A Relentless Passion - by Allan Packer
from Inspirational Australian Stories , Strand Publishing 2004
I'm assured of a warm welcome whenever I get home. It isn't the kids. When they were young, they were first to the door, arms outstretched and faces eager: 'Daddy's home!' Now they're teenagers, I'm flattered when they even notice my arrival. It isn't my wife. Sure, she's glad to see me and always greets me with a smile and a kiss. But she can't compete; she's told me so directly.
No, the household greeter is my dog, and his most enthusiastic greetings are reserved for me. I can spot him inside the front porch as I approach our driveway, sitting alert behind the glass, ears cocked, patiently watching the street. When I appear at the door, he begins a little war dance, spinning around, leaping into the air. In the words of my wife, the dog is passionately devoted to me. She finds it bemusing. The kids just find it annoying.
He accepts their attention gratefully when I'm not around. When I'm there, they call him and he comes to me. It's as though he suspects they're plotting to tear him away from his master. Even food takes second place. He won't eat until he knows for sure I'm not going anywhere. If he's eating and I head for the front door, he's with me in a flash, food forgotten. He'll come with me whenever I let him. He loves 'walkies' -even the mention of the word sends him into a frenzy.
Apart from that, he seems to find his greatest delight simply being in my presence. When I go upstairs to our bedroom, day or night, he quietly settles into his basket at the foot of the stairs. He just wants to be with me, or at least near me. I don't understand his devotion. Maybe he's simply decided I'm the alpha-male. Maybe it's because I was the one who rescued him. I found him at the RSPCA. They don't keep dogs indefinitely, and he'd been there a while. He was scrawny and a bit cowed, but he looked friendly. He was the right size and the right age: a border collie-kelpie cross, neither a big brute nor a little yapping terror, not a puppy and not too old. I took the family to meet him and they agreed, so we brought him home.
We soon fell in love with his affectionate nature and endearing ways. He's so obedient that it's hard to be too cross even when we catch him reclining in splendour on the family room sofa. We'd had him for almost two years before it came to my mind that I had a master, too. It was a time of refreshing and renewing in my relationship with God, and I sensed Him gently prodding me, pointing me to the obvious. Once the dog arrived, I became the daily object of a devotion that was relentless, passionate, unselfconscious and undemanding.
And yet my dog was not the only one who had been rescued through Jesus, I too had been adopted, undeserving, into a family beyond my reach. What of my own devotion to Jesus, my passion for his presence? The question haunted me for days. I'm more at peace about it now, although I'm not satisfied with my answer. But, I'll learn - God has provided me with a live-in role mode! And the dog loves me so lavishly I can't even hate him for showing me up! The apostle Paul was no stranger to passionate devotion. He wrote: 'all the things I once thought were so important are gone from my life. Compared to the high privilege of knowing Christ Jesus as my Master, firsthand, everything I once thought I had going for me is insignificant - dog dung.' [Philippians 3: 7-8, The Message].
He and my dog would have understood each other well. I hope that one day I'll understand them better too.
You can read more about our joys and sorrows with our King Charles Cavalier Spaniels over the past 18 years at http://www.hnlc.org.au/rensford/personal.htm “Tribute to Pepe”
Running the Marathon of Life - an inspiring extract from Philip Yancey
As someone who at last count (2005) has completed 63 marathons and ultra-marathons (up to 80km, and throw in an Ironman for good measure), I have strong empathy with Yancey's observations. Oh how you value true friends, and encouragers along the way!
For 20 years I have run, biked, or done other aerobic conditioning at least three times a week. I do so not because someone forces me, and surely not because it feels good - it seldom does-but rather because of what it allows me to enjoy. I can climb mountains and ski the Rockies without gasping for breath or pulling muscles. That is the reward for physical discipline. (The apostle Paul drew the obvious parallel: "Train yourself in godliness, for, while physical training is of some value, godliness is valuable in every way, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come" - 1 Tim 4:7-8).
