Elvis Rocks

Rain was pouring down.  Sheet after sheet pushed in from the south-east, obscuring both the small islands of Bokisa and Totuba.  I put on my tie and asked Ethan if he was completely ready to go with me to church.

Ella, Merissa, and Daniel were going to stay at home since Ella had spent the last 8 days battling an on-again off-again fever and general malaise.

I walked down the hallway adjacent to the stairwell leading downstairs and looked into the mirror at the head of the hall for one final check.  For a white boy in Vanuatu, I looked pretty good.  However, dress shoes were not going to cut it on a day like this.  Glancing over at a pair of brown flip-flops (thongs, zories, slippers…whatever you choose to call them) I pondered if I should take them along just in case my black dress shoes were suctioned off my feet to become a permanent part of Vanuatu’s soil composition.

Ethan knocked on the door of the downstairs apartment while I opened up a small black umbrella. Pastor Falau, his wife, Mandang, and daughter Erica scuttled out of the apartment wide-eyed.

“Oh, missionary!  You’ll get wet!”

We have run into this a lot.  I’m not sure if a bunch of namby-pamby missionaries washed ashore decades ago (doubtful) but we are caudled at every turn.  When we first arrived we were warned not to go through the ankle deep grass for fear we might cut ourselves.  Ethan has tried to climb trees but ni-Vans get really nervous—acting as if they will sacrifice their own well being to break his fall were he to tumble.  Meanwhile, their own small children are 40’ up a banyan while wielding machetes or playing a game in which they huck baseball sized stones at each other.

I assured Falau and his family Ethan and I would not melt and walked briskly down our concrete path, through the gate, and over to our truck which we park in the middle of our grassy cul-de-sac.  Ethan huddled close since we had but a travel size umbrella.  Due to the severity of the rain, the size of the umbrella and the impressive girth of my masculine shoulders, we might as well have been trying to fit under a cocktail decoration.  Using my umbrella to fight back the spikey fronds of a  15’ oil-palm, I finally made it into the driver’s seat of the Hilux.   As I collapsed my umbrella to stow it, the displaced fronds sprung back in place catapulting giant drops and soaking me entirely.  The Ni-Van family deftly maneuvered into their respective seats and in a single move were safely inside with their 10’ diameter umbrella safely tucked away.   Poor silly white missionary.

The rattle trap of a white truck whined more than usual as I tried to wrestle the steering wheel against intermittent power steering.

Pastor Falau was preaching at a school located 15min outside of town.  Ethan and I were to pick up Pastor Peter, at this same location, who would then accompany us to Hog Harbor.  Now, I have seen Hog Harbor on the map several times and have noted that it is rather close to Champagne Beach.  This beach is super-fantastic.  There tends to be a lot of hype around this beach and, at first, we thought, “What’s the big deal?”  Then, we went to it.  It truly is spectacular.  Just like pictures and descriptions do not do the Grand Canyon justice, Champagne Beach must be experienced to capture the magnificence of its beauty and the infinite quality of its Creator.

When I was first informed of where I was expected to go and preach I couldn't quite make out what the pastors were telling me.

“Ahg-ah-bah,” one would say.

“Ahh-gra-baaa,” I would reply.

“No. Ahg-ag-bah,” they responded speaking even more slowly.

“Oh, wait!  Are you saying Hog Harbor?” I stated, overemphasizing the “h”s.

Smiles all around.  “Yes! You get it, missy! Ahg-ag-bah.  This is what we’ve been saying!”

So, yes.  I am called “missy” here.  “Missy”.  At first I had no idea I was even being addressed.  Pastor Peter would say this word over and over but I figured he would not address me in such a manner—until I realized he would and was.  Turns out “missy” is short for missionary, a revered title here in Vanuatu.  So in his mind he is showing me honor.  In my mind I see myself in pink pumps, a purple leopard-print mini-skirt, and Hello Kitty earrings!!

Driving up the east coast of Santo is pretty easy to enjoy.  The coltar (paved road) is in excellent condition and the tropical scenery is spectacular.  Travel speeds can be maintained at around 80 kph while passing through coconut plantations and cattle ranches.  The ocean can’t be more than a hundred meters away but around here just a single row of forest can obscure just about anything.

Climbing up a fairly steep grade, we came to the top of a hill that provided a different vantage point.  Below and to our left, trees covered in thick vines made a single undulating sea of green with an occasional tree struggling to break free of its bonds like a giant straining against so many cords of an unseen mob.  Once over the rise, we were back among the hall of trees.

I started to recognize a few landmarks indicating we were coming close to Champagne Beach when Pastor Peter told me to turn in to the property on my left.  My heart fell a little.  The day before, Pastor Falau had told me if we got there early enough we could walk down the the sand and enjoy the ocean a bit before starting service.  This was not the case.  We were plenty early but we were still about a ten minute drive from the famous beach so, no splishy-splashy for us.  As it turns out, that was OK.

The church sits back about 50meters from the road and has a wonderful grassy area out in front.  I like this about Vanuatu.  Since most people do not drive, there are no parking lots.  No parking lots means more trees and open grassy spaces on which to play.  Ooo.  I just got chills…not the good kind.  That last statement sounded really “green”.   Let me rephrase.  I sure wish Vanuatu had more asphalt. Ahhh. Better.

Ethan was out of the truck and exploring before the internal combustion engine had stopped…well…combusting.  I had parked under the shade of a pair of trees whose large roots provided plenty of cave-like shelters for him to explore.  His head, already sweaty from exertion, popped up from behind one of the roots.

“Hey, Dad!  What’s this?”  He asked while holding up a stick in his left hand.  The stick had been sharpened on one end and divided into quarters on the opposite end.

