Home Again, Last Journal

By Pastor Steve Nute

 

The clock on the dresser said 3:00 a.m. as I snapped awake. I felt with my left hand to see if she was really there and smiled as she stirred and grabbed my hand. “Is it really you?” I asked for the hundredth time. She assured me that it was indeed her sweet lovable self, and I began to relate to her some of what I’d been up to.

I took out my journal and read from start to finish each day’s entries, no matter how glum they may have sounded. I welled up with tears at some points as I recalled faces and events that could never be replaced in my growing experience.

We drifted back to sleep and woke rather refreshed around 8:00 a.m. and readied for a drive back home to Maine

Home, what a sweet sounding word; home and my familiar things, my familiar people, my wife and children; home. I admit to a sense of joy as I notices the large “Welcome Home, Dad” sign in the window of our house. I was even more happy to hug my children and tell them of the gifts I’d gotten for them and of the fruit that they would share in for sacrificing Dad for a month. Home.

I remembered writing a few days before in my journal: “Wednesday February 27, 1991: Today we will drive to Lagos (6-8 hours) and spend the night at Sheraton by the grace of God and Doctor Dubien.” It seems as if that were eons ago as I sit here and write this, and I tend to forget the feelings and fears that assailed me then.

I noted in my journal that, “I confess to a resurgence of fear as I look forward to Nigerian customs and all the money hungry people out to swindle us.” I then had asked a loving God to calm my fears and bring us safely home in His care.

Looking back I see that He was always faithful, He was always on the job, He was looking out for our best interests all along. There were many times when I wondered where He was and many times I felt that He’d gone on vacation, but He proved each time that He isn’t called “Faithful and True” for nothing.

In the Airport at Lagos Ikeja, time hung very heavy. It seemed as if we’d never get out of this terminal with its horde of hungry schemers. I was walking toward the restrooms when a man approached me and asked, “Can I speak to you?” I told him I was busy and he said he’d wait.

I came out of the restroom and made a bee-line toward Doc as fast as I could. I did not want to be approached by any shysters while away from Doc.

The man stood back and watched us, then approached and said, “Can I talk with you a minute?”

I replied, “Sure, fire away.”

“I want to talk with you over there about some business,” he said.

I assured him that I was not there for business, and he gave me a glance and asked, “Do you have a European bank account?”

I guess my uproarious laughter convinced him that I was not a wealth seeker because he sidled off to harass some other unlikely prospect. I felt nervous each time we’d walk by him in the lobby and stayed at one end for quite a spell.

After a while, Doc and I wound our way to a coffee shop on the upper lever mezzanine and sat for several hours sipping the strong black brew. Soon we felt that enough time had passed to allow us to pass through customs and head for the gateway home.

Doc paid my N 50 Exit money and we headed for the first of many customs points. I walked up to the lady and opened my carry-on bag. She perused it, then looked at the carved walking stick I had gotten for my daughter, Mary.

“You can’t take that through here,” she said. “It is antiquities.”

I smiled, knowing well that it was only a locally carved piece and had already cleared one baggage point. I looked at her and said, “Okay, keep it.”

“If you give me a little money,” she whispered, “you can get it past.”

“No, you go ahead and keep it, ” I said, confident now in my less fearful role.

“Okay, go ahead through,” she sighed.

I felt as if Doc’s patient admonitions had paid off as I strode, head up, to the next gateway and another check point.

“Have you anything for me?” the customs official asked.

“I’m sorry, I gave it all to your sister at the first gate,” was my reply to him and any subsequent askers.

I guess we traversed 6 different customs harassment points on our way to the loading gate. Each one requested a “little something” for their trouble. It was a relief to finally arrive at the long benches marking our exit point. Then down stairs to “identify our baggage” before it was loaded onto the aircraft.

What a time of hassles and tension we had been through earlier that day. Yet there wa s one rather bright spot earlier. I had dropped in to a small soda and candy shop for some “mineral” and somehow in that predominantly Hausa land, heard the proprietor say “ONYOCHA”.

I immediately replied, “Hey, Onye Igbo,” and was rewarded with a mile wide smile. I trotted our my limited Igbo vocabulary and he grinned like he was going to burst.

“Hey,” he told a friend, “this man speaks my language that I speak at home.”

I smiled a bit as we spoke, I felt like I had come home for a little bit. When we went to pay for the soda, he refused our money, and I left the shop feeling very grateful.

“Those with little children and those who need special help may board now,” the loud-voiced man said.

I fidgeted a bit, impatient to be aboard at last. Soon our seat numbers were called and we handed our boarding passes to the lady at the gate and rather rapidly headed toward British Airways L-1011 and freedom.

I almost cried as once more, it seemed, the safety cord that had been disconnected a month before was tentatively reconnected.

I didn’t know that it would take stepping onto British soil to begin to feel real security, but this was a start.

I recall descending through the morning fog to Gatwick airport and walking calmly up to real civilized customs people who did their best to make us feel as if we were important. I recall going to a bank of phones a figuring how to make a collect call home.

“Hello,” I said, with a quiver in my voice. “It’s me, honey, I’m in London.”

