CHAPTER 8—THE CALL

The days and nights pass uneventfully in Homejo for awhile. Ro and I are homeschooled in the upstairs bedroom by Mom, and Dad takes a picture of us, looking out of the window. Later he builds us a two-roomed playhouse out of hand hewn boards. We are delighted! A room for each of us, with a shelf in each where we slice cucumbers and carrots, and invite Johnny Cutts to play with us. He is newly arrived from the States, adopted on the Cutts’ furlough. Dark haired, lively and articulate, he makes the playhouse fun.

Mom and Dad begin raising rabbits to eat, and we enjoy the baby bunnies, furry and cute. One naptime we are allowed to each play with a bunny. My five year old sister squeezes hers so much it suffocates! Mom is perturbed—how could we do this? Ro is spanked for crushing it, and me for allowing it to happen.

One day I return home from playing and see a teenaged Moni girl sitting on the floor in the corner of our kitchen. She wears the usual string skirt and woven net hanging down her back, but she seems to be cowering.

“Amakane,” I greet her. She doesn’t answer.

“Mom, why is this girl here?” I ask in English.

“Zigumina is hiding with us,” Mom explains. “We’re keeping her safe because relatives want to kill her.”

“We are your friends,” I tell her in Moni. “Don’t be afraid.” She nods with solemn eyes.

Later I find she is accused of “incest” immorality, and in this tribe it’s punishable by death. She is blamed for sleeping with a man from another clan of the same moiety. Monis are strict about what part of the tribe a man can marry into. Accusers could break the legs of the suspected woman and throw her into the river. Men are somehow not held so accountable—maybe because women are owned, but men are not.

I am appalled and sad for Zigumina. She looks so small and afraid in the corner of our kitchen, across from the woodstove. Later in the afternoon angry men come to the back door looking for her. They call loudly, rattling the wood-rattan door. Mom shouts back, “You should treat your women with goodness!” She splashes hot water through the slats of the door, and the men finally leave. Later, after dinner and prayer we give our friend warm blankets and all go to bed.

But in the morning Zigumina is gone—she has fled in fear. We pray fervently for her during morning devotions. Later we find out the Moni girl was indeed caught by clansmen, her legs broken…and was thrown into the rushing Kemandoga River.

I am horrified—it seems unreal. How can Monis be so cruel to their relatives? I muse on this for several days. I have a heavenly Father…most Monis don’t know Him yet. They are living in darkness.

Near the middle of our four year term our family takes a month-long vacation into “civilization” in Australia. Dad also teaches a class in linguistics part of this time.

My sister and I are amazed by the city of Melbourne—the traffic, the crowds of people. “Look, there’s a gas station!” Ro exclaims. She remembers seeing them in books. I am struck by the smell of gasoline and oil. And another strange, clean smell…like America, I decide.

For a few days we settle into a guest house for mission workers that includes meals. Ro and I have our own room with bunkbeds. I wake up one night with a sense of Presence in the room. A strong, tender Voice speaks in my heart, “I want you to be a missionary nurse.”

I consider the words, full of wonder. “It must be the Lord,” I decide. He is speaking to me, like He did to Samuel. “Yes, Lord.” I answer Him. And then Jesus reminds me of the Wolani tribe who are still unreached. I could someday be dispensing medicine like Aunt Rosalie…God would use me to share His good news. I drift off to sleep…

Back in Homejo on our next Christmas I am given a special present that fills me with delight. It’s newly crafted—the silver paint is still tacky wet. Made by Santa…Dad? A wooden nurse’s kit filled with syringes, cotton balls, bandages. I’m entranced. My own nursing kit—tools to help others! Thank you, Mom and Dad… And Romaine receives a little metal gas station, with small cars…

We are blessed.