the nine? Or do we, like #10, take the time to look
around us and marvel at the healing that God has done on our leprous
hearts? Do we shake our heads in wonder
at the goodness God allows into our lives despite the fact that we live in a horribly
broken place?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEabyYo0Cgdcv10MZg1eVrGsGKVITHf8M6PlctJoUCAkN3QdteO_LiQdsoBY_OB1Zff1BdActrxzDmqnw7yNL2jHrf-NnaWDIXVtqU5XzqRvfbs8aHw26IRTRAOcdgLzFNstBxfZg-h5jC/s1600/IMG_20160713_133608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEabyYo0Cgdcv10MZg1eVrGsGKVITHf8M6PlctJoUCAkN3QdteO_LiQdsoBY_OB1Zff1BdActrxzDmqnw7yNL2jHrf-NnaWDIXVtqU5XzqRvfbs8aHw26IRTRAOcdgLzFNstBxfZg-h5jC/s320/IMG_20160713_133608.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>...in a beautiful place.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoEnvelopeReturn">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I’m jarred by a man
who, having just buried his son, still doubled back to thank the pilot who has
known no such suffering. I flew home counting
the ways that God has already rewarded me. I was struck by the privilege our team has of
being involved in so many different ministries, the privilege of touching so
many lives, the privilege of getting a God’s eye view of one of the most
beautiful, pristine places left on the planet, the privilege of knowing that as
a result of our collective efforts the Word of God will remain in this place
long after we are gone. I found myself
doubling back to my Master to ask for forgiveness for thinking that life isn’t fair
because a cockroach makes for my armpit. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Then I thanked him that life is indeed not fair: he showers good things on
the undeserving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-74859757393334307632015-09-18T09:31:00.000-04:002015-09-18T09:34:27.541-04:00The Girl And The Box<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr494s-M8DQ7pTVLWJFt1LTuBbgdo56ePWvRaMt6uXKyq4z4T0xchGybrmsezt4zlKkBQ7Wu3m56b41F6idLEK-Pn-zTPw9QBhCu5iTjV6cE3qa_YDJRKUlNuiFTkn14MdOf6ZwjqfR9Ka/s1600/cross+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr494s-M8DQ7pTVLWJFt1LTuBbgdo56ePWvRaMt6uXKyq4z4T0xchGybrmsezt4zlKkBQ7Wu3m56b41F6idLEK-Pn-zTPw9QBhCu5iTjV6cE3qa_YDJRKUlNuiFTkn14MdOf6ZwjqfR9Ka/s400/cross+cropped.jpg" width="400" /></a>After three and a half years in Papua, we were looking forward to heading home for a seven month furlough. Things were wrapping up nicely. My next day at work was to be my last day of flying. A single out-and-back flight with a load of medical supplies for a team of doctors.<br />
<br />
Then the phone rang.<br />
<br />
Could I add one more flight? A woman from one of the interior villages had died and her family was asking if we’d fly her body back home. A chance for our team to show compassion to a grieving family.<br />
<br />
The next morning, as the shadows gave way to the gentle light of a new day, our ground operations crew gingerly loaded the casket into the back of the Pilatus Porter. A man stood in the shadows watching. In his arms he held a little girl.<br />
<br />
Caskets must not come in a standard size in Papua; this one was a bit wider than others I’ve flown. With the polished wooden box taking up most of the cabin, our guys were having trouble installing seats on the seat tracks. Leaving the guys to work on the problem, I walked over to the man in the shadows.<br />
<br />
“Was she your wife?”<br />
<br />
“Yes.”<br />
<br />
“I’m so sorry.”<br />
<br />
“And the little girl?” I nodded at the beautiful child clinging to his neck, still sleepy.<br />
<br />
“She’s my daughter.”<br />
<br />
We were quiet for a while, then walked over to the aircraft together. The team had planned for the two of them to sit together in the cabin alongside the casket, but they were only able to fit one seat into the seat tracks, all the way against the back wall of the cabin. I posed the dilemma to the father: would his daughter rather ride up front next to me or in the back with the casket? He asked her the question in their native tongue. She shook her head vigorously. The father gave me a tired smile. She was more afraid of riding next to the scary foreigner than of sitting alone next to the box that held her mom’s body.<br />
<br />
She climbed up into that seat, alone in the back of the airplane. I fastened her seat belt and showed her how to open it. I began to pray for her. A little hand clutched mine and held on tight. When I finished, she smiled.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_kcfFGs2vlyfMS_FK0rCXWM9eAcVRyxfkiGjyobT2FIhUF9d5BE_RbyUUL3pQmiDweBEjQvHn73ssZa7ZD7FbjrhLLnQbQ-FEUme9zLWVOyKzHsiKB0BtDeDQQ7Mk7SWd7EzhbyD44P9/s1600/little+girl+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_kcfFGs2vlyfMS_FK0rCXWM9eAcVRyxfkiGjyobT2FIhUF9d5BE_RbyUUL3pQmiDweBEjQvHn73ssZa7ZD7FbjrhLLnQbQ-FEUme9zLWVOyKzHsiKB0BtDeDQQ7Mk7SWd7EzhbyD44P9/s320/little+girl+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I’m now a world away from the jungles of Papua. Comfortable, relaxed and secure, I reflect on the ministry ‘back there.’ In the grand scheme of things, it often feels like we don’t really accomplish that much. And that which we do accomplish? It takes an awful lot of effort. It takes an awful lot of money. It has more risk than I’d like. It wears people out. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Why go back?</i></div>