I have run a number of moderate-length races, but only, one marathon. For the one-time amateur, at least, the marathon seemed a different kind of athletic event altogether. It took me so long- three and a half hours, compared to forty minutes for a ten-kilometre race - that I struggled with mental focus. In the shorter races, I always managed to stay aware of how I was doing, how much distance remained, how I measured up to my desired time. In the marathon, I felt like I was wearing blinders, unable to concentrate on the race as a whole. I fixated on the pain in my left big toe or my bladder's fullness or the quivering muscle on my right calf. Running on a cold, rainy day in Chicago, I could feel blisters developing on my feet from the friction of wet socks. I put on a windbreaker, then took it off. I hit moods of exaltation and despair, with no apparent reason. Keep moving, I told myself. It will end sometime. The only way to get to the finish line is to keep going.
A friend had agreed to meet me at the ten-mile mark, and when he failed to appear, I sank into a depression that lasted five miles. I forced myself to look at the runners around me, to notice the Chicago neighbourhoods, to listen to the bands posted along the route, and as I did so I lost track of the race and my place in it. As I passed 17 miles, a roar went up from the crowd who had just heard on the radio that the first runners had crossed the finish line. I had nine miles to run. At the 20 mark I hit the fabled Wall and was tempted to slow to a walk. Then my friend finally appeared, and for the first time I had someone to talk to. Chicago had closed off so many streets that he couldn't make the ten-mile rendezvous, he explained as he jogged, .In an unforgettable act of friendship, Dave, sensing my weakness, ran alongside me in street clothes the remaining six miles, offering me encouragement.
In five places the New Testament likens the Christian life to a race, I have little doubt that were Paul writing today he would specify a marathon race. The 26 miles I ran encompassed every human emotion. The transitory ones, peaks of excitement or despair, faded quickly. What kept me going was patience, endurance, and finally the encouragement of my friend. Later as I looked back on the race, my whipsaw moods fit into a predictable pattern that the running magazines describe as normal. At the time, though, I had no perspective, simply the step-by-step decision to keep going until the end.
"If you can't fly, run. If you can't run, walk. If you can't walk, crawl, but by all means keep moving," Martin Luther King Jr used to tell the civil rights workers. His advice applies equally to marathon runners and Christian pilgrims. Life with God advances like any relationship: unsteadily, with misunderstandings and long periods of silence, with victories and failures, testings and triumphs. To achieve the perfection that drew us on the quest, we must wait until the race has ended, until death, and the waiting itself is an act of extraordinary faith and courage.
Philip Yancey - Reaching for the Invisible God. p222
Some African Highlights and Lowlights
Just before we left for Africa in 2006, we sent out four anecdotes that kind of span our African experience. The blessings, the fears, the people, and the dumb things we have done along the way! There was quite a response to them, so they are included here for interest's sake - four atypical stories (all true) from reports we sent home during previous visits to Africa - one about unbridled FEAR; one an insight to the situation some Zimbabwean people face on the land; one a “dummy, dummy” story on Brian; and the last, the poignant story of Bvumai’s socks!… Enjoy!
2000 - SOMETHING SCARY!
Elizabeth and I have been nervous; at times we have been very afraid, but we have had (despite the repeated warnings from concerned folks back home not to go) so many rewarding experiences to make it all worthwhile. We have actually felt USEFUL - grace-bearers to so many beautiful people who need so much grace at present. We also did some dumb things
Mana Pools Game Reserve is on the Zambezi River (Zambia border). We were surrounded by wildlife in unprotected surroundings and had our own VERY scary moment when out walking (this is the one National Park in which you are permitted to walk unaccompanied), we came unexpectedly across a lone old bull buffalo sitting hidden in the long grass. We had only moments before been discussing how an acquaintance of Elizabeth’s (whom she had met in l991 where Gail was a YWAM worker in Beira, Mozambique) had been killed by a lone bull buffalo in this very same park and area - two days into her honeymoon when they walked in on it unsuspectingly! They are the most dangerous animal in Africa (for malevolent temper).
