When I consider the multitude of amazing stories that come from the past quarter-century in missions, the two-weeks I spent in Mauritania with my friend and shipmate Bruce is one of the most memorable. The Anastasis was in The Gambia, a small country in West Africa in early 2000. I had the opportunity to go ashore and participate in a ministry activity different than my duties aboard the ship. I was thinking that Bruce and I would ride our motorbikes off into the bush to fix wells or something like that – but that changed one morning when I met a man from Mauritania on the ferry across the river Gambia. Knowing that French is the official language of Mauritania I said “Bon Jour”. My French is not very good but we had a nice conversation anyway. As the ferry reached its destination, I thought I would be clever and asked this man to deliver a message to the people of his country; “Tell them that Jesus loves them” I said. Mauritania is a closed Muslim country under Sharia law. I felt pretty good about myself as I started my motorbike and rode off the ferry – that is, till I heard an unmistakably clear voice, almost as if it was audible. “You go tell them” the voice said.
Since Mauritania is closed to the Gospel, we needed to be wise as we were obtaining our visas at the consulate. We were strictly tourists as far as the government was concerned. I had never been in a place that was serious about not permitting missionaries into their country. It was quite disconcerting but also very exciting especially because I had an Arabic bible that I was planning to smuggle into the country. We arrived at the airport in Nouakchott, Mauritania and I prayed hard during the hour or so it took us to get through customs and immigration. I was enormously relieved when the contraband I brought with me was not found.
Bruce and I spent several days in Nouakchott visiting some undercover ministries located there. There are Christians working in every nation on earth, sometimes under the cover of a business or as aid workers. One of the folks we met with was doing an exciting translation work and had a travel business. Through him, we rented a pickup truck and driver along with a few hundred liters of fuel in two drums in the bed of the truck. Our destination was about 700 kilometers inland to a place called Chinguetti. The driver had a very long Arabic name that we could not pronounce, so we called him Bob. He got used to it and seemed to like his new name. He didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak Hassaniya Arabic, but he and I both spoke bad French so we got by.
About 80% of Mauritania is Sahara Desert. After many hot, dusty hours with Bruce and Bob in our Toyota HiLux pickup on dirt/sand roads, we arrived in Chinguetti, the Seventh Holy City of Islam. The walled city was built 777 AD and by the 13th Century was an an important stop along the Salt Route between Mecca and Timbuktu. The ancient city is on one side of the wadi (dry riverbed) and the new village of a few hundred people on the other. We stayed in the Auberge de Chanteclair, an inn catering to the few tourists who make this trip into the middle of literally nowhere.
After a great night sleep, we met Jeddon a young man in his 20s who gave us a tour of the old city after breakfast. It was fascinating to say the least. No velvet ropes! Many of the buildings had crumbled but others had been preserved by the desert. The bibliothèque (library) was still intact with various scrolls on mathematics, astronomy, and other subjects on the shelves. I asked Jeddon if there were any scrolls about Issa (Jesus, considered a prophet in Islam). Jeddon said he thought there had been some but they had been moved to the museum in Nouakchott. He showed us some other scrolls. We held scrolls that were at least 600 years old in our hands!
After the truly mind blowing experience at the bibliothèque we walked across the wadi to the new side of the city/village where we met who we thought was the mayor of the town. As it turns out, he was not the mayor but he was a camel driver. He offered to take us to an oasis far to the northwest of Chinguetti in the morning. Of course, we accepted with enthusiasm. The next morning we woke up early and made our way to where “The Mayor” told us to meet him. Three camels awaited us and Bruce named his camel Otis. Bruce is a pretty big guy and Otis was quite verbally unhappy that Bruce was chosen to ride him. Finally, with much snorting, grunting, wincing and what was unmistakably camel cuss words, Otis was able to stand up with Bruce smiling on his back. It was hard not to laugh hysterically but I somehow managed.