<br />
The Lord brings this little girl to mind. I’ll likely never see her again. I have no idea what her life will hold. But as I remember her, sitting next to her mother’s coffin, squeezing my hand as we prayed, I sense the Lord saying that the ministry in Papua is measured by moments like this one. It’s not measured by impressive lines on some graph. It is measured by unimpressive, unnoticed moments. Moments where the feeble faithfulness of a flawed team of men and women brings a taste of Jesus’ unflawed love to one of his ‘least of these.’<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-39215625727901787482015-04-25T02:50:00.001-04:002015-04-25T02:56:26.383-04:00Of Wind and WaitingA thousand feet above the ground the wind skittered across the tops of the hills, giving us a mildly turbulent ride. The electronics in the instrument panel told me it was blowing at almost 20 knots. <i>No go.</i><br />
<br />
Our ministry is all about saying <i>yes</i>. <i>Yes</i> to transporting God’s servants who have followed the call to serve in isolation and obscurity in Papua’s jungles. <i>Yes</i> to the calls for medevacs. <i>Yes</i> to flying foul-smelling, ill-tempered pigs for a celebration of a new church. <i>Yes</i> to taking the time to help a village fix their broken radio.<br />
<br />
But I often find that our<i> no’s</i> are easily as significant as our <i>yes’s</i>. When God’s created order serves up unflyable weather or wind, the response of ‘no, not today’ is simple common sense. But on another level I think the decision to say ‘no, I can’t’ is quite something else: by it, we acknowledge our finiteness. Having weather change my plans demonstrates the limits of my vision. My <i>Plan A</i> for the day, as well-motivated as it may be, can differ radically from God’s <i>Plan A</i>. I can attempt to force through my <i>Plan A</i> or I can acknowledge my littleness, scrap <i>Plan A</i> and scurry for safe harbor. Plane and pilot are preserved to serve another day.<br />
<br />
During our windy season, there is often a period of calm for an hour or two just after sunrise. On this particular day, even though we left Sentani as early as possible, the winds still beat us out of bed. Attempting to land on Tumdungbon’s short, slippery, one-way airstrip with upwards of 15 knots of wind hustling us along from behind would have been beyond foolish. We made the easy decision and diverted to a nearby airstrip with a runway that allowed us to land into the wind. A Helivida helicopter was going to be in the area that day, and the night before I had arranged with the pilot to be available to shuttle our passengers and cargo over to Tumdungbon if we were unable to get in ourselves. <br />
<br />
Our passengers, two missionaries and a Nagi tribal woman whom they had been helping get medical treatment for TB, settled in for the wait. My colleague and I would wait until the helicopter was enroute before leaving the missionaries and heading for home. <br />
<br />
And now, God’s <i>Plan A</i> for the day began to unfold.<br />
<br />
First, a group of unhappy young men came purposefully striding up the airstrip to the airplane. The grudge they carried up the runway was soon set aside as a simple misunderstanding was rectified. <br />
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</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV_pm4o9rxhD5mXAdIIYeA8S7CY924E7-yPnBpfdE5TCf_9HZHsO0n8wZ_G1EW5OcumTl7lAdz8eu5_Giud-85ofEfOo5kYGOO-KZNHwgXO4TIBJ0LCTOFkslDbeIa7zR9-nAZD7MZ-Oki/s1600/IMG_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV_pm4o9rxhD5mXAdIIYeA8S7CY924E7-yPnBpfdE5TCf_9HZHsO0n8wZ_G1EW5OcumTl7lAdz8eu5_Giud-85ofEfOo5kYGOO-KZNHwgXO4TIBJ0LCTOFkslDbeIa7zR9-nAZD7MZ-Oki/s1600/IMG_0023.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Job</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Next, Jerry emerged from the village, his face split with the ear-to-ear grin that makes him such an engaging person. Jerry has been suffering with some kind of significant intestinal problem for a number of years and the last time I had seen him I was flying his emaciated self out to town for medical treatment. He looked much better now, healed, happy and with some much-needed meat on his bones. His eyes also glittered with the news that he was now married and had a healthy baby boy. He told me the story of how difficult the labor had been (the baby had been breach) and how God answered his fervent prayers for the safe arrival of his son. Before the child was born, Jerry had already chosen a name, but soon after the birth he had a dream in which he was reminded of the Lord’s faithfulness during his extended time of suffering. Jerry scrapped his <i>Plan A</i> and followed the instruction he received in his dream, naming the boy <i>Ayub</i> (Job), as a testament to God’s goodness in our times of suffering.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Jerry went and got his wife and came back to the airplane with their precious, living reminder of God’s faithfulness. We talked for a while about how amazing Job (the ancient one, not the dangerously diaperless one on my arm) was: neither green-pasture prosperity nor valley-of-death suffering were able to dislodge God from the center of his life. Encounters like this with genuine followers of Jesus in these remote areas are some of the most precious of God’s gifts in this ministry.<br />
