Eric E. Wright's Blog, page 18

Road Trip to Port Burwell – Traveling South-west Ontario, #4

From Long Point I drove to Port Burwell on the Lake Erie shore. It has both a beach, a unique setting for birds and museum of items from the many wrecks of schooners in the adjacent waters.  The safe and sandy shore attracts many families as does the lighthouse museum and the relics of Erie’s wild storms which are scattered about the town.

Fishing trawler

For the migrating purple martins the town has set up a whole condo community where they can settle in and find food for their hatching families before their flight to South America in the fall. There’s even a church! The males are dark and glossy blue while the females are brown and often peak out from their nests. It’s fascinating to watch their aerobatics as they snatch insects out of the air, return to their condo and feed their young. Many of these gregarious swallows perch and warble at each other.

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at: http://www.countrywindow.ca Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

The Mystic Power of Red – Our story continued, #16

In October of 1966 our family increased to five! Mary Helen took Debbie and went early to the Multan Mission Hospital to be in plenty of time for the delivery. Debbie enjoyed all the attention she received living in a compound with the Miss Sahibs who worked in the hospital. (Miss Sahib is a term for single ladies.) The hospital was very short staffed but they served very proper meals. Debbie remembers the china dishes on linen with finger bowls and all the trappings. Debbie thought the finger bowls were really neat and wondered why we didn’t have them at home. Stephen and I followed them about two weeks before John was due.

But John was reticent to leave the womb. He arrived two weeks late and only after the doctor had administered pit drips. The family always teased him later that this explained his easy-going laid-back nature. That fall, it took some time for Mary Helen to recover from complications. But with the Innigers off on a well-deserved furlough, the work had to carry on.

The mission had begun an outreach to a scattered tribal group, the Marwaris. In a prayer letter from that time I describe one visit I made with Pakistani co-workers.

“We engaged the four-wheel drive as we slithered and bounced through the rutted sand. Dusty and tired we finally lurched to a stop in front of a cluster of huts surrounded by an enclosure of thorn. The huts stood at a distance from the main village as if these “idolaters” might contaminate the Muslim villagers.

We were welcomed warmly and seated on beds spread with colourful quilts. While the children and women stared at us shyly, one of their holy men, a khad, consented to play a few of their haunting religious ballads on his sitar. Against the background of this oriental tune, I reflected on this strange island of people in the great ocean of Islam.

John Ranah and his wife

The proud Marwaris and their cousins, the Meghwals, are distinct tribes of very poor nomadic people scattered through the southern Panjab and south into the forbidding Sindh desert. They have distinct dress, language, customs, religious beliefs and folk-lore. No one seems to know their origin. They are quite distinct from another ethnic group, the Muslim Reositi people of Bahawalpur State and lower Panjab who have lived here in their walled villages for centuries. Nor are they related to the Panjabi settlers who flooded the area after the development of land along newly opened canals.

Some maintain they are an offshoot of the Mar-Thoma Church of South India. Biblical allusions in their ballads and the ceremonial red cross they paint on new-born infants and brides lend some credence to this claim. However, the cloth streamers on poles, the crude wooden god in a wall niche wrapped in red cloth, and the incense sticks indicate they owe more to animism and Hinduism.

Red is predominant in their culture. They believe that it has a mystic ability to ward off evil. The men wear turbans and dress somewhat like the Panjabi farmers in long shirts, qamizes, and baggy trousers, shalwars. Their women wear distinctive red dresses with green highlights that often have little mirrors sown into the hem. Although shy, their women do not follow the Muslim custom of hiding their faces from men.

As we drove home, I rejoiced that two men, James Moro and John Rana, recently converted, were hard at work evangelizing their tribe. They had been touched by the ministry of Domji, a dynamic Marwari convert from the Conservative Baptist ministry south of us in the Sindh province.”

Whenever we conducted training sessions, James and John—tribal disciples of Jesus—joined our Panjabi pastors to study the Word. I came to really appreciate them; James Moro for his love for Christ and desire to learn English; John Rana for his hearty laugh and powerful use of Isaiah’s descriptions of idolatry to challenge his people with the folly of idol worship.