Now, imagine the scene as Bruce, the Mayor and I were cruising across the Sahara Desert on camels, wearing our keffiyehs (Bedouin head coverings) toward an oasis. By 10am, it was 118 degrees. Around noon we arrived and the Mayor dismounted next to some date palms and motioned for us to do the same. He took the blanket off his camel and spread it out on the sand under the shade of the trees. He reached into a small cloth bag and pulled out a handful of nuts and tossed them on the blanket. We didn’t have any language in common but it was clear that he wanted us to take a rest on the blanket. What he did next was something that I will never forget. He pulled out a wooden bowl and from his bag he emptied something like flour. He had a whole goat tied to his camel that had been emptied of its insides. It made a great water carrying bag! He untied the cord around the end of one of the goat’s legs and poured water into the bowl. He mixed the concoction and formed it into what looked like a large pancake. He buried it in the sand. Then he pulled some of the bark from a date palm and arranged it in a small pile on top of the buried pancake. I have to say that I was a bit disappointed that in order to start the fire, he pulled out a Bic lighter. After a few minutes he moved the fire off to the side, uncovered the buried pancake, turned it over, reburied it and moved the fire back in place. Not long later he extinguished the fire and retried the now burnt bread. He scraped off the burned portion with a pocket knife, broke the bread and handed it to Bruce and I. It was the best bread I have ever had; not because of how it tasted.
The Mayor then, pointing at the blanket, said in English “sleep” as he mounted his camel and rode off into the desert. Bruce was out in seconds but I just had to explore. I climbed to the top of the nearest sand dune. From this vantage point, I could see dune after dune after dune in every direction. After climbing down and back up again on about four more dunes, I was confident that I was on the highest one in the area. I got to thinking about the sheer number of grains of sand before my eyes. Many scriptures speaking of grains of sand came to mind. I considered how few Christians would be within 1000 miles of where I was standing with Western Sahara and Morocco to the northwest, Algeria to the north, and Mali to the east and southeast. Even though I was in many ways very alone, I felt the presence of the Lord in profound ways. I began to shout out all the names of God that I could think of as loudly as I could. I dropped to my knees in the sand and wept. Profound is a word that does not come close to describing the hour I spent on top of that sand dune.
As I stood and turned to retrace my steps, it became clear that the breeze had covered my tracks. Nonetheless I found my way back to the oasis where Bruce was just waking up. As I shared my experience with him, the Mayor returned, retrieved his blanket and we made our way back to the village. Otis complained but not as much as when he first met Bruce.
The next morning I was in the small room we had rented. I was gathering my things as we were headed back toward Nouakchott that day. My pack was laying on the floor as Jeddon came into the room. A small tool bag had fallen out of the top of my pack and Jeddon asked about it as he had never seen tools like the little ratcheting screwdriver I had. As we were talking I had the unmistakable feeling that my prayers about who to give the Arabic Bible I had smuggled into the country were about to be answered. Bruce and I had an agreement that we would make the decision together since we would both be punished if it was discovered by the authorities. As Jeddon and I were talking, Bruce walked in. He and I locked eyes and he knew exactly what I was suggesting without a word being said. He smiled and nodded with approval. I reached into my pack and unzipped the ‘secret’ compartment where I had stashed the bible. I handed the book to Jeddon. He said in French, “Is this a gift to me from you”? I thought about it and replied “no, this is a gift to you from God”. Jeddon opened the book to a random portion and began to read out loud. He happened to open to the book of Matthew. As he read, he began to read faster and more loudly. He was clearly excited to be reading this book, perhaps because he recognized some of the characters such as Abraham or perhaps the Holy Spirit was knocking on his door. A tear rolled down my cheek and a gentle smile formed across my lips as I saw Jeddon holding the living Word of God in his hands and reading His words aloud. Wow.
What did I learn?
J.R.R. Tolkien knew what he was talking about when he had Bilbo say to Frodo “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
What did I take away from this story?
When we are faithful, willing, and available, amazing things can happen.
How can this story be applied to your own life?
What is our job as Christians? Missionaries? Go save people, right? No, people don’t save other people, that is God’s work. Recalling this story reminds me to listen to The Lord and do what He says. Sometimes, we are blessed to see the fruit of the work and have the opportunity to pray with someone to receive Jesus. Sometimes we plant seeds and most of the time we water those that have already been planted. I was blessed to plant some seeds in Chinguetti, Mauritania. I have no idea how far the gift of that bible has gone and might reach. I may never know. And that’s okay.
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