Photos Up on Facebook
Check out the latest albums from the trip on Facebook.
Donald Miller: A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life
Scot McKnight: A Community Called Atonement (Living Theology)
Steven Pressfield: The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles
Brian Doerksen: Make Love, Make War: NOW Is the Time to Worship
Robert L. Moore: Facing the Dragon: Confronting Personal and Spiritual Grandiosity
« March 2009 | Main | May 2009 »
Check out the latest albums from the trip on Facebook.
Some of you have asked how you can prayer for our team that leaves today for Ethiopia. You can download a copy of our schedule here: Download EthiopiaItinerary. We will be visiting new orphanages and looking for needy places and people that need our help. I can't thank you enough for your faithful friendship and commitment to what Children's HopeChest is doing in Africa and Russia. I'll post updates here and on my Twitter as often as possible.
April 18th Sat Team
goes to Gebre guracha to celebrate the Easter Holiday with 95 children Ebenezer
Orphanage – 2 hour
drive
Traditional
lunch @ Ebenezer
Easter Celebration
April 19th Sun Team
will go to Church at Holy Trinity Cathedral. The burial place for many famous people and once the
largest Ethiopian Orthodox Cathedral. Built to commemorate the country's
liberation from the Italians
Lunch at restaurant
Possible Cultural Options: Museums at Addis Ababa University, drive to Entoto (highest peak),Ethiopian National Museum &
April 20th Mon
Moses
Orphanage
Lunch at restaurant
New Orphanage Ministry Site
We have finished the video trailer for my first novel Scared. People have asked how to help get the word out, so here are a few suggestions:
<object width="400" height="225"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=4151141&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=4151141&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="225"></embed></object><br /><a href="http://vimeo.com/4151141">Scared - A Novel on the Edge of the World</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/hopechest">Children's HopeChest</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.
Times Online: The Ethiopian peasant farmer and his wife shuffled painfully into the orphanage. They were in the last stages of Aids and had only weeks to live. However, they were happy. They had heard the Franciscan nuns had found a home for their three children and had come to say farewell. “I am so happy, they are going to stay together,” the father, Solomon, whispered as he embraced a middle-aged Mormon couple from Salt Lake City, Utah. “Now, I can die peacefully. They will go to school in America and have a future. It is good they leave here.” As they embraced their two daughters, aged 8 and 6, for the last time the tears ran freely. Their four-year-old son did not appreciate the significance of the moment and ran off to play with friends. Sister Luthgarder, a seasoned veteran of such heart-rending adoptions, explained: “It is sad, but it is so rare they are kept together and so I am happy.” Only a week previously a brother and sister were separated: one going to Norway, the other to Canada. “The new parents said they would take them to see each other every year, but inevitably they will grow apart,” she said. Only a fraction of Ethiopia’s burgeoning population of orphaned children, now put at five million, find their way to Kidane Meheret Children’s Home. Even fewer leave and they are certainly the lucky ones. The Ethiopian peasant farmer and his wife shuffled painfully into the orphanage. They were in the last stages of Aids and had only weeks to live. However, they were happy. They had heard the Franciscan nuns had found a home for their three children and had come to say farewell. “I am so happy, they are going to stay together,” the father, Solomon, whispered as he embraced a middle-aged Mormon couple from Salt Lake City, Utah. “Now, I can die peacefully. They will go to school in America and have a future. It is good they leave here.” As they embraced their two daughters, aged 8 and 6, for the last time the tears ran freely. Their four-year-old son did not appreciate the significance of the moment and ran off to play with friends. Sister Luthgarder, a seasoned veteran of such heart-rending adoptions, explained: “It is sad, but it is so rare they are kept together and so I am happy.” Only a week previously a brother and sister were separated: one going to Norway, the other to Canada. “The new parents said they would take them to see each other every year, but inevitably they will grow apart,” she said. Only a fraction of Ethiopia’s burgeoning population of orphaned children, now put at five million, find their way to Kidane Meheret Children’s Home. Even fewer leave and they are certainly the lucky ones.