Teaching in a Marwari village

We would often schedule a short-term Bible School to help deepen our co-workers in their understanding of Scripture. After the Innigers departed for a well-earned furlough, I was tasked with teaching these sessions. During my first opportunity, I chose an exposition of the book of Deuteronomy to lay a foundation in the law as our schoolmaster leading to salvation. It might seem a strange choice, but it is a foundational recording of deliverance from slavery and preparation for entrance into the promised land.

We met outside under some shesham trees. The heat was still intense. In spite of the inhospitable environment, I enjoyed immensely my personal study of this little read book of the OT. It became a joy to share my passion for the importance of the Old Testament. I’m sure the help I felt at that time was another example of the undergirding grace of God. The pastors and evangelists who attended seemed to appreciate the study. (To be continued)

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at: http://www.countrywindow.ca Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

ROAD TRIP THROUGH SOUTH-WESTERN ONTARIO, PORT STANLEY AND ST. THOMAS, #5

From Port Burwell I followed the Nova Scotia line to Port Bruce and then along the Dexter Line to Port Stanley. All along the way, luxurious houses clung to the shoreline. It was obviously a prime place to live for those in South-western Ontario.

Port Stanley proved to be a fascinating destination for those seeking relaxation under the sun, not only today but in generations past. A railway, since abandoned used to run from London, Ontario to Port Stanley carrying coal from Pennsylvania and fresh fish to London, and vacationers back and forth from the whole of South-western Ontario to this popular vacation spot. Renovated railway cars stand ready to take tourists and RR enthusiasts on short jaunts along the line.

Along the road beside the wide river there are condos, restaurants and a wide variety of shops luring tourists into their intriguing interiors. Fishing trawlers tie up to jetties on each side of the broad river where one can see piles of containers for their catches. A short way from the harbour, a beached and decommissioned submarine stands ready to welcome the curious.

Port Stanley, fish containers near main drag. Decomissioned sub

I could have stayed much longer to explore the port but it was time to head inland to find my motel in St. Thomas. St. Thomas, billed as the Railroad City, was a surprise. A very high, abandoned RR trestle had been turned into an elevated walkway and park with marvelous views over the deep valley below. It also had a full-size statue to Drumbo, the elephant. Why I asked myself?

Billed as the world’s largest elephant by Barnum and Bailey circus, Drumbo was being loaded into a circus boxcar in St. Thomas after a show, when a barreling freight train hit and killed him. He had been a superstar seen by thousands. His death spawned a series of conspiracy theories including one that, with his declining health and unpredictable behaviour, the circus had staged the death. In a special, David Suzuki proved that his death had been by massive trauma.

With a new day dawning and time constraints, I could not explore further along the shore of Lake Erie to the tail of Ontario jutting into the US, nor our most southerly land on Point Pelee and Pelee Island. Perhaps, I would return. Instead, I cut across country to find the shore of Lake Huron at Goderich. (to be continued)

Ubiquitous wind turbines dominate productive farmland

Seven Lonely Days – A Man’s Journey Through Grief, #8 & 9

All week I’ve had snatches of a song running through my mind; “Seven lonely days make one lonely week.” It’s been almost five months since the Lord took Mary Helen home. I seem to have this grief-thing under control. Well, not quite. I know that I should be used to the empty condo by now. I should be able to go through my days without losing it. I should have control over my emotions. I try to fill my calendar with tasks, with people to meet, with writing, with books and articles to read. But no matter how much I try to fill it, emptiness echoes through my days and nights. Emptiness echoes off the walls.

“Seven lonely days” still echoes in my mind, and I break into protracted sobbing. Why? Because I miss Mary Helen. She was there to share ideas and memories. She was there to pray with. She was there to take the lead in remembering birthdays, in calling and in sending cards, and in hugging people at church and asking how their week went. Now the condo is empty.

“Seven lonely days.” I couldn’t remember the rest of it so I looked it up.

Seven lonely days make one lonely week
Seven lonely nights make one lonely me
Ever since the time you told me we were through
Seven lonely days I cried and cried for you.

Clearly the last half of that verse won’t work. I need to change it.

Seven lonely days make one lonely week

Seven lonely nights make one lonely me

Sixty-one happy years with my sweet honey-dew

Since you’ve gone home, I cry and cry for you.