<br />
After a while Jerry excused himself to go back to teaching the village children. As he left, a family crossed the airstrip and headed off through the jungle in the direction of the river. The father carried his bow and arrows for hunting and his ax for woodcutting. The mom had her net bag hung over her back with the day’s food, and in her hand was a home-made spear gun that would hopefully result in some fish or freshwater shrimp on the fire that evening. Their little girl came last carrying a rattan fish trap. With not much else to do I decided to tag along.<br />
<br />
A short walk through the forest brought us to the confluence of a fair sized stream with the main river. The family got into their canoe and took their leave downriver. Alone with my feet in the cool, crystal clear water I marveled at how God’s <i>Plan A</i> for the day included the gifts of the conversation with Jerry and these unexpected moments of pure tranquility in a postcard-perfect setting. <br />
<br />
Though my experience of the truths of Matthew 6:33 has been severely limited by my own stubborn disobedience, I continue to find Jesus to be good to His word: when we seek Him instead of other good things, the other good things come… and to me they seem to come at a time and in a manner that is much more satisfying than when I seek them directly. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The real problem with the world is not the bad things, </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>but the good things that have become the best thing.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>--Tim Keller</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-91515608740261441112014-08-01T03:31:00.003-04:002014-08-01T19:14:41.566-04:00See<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWa-to9bWGFWyi6J_LYNQFE4Od5T4ptgFRQmwmt2pLIyp0joL47T1HymsmIda5fg-J7nTHD7S1m5pekILuw_uZybIGAJt26dBymwVqLtuMowULKf-GVHVS4TLCNqCr4r6Q2sZbafiHI42/s1600/TPH_2662.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWa-to9bWGFWyi6J_LYNQFE4Od5T4ptgFRQmwmt2pLIyp0joL47T1HymsmIda5fg-J7nTHD7S1m5pekILuw_uZybIGAJt26dBymwVqLtuMowULKf-GVHVS4TLCNqCr4r6Q2sZbafiHI42/s1600/TPH_2662.JPG" height="400" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down the Omban airstrip<br />
on a fair weather day.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>photo Tim Harold</i></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The last item on the pre-takeoff checklist was complete. I peered over the long snout of the Pilatus Porter only to see that the restless clouds had again closed off the narrow exit to the Omban valley. The trouble with Omban is that the steeply down-sloping airstrip points directly at a mountain wall. The valley takes a hard right turn at the end of the strip but, from the takeoff position at the top of the airstrip, all you see is the wall. Shutting down, I decided to walk to the bottom of the airstrip and take a peek around the corner into the exit valley.<br />
<br />
Standing at the edge of the cliff at the end of the runway, I could see around the corner—the valley was actually open quite nicely. I picked out a landmark on a ridge that I knew I’d be able to see from the top of the airstrip, turned around and hiked back up to the airplane. <br />
<br />
Arriving back at the top, I turned around, and to my chagrin, my go/no-go landmark was now enveloped in clouds. Ah well, when these mountains call for patience, patience is what you give them. My passengers were being extremely patient as well, agreeing to stay belted in their seats in anticipation of a brief window of open skies. <br />
<br />
Forgive me…I should have introduced you to my passengers earlier. Andrew and Anne Sims have been working on translation in Papua’s Star Mountains for more than 25 years. This particular week we were trying to pull off something that we’d never done before: Scripture Dedications in three separate mountain locations—two different language groups—in a single week. Having had the first dedication in Omban two days prior, a huge gathering was waiting in nearby Okbap (along with two plane-loads of guests) for Andrew and Anne to arrive so that the celebration could begin. Only thing was, we were trapped in Omban.<br />
<br />
At the side of Omban’s airstrip, a group of Ketengban were sitting, watching and waiting with us. Softly, one of the men in the group called over to me, “Hey, we’re gonna pray if that’s OK.”<br />
<br />
I’m sure they’d been waiting patiently for one of us professional Christians to think of it. Eventually their patience ran dry. <i>Somebody’s</i> got to do this.<br />