“Oh! I’ll show you,” Pastor Peter offered.

Ethan climbed over the root handing Ps Peter the item eager to see it put to the use it was created for.  Ps Peter wasted no time in launching the stick, pointy-end first, into the air and across the property.  The homemade lawn dart hung in the air momentarily then stuck fast into the moist grass and soil. Ethan actually squealed.  After a quick tutorial from Ps Peter, Ethan was running from one end of the property to the other killing Philistines and Storm Troopers, launching rockets into space, and otherwise having the time of his life.

“He is a really good boy,” Ps Peter stated in Bislama.

“Thanks. I’m really proud of him.”

This was a good moment for Pastor Peter and me.  Up until this trip we didn't seem to know were the other was coming from.  While waiting for members of the church to arrive, we talked a bit, watched Ethan play, and were simply—together.  We have been told that just being together is very important in this culture.  Words need not be spoken.  Being together is fellowship and creates relationship here in Vanuatu.  I was able to see Ps Peter in a new light and am super thankful we did not have the distraction of Champagne Beach that morning.

“Missy, this is Pastor Elvis.”

Had this been a sitcom there would have been a spit-take.

There are certain things I never would have thought I would hear a bazillion miles from America.  “This is Pastor Elvis,” is certainly among the top 5.

Congregants started to trickle in about 30min after we arrived and one began to strum his guitar and sing.  Others joined in as we slowly made our way to the church building.

This particular church is pretty good sized, has concrete floors and walls, and a corrugated metal roof atop wooden trusses.  Maxed out, it could hold about 100.

As most churches here do, there were plenty of fresh flowers up front, a podium, and one bench off to the side for the pastors and guest speakers.  I have yet to see a proper vase for flowers and these particular flowers were set in bio-hazard disposal buckets!  At least all 5 buckets matched!  Now, in all honesty, the flowers are so spectacular that I only noticed the buckets after about an hour.

At precisely 10:00am, the service was under way.

There are a few songs we sing for worship here that have hand motions and everything.  The one we sang that morning bumped it up a notch.

“Therefore, we shall be one; love one another…” Ni-Van voices sang out.  I quickly observed that everyone, while singing this part of the chorus, had gotten out of their seats and were busy greeting each other.  It was fun!  I was smiling like a fool by the time they launched into the first verse again.  It was like freeze tag.  Everyone stopped right where they were at and whatever they were doing to do the hand motions which accompanied this portion of the song.  The very moment the chorus came back around, the place came to life once again with shaking of hands, kissing of cheeks, and phrases of glad tidings.  At times I find myself laughing—with genuine joy—at how different and free things can be here.  My hope is that those around me do not perceive something different.

A man up front suddenly took off his shirt, wiped his brow with it, then put it back on.

Glancing from side to side, I tried to discern if anyone else thought his behavior to be peculiar which none did—so, I rolled with it.  

The time came for me to go up front and Pastor Peter’s wife, Janet, was so kind as to invite Ethan to sit with her.  I was grateful to have him there.  Since I don’t have Bislama mastered yet (understatement) about ¾ of my message was in English.  This leaves most of the people completely in the dark since I am not translated.  To put the feeling of speaking a foreign language to a room full of people—who feel they should pay attention but are really just trying to stay awake—is difficult.  I knew, though, that I could look over to Ethan and he would be sitting on the hard bench attentively listening to me preach.  I am so proud of this kid.  I’ve tried time and again to get him to open up about what he thinks about the things he is experiencing for, certainly, he is processing it all in one way or another.  Most of the time he states that he enjoys Vanuatu and the people here which doesn‘t exactly shed a whole lot of light on the inner musings of his 7 year-old mind.  There must be some degree of difficulty for him since most of the 2+ hour services are in a foreign language.  Outwardly, he is adapting so well to each aspect of life overseas.
I wrapped up my final points dealing with how each one of us is called to share the Gospel—not just missionaries and pastors—and Pastor Elvis came up to close the service.

“Thank you…Thank you, very much,” he said with one side of his upper lip elevated.  OK…OK. That didn’t happen.  It would have been AWESOME though!  A Ni-Van Elvis impersonator named, Elvis?!  How great would that be?!

True quote: “Thank you Missionary Jeremy,” he said in English.  He then proceeded to recap the sermon in Bislama. Now, I may not speak it too well yet, but do understand a great deal when Bislama is being spoken.  Not only was his recap accurate, but he expounded on certain points in such a way that I knew he had captured the essence of the message.  What an encouragement!  In our small town of Luganville there are literally dozens of people who hold the title of “pastor”.  Of these it seems that only a few can really articulate the Word in truth and in a manner which congregants leave with more than they came in with.  Pastor Elvis rocks.  He is a bright star, not only among the Ni-Vanuatu but among Christians the world over.

After service the women went to gather items they had prepared for “kaekae” (food).  Men and children sat around under the shade of a large stand of bamboo talking and enjoying each other’s company.  There was one man who spoke English quite well and he began to converse with Ethan.

Ethan pulled over a cinder block to a patch of shade, sat down, twiddled in the dirt with a stick he had found and proceeded to tell this man all about his life back in Arizona.  Soon, there were about six people gathered ‘round him all listening intently to his stories.

“Missy,” Pastor Peter nudged me.

“Yes?”

Ps Peter motioned over to Ethan with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Your son, he is like one of us.  He likes to sit and tell stories.  He is not afraid at all of us.”

“You’re right Ps. Peter.  He loves all the new friends he is making and he does love to share his life.”

“He is already quite a leader,” Ps Peter said.

I had to choke back the lump forming in my throat.  I am so proud of my little man who isn’t so little any more.  God uses him to get to me and remind me of how much truth there is in Jesus’ statement, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”