I think I feel a little better after writing that.  (If you want to hear an old rendition of that song go to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtW9hNa67v4

TWELVE HUNDRED LONELY MILES A MAN’S JOURNEY THROUGH GRIEF CONTINUED, #9

I’ve just returned from a four-day road trip along the shores of Lake Erie and Huron and across the rich farmland of South-western Ontario. It was a good time to just wander and enjoy ideal summer weather. But in unexpected places and at unexpected times I was waylaid again by grief.

Sudden memories of having been here with Mary Helen surprised me. The delicious chowder we enjoyed in Port Dover. Sight of an old inn we remarked about. Suddenly, feelings that I thought behind me overwhelmed me.

Long, interesting but lonely miles with no one to point out roadside flowers to, no one to enjoy with me the view, no one to walk with around a harbour. Lonely motel rooms.

Everywhere I go I see couples together. Eating together. Laughing together. Walking hand in hand. It’s wonderful. Love is wonderful. God created such a wonderful thing when he created marriage where two people, a man and woman living together in covenant love. There is hardly anything more wonderful. What are houses and Lamborghinis and TV’s and rich food and exotic holidays and rewarding jobs? Nothing compared to love. No wonder I’m suddenly ambushed by loss. As a many have said:

Grief never ends,

But it changes.

It is a passage,

Not a place to stay.

Grief is not a sign of weakness

Nor a lack of faith,

It is the price of love.

Fortunately, more and more I’m feeling the love of God, higher than the heavens, longer than all of time. Lavishing our world with His amazing gifts of beauty and bounty. How wonderful is His grace in sending His Son to walk among us, loving us so much that he would take our sins to the cross! Rising from the dead to give us new life. I’m often these days waylaid by thoughts of His glorious love which so transformed my life and then our lives together. As one hymn writer put it;

Heaven above is softer blue,

Earth around is sweeter green.

Something lives in every hue,

Christless eyes have never seen:

Birds with gladder songs o’er-flow,

Flow’rs with deeper beauties shine,

Since I know, as now I know, I am His and He is mine.”

(Hymn, I Am His and He Is Mine, Wade Robinson)

Wild asters

But still, I think the Lord understands my sense of loss. After all, He brought us together. This morning I finished another box of tissue.

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at: http://www.countrywindow.ca Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

War With India – Our Story Continued, #15

Out in the villages the wheat harvest was complete. The parching loo had begun to blow in from the Rajasthan desert. It was time to move to the cool mountain town of Murree for intense language study. This pattern continued for the first few years until we passed our third year Urdu exam. And when the children reached school age, Mary Helen enrolled them in Murree Christian School where they became day students throughout the summer. After I became more proficient in Urdu, I’d travel back and forth to Rahim.

Down on the plains, we would often schedule a short-term Bible School to help deepen our co-workers in their understanding of Scripture. After the Innigers departed for a well-earned furlough, I was tasked with teaching these sessions. During my first opportunity, I chose an exposition of the book of Deuteronomy to lay a foundation in the law and salvation. It might seem a strange choice, but it is a foundational recording of deliverance from slavery and preparation for entrance into the promised land.

We met outside under some shesham trees. With the loo blowing it was incredibly hot. In spite of the inhospitable environment, I enjoyed immensely my personal study of this little read book of the OT. It became a joy to share my passion for the importance of the ten commandments, the schoolmaster to lead us to Christ. I’m sure the help I felt at that time was another example of the undergirding grace of God. The pastors and evangelists who attended seemed to appreciate the study.

In the summer of 1965, tensions with India reached a peak. Of course, tensions prevailed throughout our time in Pakistan and continue to this day. The main flashpoint was Kashmir. Pakistan felt all of Kashmir should have become part of Pakistan at independence since the majority of Kashmiris were Muslim. Instead, India claimed it by virtue of a Hindu Nabab being the ruler. The two countries skirmished until an international tribunal divided it into what Pakistan called Free (Azad) Kashmir and Indian-occupied Jammu and Kashmir.