<br />
For several minutes this simple tribal man spoke fervently to the God he believed could understand his Ketengban sentences. The only words I understood were my name (probably in the context of, “Lord, forgive the idiot pilot who forgets to pray”) and the Indonesian words for <i>airplane</i> and <i>weather</i>. And of course the word <i>Amen</i>, which, when uttered, was the signal for them all to open their eyes and look down the, mountain slope to the valley’s clogged mouth…only, it wasn't clogged anymore. There was now a just-wide-enough opening and my all-important landmark was clearly visible. “See,” he says to me. Not a lot of emotion—just rock sure faith that the Creator his new Book spoke of listens to His creation. Pointing, he says, “God opened the weather for you.”<br />
<br />
I sputtered a thanks, climbed in, fired up and took off, not sure if this particular answer to prayer came with an expiration time.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeORtfoVYuspW7Q0WWU98Uy-7RAvvlbNxycgnuWEJ6cYXlr93WsUC1C1muATORHh5ZPk29GwU9oesRwjMV6TTDFm3QGUS5nBUz0RKD6i0WGjwKatC9QBqVJIvdJWOCtUYcraVBpbZIyorE/s1600/DSC_1775+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeORtfoVYuspW7Q0WWU98Uy-7RAvvlbNxycgnuWEJ6cYXlr93WsUC1C1muATORHh5ZPk29GwU9oesRwjMV6TTDFm3QGUS5nBUz0RKD6i0WGjwKatC9QBqVJIvdJWOCtUYcraVBpbZIyorE/s1600/DSC_1775+%25282%2529.JPG" height="276" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ketengban pray for the weather to clear.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Recently, a friend asked what the highlight of those three dedications was for me. To be sure, there are many moments from that week of watching the Ketengban and Lik people celebrate God’s Word in their own language that I will always remember, but the most powerful moment was a quiet one: having men of faith pray for us, and watching God answer that prayer.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
----------------------------------------------</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>A collection of photographs from three days of partying in Papua's Eastern Highlands.</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Xzw5RDavc-PT9rEeV1s2VBzfUBaV4pWHbGN0NxlzMTSVp9yfwufqtW0pqchglT-sqTQ01tOWGm1IunLJKIvDDwufRBb3EtwR9qMo9KrQKgJhpPfxrfpiiiL1HKjWY-r4iE9qtEFpZmXJ/s1600/DSC_1745.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Xzw5RDavc-PT9rEeV1s2VBzfUBaV4pWHbGN0NxlzMTSVp9yfwufqtW0pqchglT-sqTQ01tOWGm1IunLJKIvDDwufRBb3EtwR9qMo9KrQKgJhpPfxrfpiiiL1HKjWY-r4iE9qtEFpZmXJ/s1600/DSC_1745.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Each village welcomed dedication day with traditional, joyful dancing, everyone in their Sunday best.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRnJVQqN0soqV4Idh5cuZJy_24-j2Dz3sfOpb42w1iCeDPbHUDC6xYu2pr8B_QNka1lb-jHw4Buy281ElnNd7uJHaNSjjSZGd9GIr8XLXS3umA2__cwoZCtRoFDDfV-4QpYAduoNWxjo2/s1600/TPH_4542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRnJVQqN0soqV4Idh5cuZJy_24-j2Dz3sfOpb42w1iCeDPbHUDC6xYu2pr8B_QNka1lb-jHw4Buy281ElnNd7uJHaNSjjSZGd9GIr8XLXS3umA2__cwoZCtRoFDDfV-4QpYAduoNWxjo2/s1600/TPH_4542.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andrew Sims greets an old friend. <br />
The plumes in the headdress seen here and in other photos are the feathers of the reclusive Bird of Paradise.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small; font-style: italic;">photo Tim Harold</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6oDkdWZKrjaiyKjQ0c07GgsHYgWh6SRFV5wWwPTkhk9_FXUIyy2BoPaumiUvCE2hUz9Uo4FDQ8jlmRCdKws4LhESpXq0-MEfMIzcRsZTn_tXM2doCsyLZHqHD8WSUcsIVyz4SJo2KgEZ8/s1600/TPH_3179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6oDkdWZKrjaiyKjQ0c07GgsHYgWh6SRFV5wWwPTkhk9_FXUIyy2BoPaumiUvCE2hUz9Uo4FDQ8jlmRCdKws4LhESpXq0-MEfMIzcRsZTn_tXM2doCsyLZHqHD8WSUcsIVyz4SJo2KgEZ8/s1600/TPH_3179.JPG" height="514" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ketengban honor their guests with feathered net bags.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small; font-style: italic;">photo Tim Harold</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimx22k80IPA6dAjd9-S46pZochwhgvg2l9jgkWkbV8XWqPufHh7CTJbX3mABgl0Yv_8aqBrad2XyiRfwENMhgvrMto0lBE6PbdhC5RVdSwMhDbcI5ialgEkUCXschQtryvyFeO7Wty-sLo/s1600/DSC_2287+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimx22k80IPA6dAjd9-S46pZochwhgvg2l9jgkWkbV8XWqPufHh7CTJbX3mABgl0Yv_8aqBrad2XyiRfwENMhgvrMto0lBE6PbdhC5RVdSwMhDbcI5ialgEkUCXschQtryvyFeO7Wty-sLo/s1600/DSC_2287+%25282%2529.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wall to wall people at the Lik New Testament dedication in Eipomek.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4bhTqC9Cb-OPOJIgQz_8asC2bYqo9mIIV0gWJJlzIZDRBm5Bpj0fWlGY2p2kCWc8ZYucgSB5AYnkGLJwL38LsYYVHpd6NfpcntKFIB25FUMri1NxdC44RwtawstamdeG6x5AgQcXgx8st/s1600/DSC_2126+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4bhTqC9Cb-OPOJIgQz_8asC2bYqo9mIIV0gWJJlzIZDRBm5Bpj0fWlGY2p2kCWc8ZYucgSB5AYnkGLJwL38LsYYVHpd6NfpcntKFIB25FUMri1NxdC44RwtawstamdeG6x5AgQcXgx8st/s1600/DSC_2126+%25282%2529.JPG" height="374" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lik warriors dramatize the warfare that characterized their lives before the Gospel.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">This particular war they re-enacted was started over stolen bananas.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pG0yOtnMJbu9xCJIwKpduwuStIogqoByw6X0KDN3zQPgOHtJhnld3NHT_ATyEVJ0kHN0oRjcHe0sLkxP_0NZtYkADtyN-S-Trw4DJMIIzUMJpVff1vVgecqGu-62ph8xTVRNm7S7b0tM/s1600/DSC_2222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pG0yOtnMJbu9xCJIwKpduwuStIogqoByw6X0KDN3zQPgOHtJhnld3NHT_ATyEVJ0kHN0oRjcHe0sLkxP_0NZtYkADtyN-S-Trw4DJMIIzUMJpVff1vVgecqGu-62ph8xTVRNm7S7b0tM/s1600/DSC_2222.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the immediate impacts of the Gospel among the Lik people was the end of warfare.<br />
