It's a Family Affair

Hello!  First off, thanks for reading our blog.  We are missionaries with the Assemblies of God in the beautiful island nation of Vanuatu.  Below is a version of a story/ paper I wrote as part of an assignment from our head missionary.  I thought I would also post it here to provide more insight to our time on the island of Atchin. The paper is intended to give prospective missionaries a glimpse into familial relations in Vanuatu. If you have been following our blog, there is one section about mother-in-law relationships which will be redundant.  Enjoy!

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As an American, I have a certain mindset of what constitutes a family. Until recently, I figured this was not just an American or even a Western concept but the standard the world over. Just as gravity is a constant or other laws of physics are unchanging, I understood familial relationships to be the same. During our family’s stay on the remote and super-tinsy island of Atchin, off the coast of Malekula, in the country of Vanuatu, I learned a lot about family, the role of villagers in family, and just how skewed my view had been.

It was about a week into our 9 day stay on the island of Atchin when Merissa and I retrieved our notebooks and pens from the small pastor’s office which had become our makeshift home and sleeping quarters. We snuck past the kids, checked on baby Daniel to make sure the fever he had been experiencing for the last 5 days wasn’t too high and rejoined our hosts on the front porch area of Jordan Temple Assembly of God. The generator hummed in an adjacent building, powering the florescent lights above us. Wooden benches backed up to a decorative 3’ high concrete brick wall. A few chairs had been set up opposite the bench with a table in between to set various foods and hot “tea” on. The women sat on a bench a short distance away and perpendicular to where the men were engaged in conversation. 

A quick aside: I put the word “tea” in quotes because this is how the islanders refer to any hot beverage. This was quite confusing for the first few days until I actually had the gumption to ask why they kept calling coffee, “tea”.

“So, ahem, sorry, aren't you drinking coffee?” I asked, confused yet again.

Blank stares. I'm getting quite used to blank stares and raised eyebrows. Not only are the Ni-Vanuatu dealing them out as I struggle to communicate but I do my fair share of throwing down a glazed-over look or two.

“Yeees, this is coffee. Don't you call it coffee?” one of the men replied. 

"Yes, but when you called me over you told me the tea was ready."

"OK."

"OK...but we're all having coffee."

"OK."  

Now here was one of those fun times where no one really knew what to say next.  I wasn't sure what to ask and they weren't really sure I had a question.

"Well, where's the 'tea'?" I said.

"In here..." one of the men said while placing a hand upon the thermos containing hot water.

"Hot water is 'tea'?"

Sighs of relief from the Ni-Van.

"Yes, missionary.  Now you understand."

I went for the whole ball o' wax, "So all hot beverages: tea, cocoa, coffee, hot water...they're all 'tea'?" 

Smiles and nods of affirmation indicated I had super-sluthed my way to enlightenment.  

We had previously warned our hosts that we had a few questions regarding family and life as a tribe. Merissa took a place among the ladies and I settled down into a chair opposite a couple of Ni-Van men who were fast becoming friends.

Merissa had already told me she had asked a few of the women about clan/ tribe membership and had not gotten many specific answers. We are finding that certain topics take persistence and patience in navigating. I thought tonight I would start with something “easy” and ask about one of the men's family tree. Deciphering the conversation that followed proved to be one of the most difficult things to wrap my head around. Reviewing my notes as I write this, I still don’t think I have all the kinks worked out. Hopefully some of the information I provide will not only be (mostly) correct but informative and helpful. Strap yourself in, put on your thinking cap and try to keep an open mind…here it goes.

The person I mainly asked questions to and who’s family tree I was trying to follow was, Bill. I had already learned that to simply ask, “Who is your mother?” could yield various results so I asked who his “straight” mom was. This is necessary to find out who actually gave birth to Bill since plenty of women in Bill’s life are called “mother”.

“Bill, what is your straight mother’s name”

“Joy”

“What is your straight father’s name?”

“Jehu.”