That summer, Pakistan initiated Operation Gibraltar to infiltrate forces into Indian-held Kashmir with the purpose of precipitating a Muslim insurgency against India. India retaliated by launching a full-scale military attack on what was at that time, West Pakistan. Just as hostilities were at their height, we were due to travel from Murree back to Rahim Yar Khan. But the main road to Lahore was under serious threat, being close to the Indian border. It was deemed too dangerous for travel. What to do? We decided to travel by roads through the countryside at some distance from the Grand Trunk Road.

There were few petrol-stations on that route and because of the war, petrol might become rationed at any time. To solve that problem, we borrowed a trailer to carry a number of kerosene tins full of petrol. We made slow progress south on the one-lane roads. However, our spirits were high. We were seeing a new part of the country. When petrol got low, we stopped and filled the tank from one of the kerosene tins.

Stephen thought he would help, so when we were busy elsewhere, he would gather sand to dump in after the petrol. As you can imagine, before long we began to have problems. Fortunately, in some anonymous village, we found a mechanic who cleaned out the carburetor. And off we went with Stephen somewhat wiser.

We had planned to travel during the night when it was cooler. But as darkness fell, we drove through one village where some men with staves waved us to a stop. They accused us of signalling India with our taillights during the black-out that had been declared. While I had not turned on our headlights, I had completely forgotten that every time I braked, the taillights beamed red.

It took many appeals in our fractured Urdu to convince the village that we were just travelers not agents. But once satisfied they became typical hosts. They insisted we stop for the night. For our accommodation they brought out string beds so we could sleep right there by the side of road in the middle of the village. The kids thought it a great adventure. I’m not sure how much we slept, but in the morning, we left with many salaams.

Back in Rahim Yar Khan, authorities insisted we dig a dugout in the front lawn in case of attack by Indian bombers or the land forces which were only 30 miles distant. The Indian Rajasthan desert takes quite a bite out of Pakistan right in the area of RYK. For this reason, the thought that an Indian land incursion could cut Pakistan in half was uppermost on people’s minds. The administration assigned a soldier to guard our home. Several times Indian planes flew over as they attempted to cut the north-south railway or bomb the Lever Brother’s plant. Being an avid camera buff, I insisted on surreptitiously snapping a few shots of Indian planes. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a zoom lens so they turned out as mere specs.

One day the soldier who had been guarding us, accused Mary Helen of leaving without permission. The local Superintendent of Police closely monitored our movements, especially those with American passports such as Mary Helen. Mary Helen explained to the guard that she hadn’t gone anywhere, but another missionary had. The Soldier shrugged, “Oh, all you foreigners look alike anyway.”

As it turned out this war was short-lived; seventeen days. However, it did inflict thousands of casualties on both sides and witnessed the largest engagement of armoured vehicles and the largest tank battle since World War II. Most of the battles took place in the north around Sialkot and Lahore. India was gaining the upper hand when the Soviet Union and the USA negotiated a ceasefire that led to the Tashkent Declaration. Indians lamented that a few more days of conflict and they could have captured Lahore. But as some Canadian Peace Keepers who visited us in the days that followed commented, the declaration of who won the war depended on which side of the border you were on.

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at: http://www.countrywindow.ca Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Road Trip to the Ports of Lake Erie and Lake Huron, #3 — Port Rowan and the Long Point Biosphere

While summer weather sent many Ontarians headed to Muskoka and points north others flew to BC, Alberta and south into the US. I took the road less travelled—a four day road trip through South-western Ontario. In my road trip I discovered hidden gems of history and viewed fascinating but little-known parts of Ontario.

From Port Dover, my first stop, I drove along Front Road through a series of small ports, the wonderful sandy beach at Turkey Point and on to Port Rowan on Long Point Bay. Settlers arrived in this area in 1790. The inland part of this bay was largely sheltered from the wild storms that suddenly would appear on Lake Erie. During the war of 1812, American raiders burned the town and other ports along the shore.

Thousands of wooden schooners and steam-powered vessels plied the waters of Lake Erie during the 19th century. Dozens of these were built in the Inner Long Point Bay. However, the shallow nature of the bay and the 45 km long spit of land that constitutes Long Point contributed to storms beaching many ships. Even today storms bring to the surface relics of these old ships. One great storm drove a sailable hole through Long Point enabling ships to sail into the sheltered bay. However, “blackbirds” put up false lighthouses to lure ships onto the shore so they could be looted. Since the nearest law enforcement was in London, it remained a relatively lawless area.