Sporadic blogs come from lots of travel! I've been out for two weeks speaking in North Carolina, Seattle, and Orlando. Events with pastors, men's breakfasts, churches, conferences; if it was a Christian event, I spoke at it.
Chapter One
Democratic Republic of the Congo, Africa, 1998
Ten years ago I was a dead man.
It all began when Lou, my broker from Alpha Agency, said,
“Stuart, how would you feel about heading to the Congo? Time is
putting together a crew and needs a hot photographer.”
He asked; I went. That’s how I got paid then. It’s how I get paid
now.
My job was to cover a breaking story on a rebel uprising that would
soon turn into genocide. Unfortunately, neither Lou nor any of us were
privy to that valuable information at the time. We should have seen
it coming. The frightening tribal patterns resembled the bloodbath
between the Hutu and Tutsi in Rwanda in 1994. We knew what
happened there had spilled over to the DRC—but we ignored it.
Our job was to focus on the story of the moment, whatever we
might find. But this was more than a search for journalistic truth. It
was an opportunity to win a round of a most dangerous game—the
chase for a prize-winning picture.
The plane landed in the capital city of Kinshasa. A man in combat
fatigues stood near a large black government car. Six armed guards
toting fully automatic rifles flanked him.
“That must be the mayor and his six closest comrades,” I said
to our writer, Mike, as I swung my heavy neon orange bag over my
shoulder. “Welcome to a world where you are not in control.” This
was Mike’s first international assignment. I swear his knees buckled.
Our team consisted of me; Mike, shipped in from Holland (a lower
executive from Time who was looking for a thrill and trying to escape
his adulterous wife for a few weeks); and Tommy, the grip, whose job
it was to carry our gear.
“Welcome to the Democratic Republic of Congo. I am Mayor
Mobutu.” We introduced ourselves, exchanging the traditional French
niceties.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“I must go and attend to some urgent matters, but there is a car
waiting for you. These guards will take you out to Rutshuru, North
Kivu.”
He pointed to a Land Cruiser near the airport building. The
mayor’s face carried the scars of a rough life. His right cheek looked
as if someone tried to carve a Z into it. His left eye was slightly lazy,
giving you the feeling he was looking over your shoulder, even when
you were face-to-face.
He turned to me. “You know how dangerous it is here. You are
taking your life into your own hands, and we will not be responsible.
We keep telling reporters this, but you never listen.” He started to
walk away but turned one more time and wagged his finger at each
one us as if we were children. “Pay attention to what these guards tell
you, and do not put yourself in the middle of conflict.”
Nobody ever won a Pulitzer by standing at arm’s length.
“Thank you for welcoming us, sir, and for your words,” I said.
“We will keep them in mind.” The guards nodded for us to follow,
and we made a solemn line into the Land Cruiser.
It was the rainy season, and on cue an afternoon storm whipped
and lashed across the landscape like an angry mob. As we drove
in silence, the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. We
arrived at the village that would serve as our headquarters. Amid the
familiar routines of a small community that seemed oblivious to the
dangers surrounding them, people who were displaced by violence
congregated in huddles hoping for safety.
I snapped off pictures of the scene. Once the children noticed my
camera, school was over. They surrounded me like ants on a Popsicle.
I had come prepared. I handed out candy as fast as I could, then got
back to the business of capturing images of this unsettling normalcy.
The sun hid behind the trees, and darkness enveloped the
thatched huts and makeshift refugee camp, swallowing them whole.
Our armed guards escorted us into a separate compound meant to
keep us safe from any danger lurking in the nearby jungles.
We took a seat on concrete blocks to enjoy a traditional African
meal of corn and beans, and we laughed about the monkeys we had
seen on the road hurling bananas at our Land Cruiser. It was funnier
than it ought to have been.