“Hello Steve,” I heard the joyful sob in her voice, and I couldn’t help but tear up a little myself. It was so good to hear her voice, so good to assure her that all her loneliness and sad times were worth it. It was also good to let her know that we’d be home soon.

We caught the “Gatwick Express” train in to Victoria station and after a rather expensive breakfast at a small shop, headed out the door and up the street to “see London”.

After walking for many miles from the station, past New Scotland yard, by Westminster Abbey and into Winchester Cathedral, we sat and ate a bit more. It was in a Dunkin Donut shop on Piccadilly Circus that I noted in my journal that, “I must bring my bride here someday.”

We had seen Trafalgar Square, the tower of Big Ben, Parliament Square, the Horse Palace, Buckingham Palace and everything else our tired feet would take. Finally we decided to take “the tube” to Heathrow and be sure to be several hours early for our flight.

“I’m sorry, that flight is boarded, closed up and ready to take off,” the smiling attendant said.

Due to the Gulf War, the airline had decided to fly only an early flight to Logan, and even though we had reconfirmed two times in the last two weeks, the time change was not noted.

Larry and I trudged over to the reservations counter to see what British Airways could do for us. The first suggestion, and overnight stay in London, met with an emphatic NO from these two weary travelers. Then the helpful agent found a way to fly us to Chicago and on to Boston via Eastern Airlines. We didn’t care HOW we got there, we just wanted to get there.

At the Chicago customs, someone was giving the agents a hard time in a rather loud voice. Larry and I told them how much we appreciated their fast, efficient and un-bribed service.

After going through baggage check, we went to the British Airways “lost baggage” counter. We filled out the appropriate forms and ran the long distance to Eastern Airlines terminal.

We enjoyed the lasagna, enjoyed the radio hook up to the tower, and enjoyed anything that went on around us. Soon enough we enjoyed hearing the pilot say, “We are preparing to land at Logan Airport in Boston. Please remain seated until we stop at the terminal.”

We stumbled off the plane, walked like zombies down the long ramp, and almost simultaneously grabbed our respective wives and gave them more than a handshake.

My sister and her husband, along with my cousins, had driven the hour from their homes to see us arrive. They smiled, greeted us and then went on home. I felt like they should get the brass band. Deb and Dave and Roger and Brenda, I thank you so much for being willing to give so much to say, “Welcome Home.”

We drove the hour to Portsmouth (Larry didn’t honk once) and soon were enjoying hot showers and soft sheets and catching up with life as we knew it.

The drive home was really enjoyable. For the first time in a month, the driver used brakes instead of his horn. For the first time in a month, the drivers around us stayed in their own lane and only changed after signaling.

Now I am home. I have forgotten some of the immediate needs of Africa. I have spoken of the strongest needs that I can help met, but as I have written these few lines, I have been reminded of the great need for missionaries. God asked Isaiah, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” and I weep inside at what has become of the sending agency, Christ’s Church.

I am reminded that Isaiah replied to God, “Here am I, send me.” And I ask myself, “Why do you stay here?” I realize that for the present, God has called me to remain, but to train and send others. I ask, as I wrestle with these thoughts, “Is this just a ‘cop-out’ to keep me at home?”

Oh, Africa, who draws my heart, please wait upon the Lord and pray that He will send forth laborers unto His field which is nearly past ripe.

Oh Lord, who draws the hearts of men, please send forth laborers into your fields before the harvest is past.

I could write of many more things as I remember our time in Africa. I could describe scores of laughing children, flocks of weary women, and armies of hard working men. All of this, though, would only serve to lengthen an account that I feel must come to an end.

I have touched on matters that were close to my heart. I have neglected many discussions, many events and probably many people who made our journey what it was. I may forget much of what went on as time goes by, but I will never forget these things: That God is faithful to keep us no matter what may happen; That there is a needy world starving for the gospel message. I also can never forget or repay the great and sacrificial kindness of my friend and traveling companion.

Larry, this diary is dedicated to you, to your steady good nature and your selfless sharing that kept this rascally reverend in line. Thank you my friend.

At this date, we have sent over 2500 bibles, many volumes of theological books, concordances and even 2 typewriters to Nigeria. I am happy to be able to send these things, but still feel a strong kinship with those people that can never be erased. May God, in His mercy, grant me the strength and desire to once again return and minister there among His people of Nigeria.

Steve Nute, March 1991

After Word, October, 2007

How swiftly the years have flown. How quickly I had forgotten the intensity of my time there.

Editing this journal for you to read has reminded me to still have a soft place for those who struggle through a hard life to reach their own people.

I discovered that for a relatively small sum one person can support a Nigerian pastor each month. If one of us were to go, the mission boards require that we raise 2-3000.00 each month to cover health, retirement, administrative costs etc. I realize their hands are tied by regulations, but what can we do?

$75.00 per month goes a long way to support an indigenous pastor and family. They have no cultural difficulties to overcome, no language barrier to hurdle, no visas to get.

They have no medical insurance, no food allowance, no retirement benefits. They just serve. They have a heart for the people and they live among them.

I have been to their churches, seen their growing Bible Academy and school system. I can assure you than money sent to Rev. Dr. Ephraim Ndife goes where it is intended to go.

Is that a shameless plug? Yes!