Port Rowan

In the sheltered bay, we find the village of Port Rowan with a much-reduced population from pioneer times. It remains a place where evidences of Erie’s maritime history are treasured.

What has not changed is the magnet this area has been to migrating birds and resident reptiles, and turtles. The marshes formed by the Long Point spit provide an ideal habitat for their sustenance. Thousands of tundra swans make their stop here on their migration north in the spring and south in the fall. Uncounted other species either reside here or stop on their journeys making it a magnet for bird watchers.

[image error]

Fishermen and hunters come from far and near attracted by the enormous diversity of flora and fauna in this biosphere. A chart lists 18 distinct species of sport fish. Although the furthest part of Long Point is protected as a provincial park, cottagers have also settled along any part that is stable enough. What a fascinating time I had in Port Rowan and exploring Long Point.

I could have spent days exploring this rich biosphere, but time constraints moved me to head to my motel for the night. My stay in St. Thomas proved to be intriguing as well. (to be continued.)

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at: http://www.countrywindow.ca Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Want Hospitality? Visit a Pakistani Village. – Our story continued, #14

Visiting villages became an important part of our ministry during our first term. Until the weather became too hot, I would cycle out to villages. With the loo blowing it was incredibly hot. The loo is the searing wind that frequently blows off the Rajasthan desert during the summer months. In no time it drains all moisture from one’s face, leaving lips cracked, throats parched, and eyes seared. During the hot season, there never seemed to be enough water to drink since I had to be very careful of dysentery. During visitation, I’d pop a halazone pill in a glass of murky canal water and wait the required amount of time trying to curb my anguished thirst.

Fortunately, within a year or so, I was able to get a jeep so I could more easily visit villages along with an accompanying pastor. Here’s a description of a visit in ‘66 or ‘67.

The dust clouds billowing behind our jeep couldn’t dampen our spirits. On either side of the dirt track, clumps of sugar cane, stubbly fields of harvested cotton, ankle-high wheat, and patches of clover marched to the horizon. There the fields ended at the edge of the encroaching sand dunes of the great desert that marched to the Indian border. In one field I spied a man ploughing while from another a billowing cloud of black smoke rose from a crude sugar cane refining operation. On the right a cluster of mud houses under some shisham trees caught our eye.

We turned left down a neatly kept canal road and then crossed a brick bridge into the village. At the edge of the village, we stopped in front of a mud-walled compound, home of one of the Christian families. Through the gate we saw a woman bent over a spinning wheel. Seeing us, she jumped up and shouted a hearty welcome. She ran to get us a string bed over which she spread a hand-embroidered coverlet before seating us royally. She slipped away to make tea and begin supper. Her son ran to the fields to call the men who normally wouldn’t come in until evening. Such hospitality!

Seated on the charpai, a string bed, I reflected on these dear village Christians. They are very poor share-croppers. Their livestock comprised a buffalo or two for milk and a pair of oxen to pull their plough. A few goats or sheep, a straggly pair of chickens, and a mangy dog completed the picture. Normally they had enough to eat but this year the crops have been poor and most of their grain was gone, forcing them to buy it from the city at double or triple the price. The canal water to irrigate the fields had been much reduced due to the failure of the monsoon in the northern mountains. Fortunately, wheat was arriving from the west to stave off famine but we wondered, “how many hands does it pass through before reaching those who really need it?”

These sharecroppers were beset by problems that would stymie most of us. There might be a village school five or more miles away, but why enrol their children when they were needed to work the fields and take care of their livestock? They might be the only nominal Christian family in this Muslim village. Because of that they might be subject to restrictions on use of the village well. It was no wonder they were fearful of the stability of their position in the midst of an ocean of Islam. Because of Islam’s pervasive influence, some affixed Muslim charms from the Koran around their babies’ necks to ward off evil spirits and sickness. Since there was no doctor for ten miles and he might be poorly trained and costly, they naturally preferred going to the village hakim. The hakim is part Muslim mystic and part healer. And when they took their disputes about water-rights to a town clerk, they might not be able to afford the bribe his outstretching hand demanded.