Here, the war chief leads his warriors in breaking their arrows.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hdhJEFe0K9NZxQ2mQeDByiRLMAT-4c01LSl2kEheAOLvY-oUB-Y-n403hC43Ndl0w_buqtlJW7iehpk5EJQgrIBmqg3ia5azZUMlSyqogBz-hMmVzL2Ai21Q6XfprV1HLId1sXAIQurK/s1600/TPH_5149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hdhJEFe0K9NZxQ2mQeDByiRLMAT-4c01LSl2kEheAOLvY-oUB-Y-n403hC43Ndl0w_buqtlJW7iehpk5EJQgrIBmqg3ia5azZUMlSyqogBz-hMmVzL2Ai21Q6XfprV1HLId1sXAIQurK/s1600/TPH_5149.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gospel of Jesus Christ in Lik.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxoskzyU2tJ_gpLAVCEU-N2u_XlKTw4FP7zZ3Hsd5ktH6Lw6TNdfjUCbg_pJx_AsnbZlZ9i_zOWWgwp6egmqzMqDLz814TRrazzAw7trIFTgT7KTofMsuYHch8g0EWITrZ0oOkPHYYCvK/s1600/TPH_4624.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxoskzyU2tJ_gpLAVCEU-N2u_XlKTw4FP7zZ3Hsd5ktH6Lw6TNdfjUCbg_pJx_AsnbZlZ9i_zOWWgwp6egmqzMqDLz814TRrazzAw7trIFTgT7KTofMsuYHch8g0EWITrZ0oOkPHYYCvK/s1600/TPH_4624.JPG" height="400" width="331" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Encountering the New Testament in his own<br />
language for the first time.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small; font-style: italic;">photo Tim Harold</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4y2_4ddVByFccuW2xhn6p0bqZ_-eEu4XH_FMECVbqZN8LaxcB49rMd_vASgSb4ZLifkpKiFWmJA0h_ymrxGvjUFPgB-fqdsdiAcqQMh7dtO8NxKu_yE986F23KhMNRLfEqJZEwrXKvzu/s1600/DSC_2042+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4y2_4ddVByFccuW2xhn6p0bqZ_-eEu4XH_FMECVbqZN8LaxcB49rMd_vASgSb4ZLifkpKiFWmJA0h_ymrxGvjUFPgB-fqdsdiAcqQMh7dtO8NxKu_yE986F23KhMNRLfEqJZEwrXKvzu/s1600/DSC_2042+%25282%2529.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Ketengban man opens his long awaited scriptures. The revised New Testament and the shorter Old Testament.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-28966647338433436902014-04-27T03:51:00.000-04:002014-04-27T05:01:39.312-04:00Cheaters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihjhjGzdVJFk2gPQPZq0yLKivm4PB6OmmtP6oQz-TLaKaLEri7rnJWpheUHbR71P6y3Ygpoogj9DObzQAagOetZpc6yJl5jurcJ0GdvsPYZBcbWYCKqUjHlsvNcI4-eTPxXPqxc_uIl5nU/s1600/IMG_20140408_083013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihjhjGzdVJFk2gPQPZq0yLKivm4PB6OmmtP6oQz-TLaKaLEri7rnJWpheUHbR71P6y3Ygpoogj9DObzQAagOetZpc6yJl5jurcJ0GdvsPYZBcbWYCKqUjHlsvNcI4-eTPxXPqxc_uIl5nU/s1600/IMG_20140408_083013.jpg" height="320" width="267"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paulus, the first believer among the Ketengban of Pipal, <br>
receives a box Bibles translated into his language.<br>April 8, 2014</td></tr>
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A few weeks back, I flew in to Pipal with an Indonesian missionary and boxes of the freshly printed Ketengban Scriptures. The new Scriptures are to be formally dedicated in June and distributed to the Ketengban believers at that time. In other words, these boxes are a bit like Christmas presents that are supposed to sit under the tree, strictly off limits until Christmas morning.</div>
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But, it would seem that Pipal is populated with cheaters. </div>
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I have it on good authority that after the first day of sunup to sundown work constructing a home/ministry building at the top of the airstrip, the people brazenly broke the rules, removed a single Bible from one of the boxes and implored our missionary friend to read from the Psalms and Proverbs. Exhausted from the hard day's work, he nonetheless complied (making him, at the very least, an accomplice in the cheating). </div>
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The people sat and listened as, for the first time in their valley's history, the ancient Hebrew words of David and Solomon were spoken in Ketengban. Many times the missionary felt too tired to continue, but the people forced him to keep reading the contraband book late into the night.</div>
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The cheaters of Pipal gathered every night after work, hungry to to repeat the wonder of hearing the Word of God in the language that had a clear and unobstructed shot at their hearts. And every night the cheaters forced our friend the missionary to read deep into the night, far past his endurance.</div>