OK, it seemed like this was going alright. I continued for a couple of minutes trying to get names on his side of the family. Then I switched gears and began to ask about his wife’s family. When I asked about his mother-in-law, he became silent and suddenly looked very nervous. It was obvious I had asked something I should not have. The Ni-Van pastor’s wife, Anita, interjected from her seat across the way and told Bill it was OK to tell me his mother-in-laws name. Bill would not do it. Asking if he could write it instead of speak it, I passed my notebook and pen over to him with a disclaimer that if he were uncomfortable with this as well that we could move on to another subject. He agreed to write the name and we began to then discuss why speaking her name was not OK. Bill told me that it is strictly “tabu” in his culture to speak his mother-in-law's name—whether she is present or not. He then went on to explain that were she to find out he used her name he would have to pay her a fee in order to make recompense. Furthermore, Bill is not even permitted on the property where she is unless he is invited in by her husband. After being invited in, he must not address her directly. Any conversation he has with her must be through a third party. These things are all considered a sign of respect. In contrast, I was discussing family with a man from the island of Paama and he stated that initial contact between himself and his mother-in-law was to be through a third party but, after the conversation had been started, he could then talk to her directly for the remainder of the chat.

When Bill wants to talk about his mother-in-law he refers to her as his “paleka”.

As our discussion turned to more of his family and his relationships my “simple” family tree began to branch in all sorts of different ways. Bill would start to tell me how each relative was to be addressed and the wrinkles of confusion across my brow deepened. There were now 3 or 4 men speaking at once trying to explain in varying ways the importance and structure of family on Atchin. One drew a diagram, one gesticulated wildly with his hands, one focused intently and spoke ultra-slow in an attempt to see understanding come to my overloaded brain.

I have drawn my own little diagram based on the night spent discussing family. It can be found below and will, hopefully, provide a bit of insight into a small piece Vanuatu family structure. This is not a comprehensive family “tree” at all. It is just a tiny window into one man's immediate family, how he addresses them, and how they address him during the course of his life. This diagram and it's social dynamic are specific to Atchin though some similarities may be found in other islands. Please forgive any/ all errors. Text in red indicates a “straight” biological relationship—what a person with a Western mindset would consider “true” names for the relative. Blue text denotes the name by which that person is addressed but does not reflect a “true” biological relationship. Did I muddy the waters enough, yet?  

During our discussion I asked if the moniker of “papa” came with the privileges and responsibilities of a biological papa. In one instance, Bill calls a 3 year named, Franco, “Papa” due to the relational structure of Atchin. I wanted to know if that meant Bill had to take direction from the 3 year old at some point—if Franco would ever have decision making power over Bill's life. The answer from Bill was, “no”. He stated that the name was a sign of respect not an indicator of power or position.

Another piece unique to Atchin are restrictions on marriage due to the island being so small with a total population around 1000. There seemed to be some confusion as to the number of generations that must pass but, somewhere between 3 and six generations must separate any couple wishing to be married. If this requirement is not met, men must go to other islands to find a wife, thereby making a more diverse gene pool.

The idea of adoption is big here in Vanuatu. Ni-Van adopt a lot of people and the criteria seems pretty loose. Jim, another resident of Atchin, explained that any person can be adopted by another. His example was of two school mates who meet up again later in life after having kids. These school mates hit it off again and after discussing the “good ol' days” adopt the others' kids. The privileges of adoption are pretty much the same as being a true member of the family. The adopted kids are addressed as “son” or “daughter” and the adopted parents as “mom” and “dad”. I asked about financial obligations which seemed to arrest the discussion momentarily. So much of life and property is already shared among people in Vanuatu that my question must have seemed a bit cold and very foreign. Feeling the need to expound, I explained that in the U.S. we have plenty of really close friends. While these friends are a vital part of our lives they are still their own unit and thereby responsible for their own bills, their own housing, and feeding of their own family. I gave a scenario asking who would be financially responsible for medical if one of the adopted members were to become sick. Without hesitation Jim and the other sitting around said the expenses would be shared because, after all, “this is family”. They then further illustrated the point and said that if an adopted child were walking by he/she would be invited in, fed, provided for, and would have a place to sleep depending on the hour of day/night. Going back to the “sick kid” scenario, they did mention that the lion's share of care of the child would be upon the birth parents. So, it seems even though much is shared in this community, there is still a special bond within biological families.