But in spite of everything, they were a likeable, hospitable, industrious, and resourceful people. Unfortunately, at that time the faith of most was nominal and superstitious. How deeply they needed the living Saviour. How eager the pastors were to bring them the gospel.

Before long the men arrived from the fields and a tasty supper was ready. Chapatis—thin, flat, round, whole wheat bread and spicy curried vegetable stew was placed before us. After supper we chatted over bowls of sweet tea. As we finished our meal other Christians from the village, gathered. Dusk descended. A kerosene lamp was lit and burlap bags spread on the dusty courtyard. Padre Hidayat led in a Psalm and a hymn, keeping time with two wooden contraptions, reminiscent of tamborines. He prayed then asked me to preach. I stumbled through a message in my fledgling Urdu trying to make it clear, knowing that most there spoke the Panjabi dialect. A few listened intently, faces glistening with understanding. Some fell asleep. Tears came to the eyes of one or two.

After the service the village elder asked us why we had been so long in coming. “It’s been over a year. Why don’t you or the Innigers come every week?” Some asked if we had any US wheat or powdered milk. How to answer their queries? It seemed pointless to explain that our veteran missionaries, the Innigers, were 400 miles away at a Bible Institute or that other missionaries were due for furlough. No use trying to explain that I needed to spend almost full-time working with the town church. With the decline in our missionary force, I had been given the responsibility to supervise two schools and a book room, conduct short-term Bible Schools for the Christian workers, encourage outreach to a new tribe while carrying on language study. The perennial mission lament then and now continues to be, “Lord where are the workers?” (to be continued)

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at: http://www.countrywindow.ca Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Road Trip through a prosperous but possibly unthankful Province

In my road trip of discovery last week, I drove from Port Dover to Port Stanley along the Erie shore and then along the shore of Lake Huron to Port Elgin.

Port Elgin

As I travelled, I pondered the challenges of the pioneers who came to Ontario well over 200 years ago when the province was covered with mature mixed forests. Our pioneers must have laboured for years to clear the forests enough to plant meagre fields. All transportation was by water, hence the importance of these ports which were settled at the mouths of the various rivers that ran into Lake Erie and Huron. Imagine the difficulties they faced. There were no highways except by water until the colony pushed through primitive roads. No chainsaws. No tractors. No grocery stores. No malls. No building centres. Only horses for ploughing. They faced enormous labour and danger.

Because they were people of faith and found great comfort in worship and prayer, they established churches wherever they settled. Of course, we must not idealize these pioneers. Many were but Sunday Christians or worse; even so vibrant faith simmered in the hearts of real believers who had left the “Old Country” for lives of freedom in the “New”. These believers insisted that churches be erected. Sadly, many of these churches have now stood empty for several generations. Many have been turned into residences. But as a reader who knows this part of the province has informed me, in urban centres throughout this part of the province, new congregations have arisen. We can only hope and pray that the influence of these vibrant congregations may spread the good news far and wide. For without their influence, like the Israelites of old, Ontarians are prone to either be proud of their prosperity or complain about what they perceive as their rights. Few acknowledge their debt to the benevolence of God. We live in a profoundly blessed and prosperous province but thankfulness and a perspective on where we were 200 years ago is rare. As Winston Churchill noted; “Those that fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

A pioneer cemetery

Like the Israelites depicted in many Psalms, the pioneers cried out to God in the midst of privation and sickness. And God heard. What about now? What is ahead for our country, a country where vast numbers have abandoned faith and with it, thankfulness.

“Some wandered in desert wastelands [in the trackless wilderness] finding no city [place]where they could settle. They were hungry and thirsty, and their lives ebbed away. Then they cried out to the LORD in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress. He led them by a straight way to a city [place with rich soil where they could farm] where they could settle [and build churches for worship]. Let them give thanks to the LORD for his unfailing love and his wonderful deeds for mankind, for he satisfies the thirsty and fills the hungry with good things” (Psalm 107:4-9). Let them, let us, give thanks!

Throughout my travels in South-western Ontario, I was struck by our rich farmlands. Fields to the horizon full of corn and soybeans and ripening wheat. Other fields with every variety of vegetables and fruits. A few fields still of tobacco. Fields full of fodder for milking cows or beef. Huge chicken farms. The pioneers would be astonished.

