50 years ago in
October, my father Adriaan vanderBijl, Harold Catto and Frank Ross
walked into Mapnduma for the very first time. The circumstances surrounding
their trek, how God provided, sustained and directed is a story I will tell my grandchildren.
It is a story of faithful men and women, insistent Nduga’s and a Grand Designer of things in-congruent and mysterious. 1 month before that trek, I was born and the story
of the Nduga tribe, my parents and I have been intertwined ever since.
My father was supposed to go back there this October to help in the grand
celebration. Many treks back have been made by ageing missionaries to relive memories
of a noble and precarious time gone by. These trips have been videotaped, you-tubed,
documented via Facebook and probably make into inspirational pamphlets to be
given out at mission conferences. I could see on my Dad’s face and hear it in
my Dad’s voice the longing to be present at this celebration, this remembrance,
this moment.
He is the only one living of those intrepid 3 and health-wise
could not go.
I didn’t really want to talk about it with him; I knew so deeply
his disappointment with getting old, having his ‘best’ years behind him. I knew it was one more thing to let go.
As I have said, I have been intertwined in this story for
all of my 50 years. That is how old the church is in the Nduga valleys. My
parents, Elfrieda and Mary worked hard to learn the language, bring medication,
teach , develop Bible schools, build airstrips…they sacrificed and enjoyed the
life they chose in the middle of this spectacular, rugged, unforgiving country.
This thief of a country which also stole my parents, robbed me of my mother’s life,
defined my imagination, graced my childhood with adventure and unbearable loss.
50 years and there is sadness at what the Papuans are
becoming from the hyperspace travel from grass hut survival to texting on
cellphones. They are fighting for a
freedom no tribal government can mitigate. They are dying of aids no medical
personal could have predicted. When we speak of future shock, we see it destroying
a culture unable to negotiate the pitfalls of the 21st century. I
think of where we were in these past 50 years and the changes our own culture
has undergone, translate that to a
culture that had not changed in a 1000 years.
All my Parents knew is the love they had for Jesus had to be
good for everyone, to give everyone a chance to hear. Hindsight…yes, we should have, could have,
would have …but what these people did was go to places beyond. It wasn’t a cool
travel destination or exotic location that it has become…it was scary different
and oftentimes deadly.
I wish my Dad had been healthy enough to go and that we all
could have traveled with him. I wish that 50 years later the Nduga church will be able to weather the culture tsunami tearing away at its cultural shore. I wish
my Dad could be present there. But maybe
this is what is true and should not be undervalued in the present now.
Dear Dad and
Elfrieda,
I know this time right now is difficult because you want to be there in all the
celebrations. I was thinking about this and realizing that some great day maybe
not too far away we will stand before that THRONE and God will look at both of
you and say, we celebrated with you every day, with every heart that turned to
me, with every tear that fell in the frustrations and hard work. We danced for
joy when the Ndugas turned their hearts. That day will be a grand day as we
stand side by side with the fruits of your hard work, your many sacrifices and
tears of joy and sorrow.
Our bodies become more frail and even though we live in disappointment for what
we cannot do, I want you to know that God is not disappointed and He, with us
all, celebrate those days before, and the days now...for it all is a sacrifice
of thanksgiving in our youth and today. Your faithfulness is not before, it is
every day. Thank you both for listening to the call of God then and the
call of God today. You are loved