Within the tribe/clan/village there is a chief who has power to make decisions for the entire group. He is part of a council of chiefs who meet at least once a week. There are two head chiefs over this council with one having clear authority over the other—similar to a president/ vice-president. Any conflicts that arise should be taken to the village chief first. If he can not resolve the issue then it is brought before the council of chiefs. If this council can not come to a conclusion then the head chief will issue his ruling. My understanding is that the second in command is in charge of what is considered the “small door”. He regulates who can come into the council of chiefs and is a sort of gatekeeper for meetings. He has the power over who can plead a case before the council and who can not. I asked if this structure was good for the villagers and the consensus seemed to be, no. Those with whom I was talking seemed to think the Vanuatu government has given too much power to chiefs. For example, let's say a person has a deed to a particular property that is actually stamped and signed off by the Government. The council of chiefs decided there is someone in their family who wants this ground. The council will abuse its power and standing in order to give the property to whomever it wants effectively nullifying the government approved deed.

All in all, our time in Atchin was an excellent experience in learning Bislama and becoming more familiar with the culture of Vanuatu. It is my hope that this document, along with the crazy diagram, will serve as a starting point for any who wish to come and serve in this beautiful country.  

I am a Missionary

I am a missionary.


Standing around the side of the church crying, that reality hit me like a ton of bricks.
It was the morning after our arrival on the tiny island of Atchin. Daniel was on day six of a high fever and I was running on an hour or two of sleep. Don’t get me wrong, the accommodations were pleasantly surprising. We were given a small room in the church next to the baptismal. We had concrete floors. But we were HOT and Daniel’s screams bounced off our concrete walls ALL night.
I had just returned from staring down the “smol haos” for the second or third time when I lost it. Everything within me wanted to hop back on the boat, drive the hour down the bumpy jungle road and wait at the burned down airport for the next plane to arrive. I didn’t care if it was 3 days from now, I was done.
Yes, I was crying over an outhouse. I couldn’t shake the image of a cockroach crawling out of that pit onto poor Ella the night before. So here I was, 10 feet from the outhouse telling God I couldn’t do it. He already knew.

In the few weeks leading up to our departure I walked through a difficult time. Call it culture shock, an identity crisis, a disruption. I believe it was a purposed disruption, an emotional response to something hiding in my heart that I needed to take a look at. God wanted my attention.
I was feeling unloved and unlovely. I wanted my business suits and heels. I wanted my clients to call and tell me how they desperately needed to come talk to me. To wake up in the morning and curl my hair. To feel important, beautiful and valued. If I was honest, I had some serious reservations about living in the jungle for nine days.
I sat with God processing all I was feeling and I clearly heard that I was being humbled. Ouch. I thought I was fairly humble! (pride is funny like that) That day as I wrote in my prayer journal I told God that I was willing to submit to the process, to go ahead and take my will, my stubbornness and fear and make me into the woman He wanted me to be. I told Him I wanted my life to be about Him, not me.
In that surrender, God began a deep and at times, painful work.

It was day four and we were headed back to the mainland of Malekula by boat. I didn’t have too many expectations for the trip but began to get very antsy after a couple hours of trekking about with no obvious goal or objective. Ethan and Ella were on the mend from illness the day before and as we continued down the long dirt road with storm clouds rolling in all I could think about was the fact that the further down this road we got, the further we would have to walk back. Now I know my kids pretty well by now and the hungry/whining clock was a tickin’. I didn't have much time. We finally arrived at a location (a large mango tree) where they said we would be having lunch. As we sat waiting another thirty minutes on bamboo benches for the host family to give the okay to enter the village, the heavens opened up and the rain came hard and fast. Eventually we were invited to enter the village. We crammed into a small dark home and were introduced to an elderly woman and a few family members. We were told she had been sick for over five years. Ella was holding her stomach and giving me her most polite “I am going to wither away and die if I can’t eat soon” face while Ethan wriggled his way up on a chair between the elderly woman and a friend and made himself at home. Daniel quickly decided he had seen enough and filled the small hut with screams. Embarrassed I scrambled for baby food, a clean diaper, ANYthing to make it stop. Everything was buried deep in Jeremy’s hiking backpack and I was quite the spectacle emptying out our provisions for the day, more than most of these families would need in a week. I quickly realized that I needed to excuse myself so I grabbed an umbrella and walked outside into the downpour. Standing in the rain and mud, tired and hungry, unable to provide for my kids…I was annoyed, I was uncomfortable.


An hour or so later the food was finally served and we managed to put on a good face for more laplap, a local delicacy. With my tummy full and Daniel in the arms of another  mama, I felt the Lord tugging at me to go back to the first house with the elderly woman. I did my best to explain to God that I happened to be in a bad mood, but the prompting was loud and clear.