Aspargus Holland Marsh

As a result of God’s benevolence we have a rich province relatively free from all of the turmoil in countries around the world—even south of our border. But too often we are not thankful! We need a gospel revival of repentance, faith and thankfulness. May the vibrant new churches spread the good news far and wide.

Does AA have something to teach the Grieving? -A Man’ Journey trough Grief, # 7

The other day, I found a parallel to what it is like going through grief in a very strange place. I was reading Louise Penny’s book, A Trick of Light, A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel. I came to a place that set me thinking. Gamache and his second in command, Beauvoir, were investigating a murder with a strange connection to Alcoholics Anonymous. They visited an AA meeting and Beauvoir took those attending as an indulgent bunch of misfits who couldn’t help anyone, let alone themselves. He said, “Seems pretty self-indulgent to me. And why would spilling their secrets stop them from drinking? Wouldn’t it be better to just forget instead of dredging all that stuff up?”

The Chief replied, “I think AA works because no one, no matter how well-meaning, understands what an experience is like except someone who’s been through the same thing.” (P. 186) Then he mentioned to Beauvoir a common and terrible experience they both had been through in their career. He realized that Beauvoir, in common with himself, was having real problems forgetting the trauma. He asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Beauvoir’s response is, “What good would it do?

Gamache responded, “I think we need to keep talking until it’s all out, until there’s no unfinished business.”

There is wisdom here. So my question about grief is; like Beauvoir would it help me best to just forget about Mary Helen’s home-going? Does it help to just pretend everything is okay? Cover up my feelings? Put on a strong, Christian, got-it-all-covered face? Or do those of us who have lost a loved one need to talk about it until it becomes commonplace for us to remember our loved one without cringing and terrible pain?

Is talking about her, part of the way to ease grief? And yet don’t people just get tired of us harping on this subject? Should there be a Christian Widowers Anonymous? Is that what GriefShare is? Do we prepare people in the church well enough for loss? It’s not enough to say, “Trust Jesus, your wife is in Heaven, God’s grace is sufficient.” That’s true but it doesn’t stop the tears. Do pastors and Christian counselors prepare people for grief? Personally, I can’t remember any training in this regard that I had. Of course, none of us can really be prepared for what is a very personal experience of loss. But there should be some general preparation to offer comfort and counsel to the bereaved. Just some musings to stimulate thought and spread understanding.

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at: http://www.countrywindow.ca Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

Convention Time! – Our Story Continued, #13

On the plains in Rahim Yar Khan, we welcomed an interruption in our language study to attend the twice-yearly convention, this one in October. These gatherings were patterned after the much larger and long-running Sialkot Convention mentioned in an earlier post.

We erected a huge, brightly striped tent on the front lawn of the “trembling house”. Rugs covered the ground. Another tent beside the house served as a dining area near the giant cooking  pots.

Happy chattering people milled around meeting friends and relatives they hadn’t seen since the last convention. In the big tent a circle of young people sat singing and clapping to the rhythm from a drum, tambourines, and a chimpta, 2 long, narrow hinged-metal strips that could be clicked together. It was convention time again!

Padre Hidayat strode to the platform to announce the commencement of the meeting. People streamed into the tent, leaving their shoes at the entrance. Men squatted on one side and women on the other. After prayer, Hidayat, signalled for the musicians to strike up the tune to a rendition of Psalm 150. Padre Umar beat a tempo on his tabla. Hidayat was soon in his element, leading the congregation in exuberant song. Hallelujah sanagao,

What a diverse assemblage! Some sported western clothing but most wore Pakistani dress; shalwar and qamiz. Some were shopkeepers while others were sweepers or teachers or nurses, mill workers, or government employees. Most were share-croppers from surrounding villages dressed in patched shirts with long tails, qamiz, and dhotis, a long length of cloth wrapped around their waists. All were nominally Christian except for several Muslim students and their teacher.