And then it happened.
The crisp pop of bullets battered our eardrums. The sounds
ripped through the jungle night and into the village. Then the screams
began. Screams that boiled the blood inside my ears.
I dropped, crawled on my belly to the window and slid up along
the front wall, craning my neck so I could see outside. A guard
across the room mirrored my actions at another window. Everyone
else was flat against the ground. As I peered through the rusty barred
window, flashes of light pounded bright fists against the sky, the
road, and the trees.
Buildings exploded with fire, and a woman cried out in terror.
Shadows flickered, black phantoms haunting the night. I made out
five or six soldiers beating a woman with their boots and the butts
of their guns.
She quit screaming, quit moving, and then they ripped the
clothes from her broken body. They began raping her. She came to
and started to scream again, pleading for help, and they hit her until
her screams choked on her blood. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
I turned my head.
The horror of this night was no act of God. No earthquake or
tsunami. This was the act of men. Evil men. Demons in the guise of
men.
The uncertainty of what might happen next hovered at the edge
of an inhaled breath.
The armed guards screamed for us to lay prostrate on the dirt
floor as bullets flew through the walls and widows, scattering plaster
and glass. I wiped away salty sweat burning my eyes. But the sweat
was thicker than it should have been. I tasted it.
Blood.
Fear strangled the air. Shallow breaths and rapid heartbeats echoed
throughout the tiny room. I thought about my last conversation
with Whitney. My last conversation.
Was it my last?
Mike’s hand slid up next to me. His whisper turned my head.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolls, man.”
Mike shoved his glasses back onto his oversized, pockmarked
nose. “This happened to one of my closest friends in Northern
Uganda. The rebel militia mutilated everyone and everything in
sight. No one made it out alive. No one. These monsters believe in a
kind of Old Testament extermination of anything that moves.”
“Thanks for the encouraging words.”
“I always knew I’d die young.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a string of wooden
rosary beads. “These were my mother’s.”
“I’m not Catholic.”
“Neither was I. Until now.…”
“Shut up!” one of the guards hissed.
Rivers of sweat baptized our faces, our necks, our chests.
Death, real and suffocating, pressed in, driven by the wailing of
dying babies, the yelps of slaughtered animals, the screams of women
being beaten and raped. My heart raced in rapid-fire panic.
I peered through a hole between a cinder block and a broken
windowsill. Rebel troops swarmed like locusts, devouring every
living thing in their path.
Mike elbowed me in the thigh. “Remember that story about
an African militia group that raped a bunch of Americans? Men,
women, children—they weren’t choosy.”
“You have to be quiet,” whispered a guard. He got to one knee,
steadying his gun. “Now shut up, or I’ll kill you myself.”
A rebel commander yelled something just outside the door.
Another shot, and the guard who had just spoken fell dead right on
top of me. His blood flowed over my neck and right arm, staining
my band of brothers ring crimson. The screaming intensified, people
ran, yelled, and died.
I scooted against the wall, huddled next to Mike as shots
continued to shriek overhead. Plaster exploded and covered us. We
tried to make ourselves invisible, curling into the fetal position,
wrapping our arms over our heads.
A bullet whined by my ear, missing by centimeters. I crawled
facedown to the other side of the room, trying to get out of the line
of fire.
Then a sudden, deafening silence.
Nobody moved for what seemed like hours. Fear paralyzed me,
and the silence thickened, punctuated by an occasional moan or a
sob. We waited and waited, wondering when it would be safe to
stand, wondering if it would ever be safe.
Finally, I gazed out the window, my eyes searching for rebel
soldiers in the yellow-orange gloom of smoke. No figures or
movement.
“I’m going out,” I whispered to Mike.
He didn’t respond
“Hey, listen. Let’s go, man.”
I elbowed him in the ribs.
“Mike!” I grabbed his jacket to turn him toward me. There was
a pinpoint crimson stain on the front of his light blue shirt. His eyes
stared through me.