Entering the house I noticed she was no longer in her chair. I looked into a dark bedroom and saw her frail body laying on a mat. I asked her if I could pray for her. As I prayed she began to weep and pray with me. We cried out for her healing and then gave God thanks. She slowly began to gently sing a worship song. Listening to her sing to Jesus and holding her small hand in mine was a precious gift. She looked up at me with teary eyes and said “Jesus sent you here to me.” Jesus did send me, and the work He did in my heart in those few beautiful moments will be with me for the rest of my life.

Practically skipping down the bumpy road home the words hit me again, but this time they felt different,
I am a missionary.

It was dark and I was putting Daniel to bed when I heard the cry. It was sincere and loud. I've noticed in Vanuatu when a child falls down or gets hurt the first reaction is to laugh, the second is to wallop them upside the head. It’s something I’ll never get used to. Kids are on their own as soon as they can walk and I have yet to see any tenderness towards children.
Five or ten minutes later I was able to leave Daniel sleeping and was surprised to still hear crying. I looked around and there were at least ten adults within earshot doing nothing. As I headed out into the dark church yard I found a small boy sitting in a lump sobbing. Two other boys quickly tugged on his arms trying to get him to his feet. Asking them what happened I found out that one of the boys had thrown a large rock at him and the kid was still hurting. Without thinking about cultural norms I put my arm around him. He wouldn't tell me where it hurt. He wouldn't talk. As I rubbed his back and told him it was ok I felt his little body go limp and lean into my side. His tears subsided. I spent the next twenty minutes holding the little guy and talking about the bats flying overhead and soccer. He never spoke but his body language told me he could have stayed there for hours.

I have heard all my Christian life the term “dying to self.” The last month it feels like God has been killing off a lot of “Merissa.” In those moments of weakness, discomfort and fear I die a little bit more. It isn't about my comfort or having what I need to feel in control or familiar. It’s in those moments of risk and total discomfort where God is allowed the space He needs to come in and fill my uncertainty, my doubt and show me what really matters in this life. God needed to bring me to a place of total dependence, total surrender so He could show up powerfully, so I was usable for His glory. I traded in my comfortable house, a great job and my curling iron, but I am living a life that I never knew was possible. I am terribly uncomfortable at times but I am more uncomfortable thinking about what I can miss by living life for myself. Living as though my happiness, safety and plans are more important. I am living for those moments with my little friend, for those times I reach out in the dark to be the comforting hands of Jesus. The times when I crawl into a hut to pray for a woman that has been sick and discouraged for years. I don’t want to miss that. I can still feel her hand in mine and his little elbow in my side and it’s more than enough.

I am privileged. I feel like the luckiest girl on the planet knowing I am right where God wants me. I am in process. I am dying and learning to live.

I am a missionary.

Atchin, Part One: Culture

Rays of sunlight eeked their way through puffy cumulus clouds only to be arrested at irregular intervals in the thick jungle canopy. The resulting patches of brilliantly glowing leaves amongst a dark green backdrop caused me to marvel at the beauty of our surroundings. Underneath our feet the soil was almost black and the wide trail was littered with mangoes of all different sizes and in various states of decay. With each step the mangoes would blur then come back into focus as swarms of gnats we disturbed quickly settled back to their tropical meal. Our hosts, residents of the small island of Atchin, with skin as dark as the path, chatted in Bislama and pointed to different points of interest along our route. Our family would be living on the island of Atchin, as part of our language immersion, for the next nine days and the locals were excited to show us around. Rounding a small bend, the canopy began to open up and we soon found ourselves in a small village. Two of our guides stepped to the right side of the road and paused, looking toward one of the bungalows. Each bungalow in this village is constructed of a concrete floor, walls of woven bamboo which form a checkerboard pattern and a pitched natangora leaf roof which extends almost all the way to the ground. A moment later a man in his 40's hunched through the doorway and then stood erect coming toward us. A knee-high bamboo fence separated our party from what I would describe as a rock garden. After exchanging the morning pleasantries the man began to explain how special the rocks we were looking at were. I wasn't prepared for what I heard.

“This is the mother rock. She was brought from the island of Ambrym. Do you see how smooth and round she is on top? Now look at the bottom.”