Some bore a look of eagerness and joy bespeaking a living faith in Christ. But the eyes of many betrayed no spark of spiritual understanding. What a step of faith it was for the local church in Rahim to invite Christians from the whole area and offer free food during a time of food shortage. The Lord honoured their faith and over 400 came. All the expenses were met by the Christians themselves with no mission help. Planning had been underway for months, including arranging to buy wheat at the controlled price.

After an exuberant time of worship that echoed throughout the neighbourhood, several from the group led in prayer then Hidayat introduced the speaker. Paul Lundgren from TEAM mission was the speaker that year. A few in the audience took notes during the stirring and practical message. The theme of the meetings was justification and holiness.

The three days of meetings were broken up by abundant meals of curry and the flat bread called chapattis. Huge pots of fragrant rice were also cooked for many meals. At night those from out of town slept right there under the convention tent unless they had relatives in town.

At the end of the convention some faces were tear-streaked and in some hearts Christ had secured a new home. Besides Mr. Lundgren, Merle Inniger also spoke. All of us sensed great liberty. Fatima, a new teacher in our school was converted. Tufail, the headmaster of the 116 village school testified to coming to understand justification for the first time. Other testimonies indicated the reality of God’s work in our midst.

Conventions in 1965 and 66 aroused much interest in Bible study, so much so that some felt we were in the throes of a revival. During that period, God converted a number of folk and inspired spiritual growth in many including Sharifa and Akhtar, teachers in the Allied Model School, our local mission school. Several trouble-makers were converted. Unity overcame friction and strife. Some who had been timid, began to witness to their faith. Demons had even been cast out. We also saw breakthroughs among the Marwari tribe with several being baptized.  

After convention people went back to their lives, many with a new or deepened faith. Conventions are mountain-top experiences but one can’t live on the mountain top for ever. Before long we saw signs that the devil was not happy with what God had done in many lives.

Living churches are seldom free of controversy. Some in the area sought control through demanding leadership because it brought izat—honour—a central aspiration of people in this culture. Some had aberrant views contrary to Scripture. The mixed nature of the church congregations exaggerated any misunderstanding. And the untaught nature of many made it easy to distort theology.

Let me explain. Since most Pakistani “Christians” were nominal, that is “Christian” in name, though unconverted, many in the churches were not submissive to the dictates of Christ. Without genuine conversion, learning to serve as Christ served was far from their minds. They had not yet realized that God, the Father promised to care for His children and that all glory must go to him. Most completely misunderstood the role of the mission which they thought of as their ma-bap, that is, their mother-father. They expected, not just protection from the Muslim majority, but financial support.

In one church meeting a young man arose with a paper in his hand and began to read to the visiting missionary. “We want you to baptize all our babies, build us a big church building, a school, and a hostel where our children can stay during the week’s studies. Then we’ll all join your church.”

While genuine Christians in the area began to realize that God, not the mission was their Father, this subliminal feeling of dependence persisted. The legacy of colonialism in the whole Indian sub-continent had left this impression. The colonial foreigners had built English-style cathedrals, substantial hospitals, schools, hostels, colleges, and other church buildings while paying the salaries of national pastors and workers. Such actions were, in the main, a genuine expression of missionary compassion. These pioneers had sought to demonstrate the mercy and love of God. But it inadvertently bred a sense of dependency; since foreign Christians were rich, they should pay all the bills. This legacy created many rice Christians who failed to realize that faith in Christ meant faith in His ability to provide for them as well as save them from hell.

To this day, mission journals continue to debate how to avoid dependency in new church plants while still demonstrating mercy through orphanages, schools, hospitals, clinics, and other works of compassion.

Nevertheless, the spiritual promise we had seen during the convention, encouraged all the pastors and missionaries to press on balancing compassion with responsibility. God would get the victory! (To be continued.)

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at: http://www.countrywindow.ca Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright –– Eric’s books are available at: https://www.amazon.com/Eric-E.-Wright/e/B00355HPKK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share)

__ATA.cmd.push(function() { __ATA.initDynamicSlot({ id: 'atatags-26942-62c9f36db080a', location: 120, formFactor: '001', label: { text: 'Advertisements', }, creative: { reportAd: { text: 'Report this ad', }, privacySettings: { text: 'Privacy', onClick: function() { window.__tcfapi && window.__tcfapi( 'showUi' ); }, } } }); });