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The aircraft that delivered the Bibles to Pipal just happened to be the <a href="http://offthepath.wanderprone.com/2012/08/kathmandu-sentani-post-3-in-kathmandu.html" target="_blank">plane that we found in Nepal</a>. From the initial finding of the aircraft to actually having it flying in Papua was long, challenging, expensive process. Likewise, the process of <a href="http://offthepath.wanderprone.com/2012/05/choose-your-heroes-well.html" target="_blank">getting the airstrip at Pipal operational</a> was an enormous undertaking. The Indonesian missionary of this story has faced immense challenges along the way. The multiple man-years of blood, sweat and tears poured into the translation project itself represent a stunningly high price to pay to produce a book. As I look at the level of expense in terms of time, energy, and money that it has taken to reach this tiny community in Pipal, I begin to shake my head and smile at the absolutely ridiculous economics of it all. How much for Psalms and Proverbs in the night?</div>
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And then, I am reminded of the immeasurable cost my God expended in searching out and finding me... a dirty rotten cheater like my friends in Pipal.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-23586710965673096552014-04-17T23:52:00.003-04:002014-04-18T20:35:54.960-04:00So Long, Bob<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7OJbtSpn-xwV8AJywyXNS5Uuk16hGX83le_Ao5x2kQJ_0_ffcsDw2juYDMBj6fguf2m9DVDxK3E4AuosKXoeEPja7MIpXNX9xayuyaH0SSgDDpUDckIYLdtlCKmS6roWIjXGOhoQelWJ/s1600/BobRoberts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg7OJbtSpn-xwV8AJywyXNS5Uuk16hGX83le_Ao5x2kQJ_0_ffcsDw2juYDMBj6fguf2m9DVDxK3E4AuosKXoeEPja7MIpXNX9xayuyaH0SSgDDpUDckIYLdtlCKmS6roWIjXGOhoQelWJ/s1600/BobRoberts.jpg" height="278" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
The mission aviation community in Papua lost one of its best a week ago. Bob Roberts, a 20 year veteran pilot with Adventist Aviation, was killed in a takeoff accident. <br />
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The skies simply won't be the same without Bob's distinctive voice on the radio. Pilot, mechanic, dentist, friend...an extraordinary person who will be greatly missed by all of us.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-7679034914317197142014-03-22T18:49:00.000-04:002014-03-22T18:49:25.161-04:00Finding Onya<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I wrote some thoughts about <a href="http://offthepath.wanderprone.com/2013/07/the-bucket-list-back-to-pipal-part-iii.html" target="_blank">bucket lists</a> a while back. Andrew, the man who has spent most of his life translating the Bible into the Ketengban language, told me in a recent email, </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Onya is a place I always had on my “bucket list” but could never get there on foot.</i></blockquote>
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Getting the airstrip open at Onya has been on my own list for some time. Now, with Ketengban Old Testaments piled high in our hangar, a full complement of pilots, and four operational Pilatus Porters, it seemed like the right time to get in there.</div>
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So last week, on an early Tuesday morning, my colleague Tim Harold and I flew a full load of Scriptures into Omban, the closest Ketengban airstrip to Onya. We unloaded the majority of the Bibles in Omban, but left 10 boxes of Old Testaments on the airplane for the people of Onya. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqtixw6DPvVm-i2Pmaae7IafEvgRTPcpfvF7n8h-YUt7LwfhfDylzff4kbNf3pItQKR3-Eg6DRK22MTg_Qq-O_HzLE5J4uL4v9-zPo11BMhyiIpgJRNV4MM6ZSDUhFm3QZsrHIZv5K3YI/s1600/TPH_9306.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqtixw6DPvVm-i2Pmaae7IafEvgRTPcpfvF7n8h-YUt7LwfhfDylzff4kbNf3pItQKR3-Eg6DRK22MTg_Qq-O_HzLE5J4uL4v9-zPo11BMhyiIpgJRNV4MM6ZSDUhFm3QZsrHIZv5K3YI/s1600/TPH_9306.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the ground in Omban, tying down the Bibles for Onya.</td></tr>
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We then took off from Omban and headed northwest, following what the pilots here call <i>The Long Valley. </i>Looking down at the terrain below I can only imagine how many hours of hiking it would have taken Andrew to check this particular trek off his bucket list.<br />
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With the GPS showing us within a half mile of the airstrip, we still couldn't see it. Having never been there before, I wondered if perhaps we had the wrong coordinates...but I didn't have any reason to believe our data was wrong. Besides, we'd followed what I remembered of Andrew's instructions to a tee: "<i>From Omban, go out into the Long Valley and hang a left.</i>"<br />
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Just as my worry motor was firing up, Tim spotted the airstrip through the dissipating morning fog.<br />