The storyteller turned the rock over on its “back” and pointed to a small indentation.

“This used to be all the same as the rest of her but then, after she gave birth, it became flat—just like a human mommy's belly.”

I think I have mentioned it before, but I am horrible at hiding reactions. My face, if only for an instant, registers exactly what I am thinking. I wish I knew just what my expression was at that moment. It certainly wasn't, “hmm...that's swell.”

The bungalow dweller continued, “See! There are new baby rocks even now!” He pointed to two pebbles resting in spot where he had picked up the mommy rock. I glanced over to one of our hosts, an elder with the local AoG church. He looked back at me, pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and nodded. Even if I were trying to hide any shock before, I was unable to mask anything, now. My jaw was slack and my eyes were wide in disbelief. Did he believe as this man did?! Part of integrating into a new culture is being sensitive to all sorts of differences. I was failing. Miserably. Fortunately, my new acquaintance took my shock for amazement that mommy had made so many babies.

“Yes, Missionary. All these babies have come from this one mother rock. As you can see this type of stone is smooth and we have no rivers on Atchin. So, there is no other explanation.”

Merissa sidled up close to me as we were led down the dirt path to our next destination.

“Did I hear him right? Did he say that rock gave birth to all the other rocks around it?” she asked.

“Mmm. Hmm. That's what I gathered,” was the only reply I could muster.

The noise of waves breaking upon a reef grew louder and we soon found ourselves on a small bluff overlooking the Pacific. A stiff breeze knocked the tops off the waves and carried salty spray up— refreshing us. We sat on benches made of halved bamboo, as we were instructed to, and waited while some small snacks were prepared. I took the opportunity to clarify the story with our guides/ hosts.

“John, does he believe the story he just told us or is he merely retelling a custom story which is no longer seen as valid,” I asked one of the Ni-Van.

John replied, “He does believe this, yes. There is still a lot of custom here in Vanuatu and people who do not have Christ hold tightly to custom. We know we have been freed by Christ.”

I was a bit relived until John tagged this on as an afterthought, “It is pretty amazing though—that only one rock was brought from Ambrym.”

As our week continued and we spent more and more time around those on Atchin there were plenty of things to see and participate in. Although I was not constantly thinking about the rock momma, the whole exchange was sitting in the back of my mind as we interacted and learned more about those who were kind enough to open their lives and village to us for 9 days.

Both Merissa and I had been given an assignment by our boss, Bryan. He had asked us to map out a family tree of one of new friends and ask some questions regarding hierarchy within the tribe/ family line. After dinner one night I began a series of questions about relationships within the community and ended up with more questions than I started with.

“Bill, what is your wife's name?”

“Mary.”

“OK. What is your father's name?”

“Henry”

“Got it...and your mother's name?”

“Susan.”

“OK. Now, your wife's mother. What is her name.”

Silence.

“Bill?” I thought maybe my Bislama had not come across correctly and there was some confusion. I looked up at Bill and he would not meet my eyes and looked uncomfortable and conflicted as he shifted his weight on the wooden bench.

“Oh. Sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

“I can't say her name,” he whispered.

“Sorry? You can't say her name...or do you not know her name?”

“It is forbidden to speak her name out loud.”

“Bill. It's OK,” the Pastor's wife piped up from an adjacent bench. “You can tell him. It's OK.”

“I'm sorry. I don't want you to do anything you aren't supposed to. Can you write it for me?” I asked.

“Yes. I can write it, I guess.”

After Bill cautiously wrote the name of his mother-in-law in my notebook, I asked him what the consequences of speaking her name would be.

“Oh, Missionary. I would have to either kill a pig and give it as a gift or pay her money for dishonoring her in such a way.”

He went on to tell me that the people of Atchin have many rules regarding family. Bill is not allowed to enter the property belonging to his in-laws until he has the consent of his father-in-law. Once invited in, he must not address ma-in-law directly. All conversation between the two of them must go through a third party. However, these rules of engagement are suspended in the church. I don't mean the church body, no, I mean the physical building itself. Once they are both physically inside the walls of the church building they are allowed to talk freely to one another.

“These are some of the ways we go about it in Atchin. Each island is different and has different rules.”

“Oh, fantastic,” I thought to myself. “Only 83 more islands to figure out.”