I was frozen for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then I
pulled my camera out of my bag. I picked up Mike’s gear and slung
it around my neck.
Outside, the air burned of flesh. Some shadows moved in the
distance, but the streets were barren. A few jerking and twitching
heaps lined the road and quivered beside the buildings.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
I walked toward the flames. Everything was silent except for
a sour ringing in my ears. Something compelled me to enter the
destruction, to get closer.
Severed body parts lay before me in a display of such horror I
began to heave. A young pregnant mother crumpled over, lying dead
next to a burning haystack. She barely looked human. One leg lay at
a right angle, an arm hung loosely from her shoulder, held there by a
single, stringy tendon. Her stomach had been sliced wide open, the
wormlike contents spilled in front of her, still moving.
There was nothing I could do to help her. Nothing.
I lifted the camera to my left eye. Snap. Snap. Snap. The lens
clicked open and closed.
I stepped closer to capture the look on her face. Steam rose from
her insides. More pictures. Through the blood and mucus by her
midsection I made out a face, a tiny face with eyes closed.
Voices rose over the roofs. Something was happening at the end
of the village. Without thought, I raced through the corpses and
debris toward the commotion.
The rebel troops had gathered the bodies of all the men they had
slain. They were stacking them together in the shape of a pyramid.
As each body was thrown on top of the others, the rebels jeered,
spit on the dead, and drank from a whiskey bottle, reveling in their
triumph. They shot their guns into the air. Fire flashed around the
perimeter. It was a scene from hell.
A man climbed on the roof above the bodies, unzipped his pants,
and urinated all over the dead. The men slapped each other on the
back and laughed.
Another rebel poured some liquid over the bodies.
I adjusted the camera settings and snapped a series of shots as
fast as my fingers could click. The fire ignited, a pyramid pyre, and I
continued to shoot. I snapped pictures of the dead—men I had seen
earlier that day caring for their families—as their faces melted like
candle wax. I snapped pictures of the rebels’ ugly glee. And I felt like
retching again.
I turned and walked, faster and faster, until I was running.
Each step I took pounded the question: Why? Why? Why?
I raced to the edge of the compound and saw Tommy hanging
out the window of our car, frantically motioning me to come. We
sped off, the remaining guard driving like a bat out of hell, for it
was indeed hell we were escaping. As I turned to look out the back
window, I saw Mike’s body crumpled in the seat behind me. Like a
rotted rubber band, something inside me snapped. My whole body
shook. Sobs came without tears. I could muster only one coherent
thought: If we get out of here alive, at least we can send Mike back
to his family.
Back to his cheating wife.
A Note from the Publisher
Dear reader,
The story you are about to read is very much based upon real life.
Some pages contain depictions of horror unimaginable to many of
us but are reality to some. It is a sad reminder that there is much
darkness roaming the globe. First John 1:5 reminds us that God is
light and there is no room in Him for darkness. In fact, one of the
dear characters in Scared, Pastor Walter, will reference this verse when
comforting a young Adanna who wonders if God is indeed present.
Given the abuse, poverty, death, and destruction that afflict so many,
one does wonder, “God, are You there?”
The answer to that question can be found in countless thousands of
people who say in the affirmative, “Yes, He is here … and He is light.”
Child advocate and speaker Tom Davis gives us a gripping portrayal of
the hurt and pain that affects many in Africa. This story reminds us of
our need to be engaged in being light in a very dark world.
Some scenes will grip and haunt you, some passages you will
want to run away from—but this is real life. And real life requires
true Christ followers to act justly and love mercy. May Adanna’s story
inspire and embolden you.
Thank you for reading,
Don Pape,
Publisher, David C. Cook
The official sponsorship of Rapha orphanage in Uganda launched this weekend at Westwood Church in Florida. Today, every child at Rapha was sponsored and there's a waiting list of over 20 people!
Thank you, Lord!