I saw it first, a mere 45 metres away, gripped Elizabeth’s arm like a vice, before we walked slowly backwards 50m, then ran for our lives into a gully. The bull rose to its feet, squared off, but didn't charge. This was probably the most terrified I have ever been in my life (what with the conversation about what would we do if we got charged)….
That was our last attempt to go walking in the park unaccompanied. We did go on a five-hour trek a couple of days later with a National Park guide armed with an AK47. At one point later in the day, he actually unlocked the safety catch when a very angry female elephant threatened to charge the Land Rover our hosts' family was sitting on top of (on a viewing platform). The children were terrified! Oh yes, they call this ‘fun’ in Africa!!
2005 - SOMETHING TYPICALLY “AFRICAN”
Jeremy and I visited a farmer under harassment. He had had 710 of his 750 hectares invaded. On the remaining 40 hectares, he had a commercial export roses operation. But, continual disease was ruining his whole stock. He had run out of plans to fix the problem. Then he discovered his plants had been cursed by the invading re-settlers using a n'anga (witch-doctor). We used the authority of Jesus’ name and broke the uroyi (curse); he came back 3 days later very excited to say there was absolutely no sign of disease in a sudden burst of new growth! That’s the kind of reality you live and minister in here. If you don’t handle that stuff too well, it’s best to stay home in Oz. We also encountered on his farm a re-settler roaring in a marijuana-induced rage at him, threatening to chop the heads off his two (guard) dogs that go with him everywhere. This family live with high-tension 24/7.
2002 - SOMETHING DUMB
After the so-called “war veterans” began invading white farmers’ properties in 2000, things got very tense. When you used the highways, you had to be prepared for numerous roadblocks and questionings. In a subsequent visit, we were south of Gweru when we encountered yet another roadblock at Shangani. But, this time the blockade was manned by armed men with vests with “veterans” written on them. They signalled me to stop. With an AK47 only feet away from my window, I politely answered their questions, sweaty palms and all,… about meat products! Then, I “proof-read” the vests again… Hang on, that’s “veterinary”… They were foot and mouth inspectors!! And I think I caught foot and mouth on the way through… The locals gave me heaps when I told them, calling out, “watch out for the war veterinarians, Brian!”
2001 - BVUMAI'S SOCKS!
What pastors from that part of the world face…. You will never complain again, believe me! We brought again spare clothes and shoes from home to fill our my airline luggage limit. Peter Zulu recommended certain students (several were older men) who do it hard. One came from an area where they never have enough food because the elephants come in and raid their crops! I had good quality running shoes Jim Barr gave me to pass on. They fitted Bvumai perfectly. He was so thrilled. He had no socks on, so I told him he needed to wear socks to stop the inside of the shoes wearing away (like the shoes he had were).
I asked him if he had some socks with him. He pulled a worn pair of socks out from under his soles in the shoes (which had no other insole) and put them on. Only thing was - they had no bottoms, and the toes and heels were worn away; only the part over the top of his feet and ankle was left.
I said to him he needed to make sure he used complete socks when he got home (200 kms away) to stop the new shoes wearing away. He looked at me embarrassed and said, "Brian, these are my ONLY socks"…. What could I do? Heck, I had two pairs of good-quality thick running socks with me.
Ummm, isn't that what 1 John 3:17-18 says? “If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth”. Man, this stuff comes home with a whack… How easy we have it at home. I don't feel guilty about this, but where I can make a difference, I have no other option if I love God.
So I told Bvumai I was not giving him my good socks, but I would do a sock swap with him, so I could bring his home and show our church what some pastors in Africa put up with without complaining! One sock is now permanently displayed on our church’s missions’ noticeboard, while the other is in our African Room at home in a glassed frame! It’s our most prized African memento and it really hits visitors!.