This is certainly one of the biggest challenges we face as missionaries here in Vanuatu and is a subject of much prayer. Each island has distinct people groups with their own language and ways of navigating life. A simple “come to Jesus” sermon does not touch the deeper issues—root issues—affecting maturity and lasting heart transformation. Observing life here has revealed that most have heard the Gospel message but have yet to truly surrender their lives and will to Christ. Sound like another country you know? Hmm. I have such a heart for discipleship and the Lord continues to reveal just how incredibly important it is in the life of every believer. Please pray that God will bring us into meaningful relationships which will grow a new generation of leaders here in Vanuatu. I admit it is hard not to look at the huge task and be overwhelmed with the size of the job. I am constantly having to surrender my anxious heart to God. Some mornings I wake, practically paralyzed by these thoughts: “83 islands...150 some odd distinct languages...1000's of customs I don't grasp...culture I struggle to navigate...a language I continue to butcher...Father, how will I ever succeed.” It is then He comes to remind me He is not calling me to sail in and solve the entire puzzle but to be faithful to those things which He calls me to each day. Why is it so hard for me to see? I've never though of myself as a task oriented guy but here in V-land I constantly worry about completing enough, making stuff—quantifiable stuff— and my heart races as I struggle to breath beneath the weight of this yolk of my own making. The other day I ran across this verse in 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18: “Rejoice always!; Pray constantly; Give thanks in everything,; for this is God's will for you; in Christ Jesus” (yup, that emphasis is mine). A huge encouragement to my heart! The questions I wrestle begin to rob my thankfulness and give way to fear and resentment—not fruits of the Spirit last time I looked. As I begin to praise and give thanks to my Creator my focus returns and I begin to take heart that each conversation I have, every visit to the market, every greeting I offer is a building block to demonstrating the love of Christ.

Later in the week were were shown more of the island of Atchin by our hosts. We saw more stones with stories just as bizarre, if not more so, than “mommy” stone.

Merissa and Ethan had walked ahead with one of the Atchin women and were presently standing off to the left side of the trail. Bill, John, and I approached the rest of our party and the tone became hushed as Bill ushered me around the side of a 5'tall slab of rock which had been placed, erect, between the path and a smaller 3' stone.

“This is the girl stone,” Bill whispered grabbing me by the elbow and bringing me between the two stones. Bill picked up a stick to use as a pointer as he began to tell how some people would come to this place to request a boy or girl when attempting to get pregnant.

“See this place on the rock here,” he pointed down low to a fissure on the taller of the two rocks. “This looks just like...”

“Yes,” I quickly interjected not bothering to whisper. “I get it....it's a girl rock.”

“But missionary, do you see how the...”

I cut him off again trying to be even more emphatic, “YES. It's a girl rock...I understand. I understand.”

His attention then turned to the "partner" rock.

“Now we call this the boy rock because if you look over here...” he began to gesture with his makeshift pointer.

“Yup. Boy rock. Got it,” I stated tersely while walking back to the path. As if living in the South Pacific isn't surreal enough, now I found myself engaged in a conversation about intimate relations between inanimate objects. Yowzers.

The rest of the week we learned more about culture and the experience for us was as much language immersion as it was culture immersion. We visited multiple sites where both human and animal sacrifices had been made. Our hosts informed us that the cannibalistic act on Atchin was as recent as 1992. 1992! This is on an island the size of a Walmart parking lot where the evangelistic church has been considered to be well established since the 1970's. We are beginning to see just how much the culture of custom ways is deeply entrenched. Many here have Christianity in one hand and custom in the other. The government has even stated that Vanuatu is a place of custom values and Christian principles. Unfortunately to truly experience freedom in Christ, custom must be set aside completely because, as we are learning, custom here is directly tied to Satanic worship and a desire to utilize black magic to obtain numerous objectives. Below is an excerpt from the newspaper published here in Vanuatu:

“Allegations have emerged that black magic and bribery have been used to help form the next government in Vanuatu.

“One of the oldest Vanuatu traditions is based on use of 'black magic' and there are black magic solutions for good and bad, said custom experts...

“A reliable source told the Independent that one of two camps [Prime Minister candidates] has put aside an amount of VT 5 million ($50,000) to be used for black magic remedies.”

Please continue to pray that we will know how to navigate these difficult issues and build relationships that bring others to a fullness of the knowledge of Christ.