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When the weather in these mountains calls for patience, patience is what you give it. With plenty of fuel on board, we circled overhead and got to know this little cul de sac off the Long Valley better. As we circled, the fog steadily lifted and soon the approach path was clearing nicely.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBsWuHPSrbAKNX9ZMxa_zc_t6d2JzoODBlL5iFj_gN56k8vvcwnk-hjrGzULIq97Btw1ElndHat4KDW6rjOkCR1Ox_UehkZFoo8k9A0iOhMhshnV0rak8ho9b-IRS8bBzttECAUnboRFVr/s1600/TPH_9328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBsWuHPSrbAKNX9ZMxa_zc_t6d2JzoODBlL5iFj_gN56k8vvcwnk-hjrGzULIq97Btw1ElndHat4KDW6rjOkCR1Ox_UehkZFoo8k9A0iOhMhshnV0rak8ho9b-IRS8bBzttECAUnboRFVr/s1600/TPH_9328.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
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Perched on a picturesque ridge line, the community at Onya had done an excellent job subduing their mountain into an airstrip. After a couple of practice approaches, we were soon touching down on the smooth, firm surface.<br />
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As soon as the prop stopped moving, the reception committee started a high speed spin-cycle around the aircraft with the now familiar Ketengban whooping overpowering our senses.<br />
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Once the mayhem settled down a bit, we had a short time of prayer thanking God that these Scriptures had come to the people of Onya. After more than fifteen years out here, I'm finally catching on that ceremony is important, so we made one up on the spot.</div>
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On a remote ridge line in the Star Mountains of Papua, under the wing of an airplane that God's people gave specifically for this task, pastors and elders from the seven churches in the Onya valley received boxes filled with books that held the very words of their Creator. </div>
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Looking at the crowd pressed in around the airplane, I guessed there were about a hundred Ketengban folk cheering each time a box came out of the airplane. My spiritual eyes don't work very well yet, otherwise, who knows... I might have been able to count the angels cheering. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yusup, a Ketengban Pastor at Onya.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCqwU7Nyg85ea6cjw1aHECZrX7xqS5Ox7CiTmphQTVVJSq0y9Uguqy-g-kSYsvKav571vgYIjb_ZTX2Sx3Yz3I4C-U3rxxOnPbkrTn9MgwvTKw-tigXXZtmpsqA6jyjQWgpHwRXLhTRxWv/s1600/TPH_9424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCqwU7Nyg85ea6cjw1aHECZrX7xqS5Ox7CiTmphQTVVJSq0y9Uguqy-g-kSYsvKav571vgYIjb_ZTX2Sx3Yz3I4C-U3rxxOnPbkrTn9MgwvTKw-tigXXZtmpsqA6jyjQWgpHwRXLhTRxWv/s1600/TPH_9424.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Organizing the impromptu ceremony.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim passes a box of Bibles to an elder from one of the churches in the Onya valley.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One last look at beautiful Onya.</td></tr>
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<i>Tim Harold took the photos for this post.</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-14650205151040820922014-03-17T16:39:00.001-04:002014-03-18T07:11:04.765-04:00Back...I think.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I should probably explain my absence from the blog.</div>
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From the beginning I told myself that <i>off the path</i> would be something that I would do in my spare time for as long as it served as an outlet for the things banging around inside my head and heart. At some point, what little wind I had in those particular sails went away. At about the same time a stiff breeze picked up for another 'free time' project that would absorb all the spare moments I could give it. That particular project has slowed some and the wind is filling these sails again...while it lasts, I'll try my hand at scribbling here a little more often. </div>
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Just a quick peek into today's flight:</div>
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For the past couple of weeks, our team has had the amazing privilege of flying some 9000 Bibles into the Lik and Ketengban people groups. I think we're more than half way done.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">32,000 pounds of Ketengban Old Testaments <br />
ready to be flown out to the villages.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>photo Tim Harold</i></span></div>
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This morning, Tim and I had over 1200 pounds of the precious cargo in the back when we landed at the Ketengban village of Okbap.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-39482283045350862072013-08-18T08:07:00.003-04:002013-08-18T08:10:19.095-04:00Missed Chance To Wok The DogI am not especially fond of our dog.<br />
