Africa Journal “You Do The Possible”

by Pastor Steve Nute

# 1 ~ Motives 

Seating my sweat soaked body on the padded chair, I tipped up the one and one half liter bottle of “Swan” water and drank deeply. The dust that had encrusted my throat was washed out, and for the moment, my thirst was quenched.

I turned my attention toward the front as Rev. Ndife gave the gospel invitation and my dampened spirits began to be revived. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Coming to the front of the platform on that dusty hot village square were at least 150 people. I knew then that in spite of myself, God was at work in Africa.

I had my doubts before this time. I was questioning whether someone like myself, a virtual nobody, beset by frailty and often tempted to sin, could be used to win souls.

Yet there it was, my heart was filled with gratitude to a God who looked past the worker to the work. Yes, I was glad I came, somehow God would make this a worthwhile trip.

I had some doubts not many days past. I was absolutely convinced by fear and lack of trust that I was doomed to dismal failure.

Our arrival in Lagos, former capitol and largest city in Nigeria, was not what one would call joyous. We left the comfort and security of British Airways at 8:00 P.M. that hot January night, and headed down a long series of corridors into culture shock and, for me, terror.

Being an “easy mark” is something that one can survive in the “good old U.S.A.” but in Lagos, Nigeria, where graft and extortion are a way of life, I was instantly spotted and hit.

My faith in human kind, my basic naiveté, and the 36 sleepless hours, all combined to make this experience one that I shall never forget. The two months of wages Doc paid to get us through customs due to our lack of knowledge of the value of Nigerian money was only the beginning.

We somehow dithered through immigration and customs, and then were turned loose in a world that was as alien to us as ham at a kosher picnic.

People, alerted by their friends that these two Americans easily bamboozled, descended on us in hordes. Their purpose was simply to make a living, but from my point of view, it was to completely deplete my chances of surviving.

For the next several hours we sat at the airport, lost and rather abandoned. The man who was to pick us up wasn’t there. We found out later that he had received our letter of agenda a day later than we had arrived. But at the time, we were totally at a loss as to what to do.

After rescuing our baggage from the baggage trolley, we stopped and sat for a spell, hoping for some kind of miracle. I recall going into a phone booth that I knew did not work and dropping a ten kobo coin into it and picking up and dialing God.

“God,” I said, “I am terrified, and I guess I need you now more than I ever did before. I ask that you would somehow get us through this little mess and safely to our destination.”

I also made some deep promises (you do that when you are afraid) that dealt with some of the closet areas of my life. Then I went out and we sat a little longer.

Our trip had begun nearly a year before in a whirlwind of high ideals and , I confess, some measure of self importance. I was privileged, by God’s grace, to attend the 1990 Presidential prayer breakfast in the Nation’s Capital.

After the morning sessions were past, after conferences with people like Louis Palau and Dana Key, I was just sitting by myself in the lobby of the Washington Hilton hotel. As I sat there, not having time to run back to my sister’s house, I mumbled a simple prayer, half hoping it wouldn’t be answered.

“Dear Lord,” I breathed. “If you want me to meet anyone, you’ll just have to send them by.”

Oh what answers I received. It wasn’t ten minutes later I saw two tall black men approaching. I had some interest in Africa because my daughter Sonya had gone to Liberia and my sister Beth and her husband had been in Kenya, so I stood up and began a short conversation. Reverend Ephraim Ndife and Reverend Joseph Chuke exchanged cards with me, and I promised to pray for them and even write a letter or two. Little did I know what was in store for me from that brief encounter. If I had, I wonder what I’d have done?

Now, I was seated at Lagos International Airport, feeling totally lost and afraid. But God wisely chose my traveling companion and his cooler head soon prevailed.

“Doc” is Doctor Lawrence Dubien, a medical doctor and a good friend of mine as well as member of the small church I pastored in the northern part of Maine. After we floated around he airport for several hours, Doc spoke up: “Let’s grab a taxi and try to get over to the Sheraton.”

Simple, right? Well, not as simple as you might think. Ephraim had taken care to warn me about taxis and the danger of getting into one. But at that late hour, and at the sad state we were in, anything was better than nothing.
We grabbed our suitcases and the large box of medicine that Doc had brought, and looking as if we knew what we were about, marched out to the taxis.

We were inundated with the expected mob of human vacuum cleaners trying to launder our pockets, but soon were “safely” en route via cab to the luxurious hotel Sheraton in Lagos.

En route, did I say? Well, we were rather interrupted at one point. The streets are patrolled by machine gunned policemen and two of these flagged us down as we wound up one street and down another on our way. They asked Doc to show them his box of drugs and were satisfied that they were for a good cause. I personally was slightly nervous as we sat there, but in retrospect, I see these two as God’s hand making sure that we arrived safely at our destination.