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My days often start before the sun is up and much of my antipathy towards the dog is rooted in the number of times I've been walking to my car in the pre-dawn darkness and planted a half-awake foot in some unpleasantness she insists on depositing in the center of our driveway. Got a whole yard-full of grass but the only place she'll leave these bundles of joy is smack in the middle of the driveway.<br />
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Then there's the fact that she barks at everybody. <i>Everybody</i>. From two-year-olds to grandmas and everyone in between. Friends, enemies, red and yellow, black and white...she's an indiscriminate barker.<br />
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Got a new neighbor recently and I asked how he liked the area. "It's great except for that dog of yours. She barks at <i>everybody</i>." Tell me about it.<br />
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I should mention that she pees in the driveway too. Generally not too much drama on this one... unless it's rained. Then you have no clue which puddle is loaded.<br />
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Did I mention she's covered in mange?<br />
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The low point of my day (assuming I got lucky and made it through the driveway-minefield with no trauma) is pulling back into that same driveway after work to be jumped on by a frenzied, mange-covered dog. Why she's happy to see me I have no idea. Believe me, I give her zero encouragement (I can do the 'mind-over-matter' thing, but I just can't bring myself to pet mange.) And trying to keep her down is as futile as trying to keep her from barking... which, incidentally, is the only way I get a break from the jumping-on. Some innocent soul will walk by and she'll tear her mangy self off me and sprint after said innocent soul, barking up a blue streak. Based on their use of language, she apparently scares the innocence out of a lot of souls.<br />
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Not fond of the dog.<br />
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So yesterday, one of our neighbors asked if they could cook the dog for a birthday party they were planning. Not kidding.<br />
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My dear wife told them no.<br />
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<i>She told them no.</i></div>
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I'll let you know when I recover from the depression.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-18253642769628908912013-08-08T18:25:00.000-04:002013-08-10T02:45:12.214-04:00An Outhouse With a ViewIn 1989 my uncle, Greg Gordon, built a cabin on the top of East Haven mountain in Vermont. Check out <a href="http://www.ehmicabin.com/" target="_blank">http://www.ehmicabin.com/</a><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Cabin. East Haven Vermont.</i></td></tr>
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On the opposite side of the summit from 'The Cabin' is the only outhouse I've ever seen with a picture window, offering glorious views of Vermont's mountains during what is otherwise a rather inglorious undertaking.<br />
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A couple of weeks ago, after landing at a mountain runway here in Papua, I clambered over the edge of the airstrip to rid myself of a cup of coffee that had made its way from my thermos to my bladder.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At 6000 feet above sea level, <br />Okpahik clings to the side of one of the Star Mountains.</i></td></tr>
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Lo and behold I was greeted by the incongruous sight of an outhouse precariously clinging to the cliff. Someone, quite some time ago by the looks of things, had anticipated my need. I must say that this outhouse, due to its sad state of repair, gave even better views than the one on East Haven Mountain. With no front, the whole thing was a picture window and the view of the Kiwirok valley was unparalleled. With the roof long gone, one even has a view of the heavens whilst performing the most earthy of tasks.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WFQxRIuldzQ/UfTR0aABcLI/AAAAAAAABW8/8Is2HlNhtGI/s1600/IMG_20130723_073710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WFQxRIuldzQ/UfTR0aABcLI/AAAAAAAABW8/8Is2HlNhtGI/s400/IMG_20130723_073710.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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While the business end of the outhouse (i.e. the hole in the ground) still seemed quite functional, the wooden boards around it didn't appear to be very trustworthy. Since I could think of several hundred other holes I'd rather fall in, I chose to take my business elsewhere.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8135220707817483212.post-61307035124271217532013-08-01T04:08:00.000-04:002013-08-01T21:41:20.917-04:00Another Stowaway<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am, of course, kidding. Not a stowaway. <br />Two pups were legit passengers on a recent flight<br />and I couldn't resist the photo op.</span></td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1