The Buckhannon River, and the River of Life

John 7:

37 On the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried out, saying, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. 38 He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” 39 But this He spoke concerning the Spirit, whom those believing in Him would receive; for the Holy Spirit was not yet given, because Jesus was not yet glorified. 

The Buckhannon River has flowed by my life since its beginning, and after decades of distance it is now once again the first thing I can see (and hear if I brave the cold) as the night melts into daylight. (Scroll down two posts if that doesn’t make sense). In Bundibugyo for most of my adult life, we were just up the bank and across the road from the Nyahuka River. Both are obscure waterways that nevertheless mean life to the towns nearby, sources of water and laundry and fishing and escape from the heat, pathways of transportation in the past, threads that hold communities in place. 

So when the lectionary this week included Jesus framing the Gospel as a drink to quench thirst, that certainly sounds like good news. And when the drink is so refreshing the drinker becomes a river of water for others . . . beautiful image of the Abrahamic "blessed to be a blessing".

And yet a river does not generate the water, a river channels the water. Rivers depend on rains. On clouds, storms, snows, melt, that seeps into springs and tickles into streams. A river rises and falls, and it’s not the river’s choice. Sometimes our river is low and murky, sluggish, with exposed rocks and logs, depleted. Sometimes our river rustles past with clarity and peace. And sometimes it is racing and churning, powerful and unpredictable. 

A good reminder for a life of missional service. We are the channel, but not in control of the source. Sometimes we are barely trickling by, and sometimes a prayer for rain leads to a chaos of current. 

In East and Central Africa, multiple countries feel vulnerably dangerously depleted of hope, of help . . yet change could bring chaos. Our DRC team remains evacuated to Uganda, even as Uganda sent their own army into DRC. People all along the Albertine Rift face high prices, lack of food or vaccines or fuel, displacement from their homes (7 million in the broad area, almost a million more since December, and 100,000 who have crossed borders to become refugees). The river of aid feels dry, due to the overwhelming need and the dangers of response but also the American political climate. We are all in a cautious inhale to know if this is the new normal, if the tense search for a balance of incompatible powers . . all he while knowing that a downpour of war could drench us all. 

Every day we try to be supportive at distance, to care and pray and call, work on budgets and meetings and emails. To be a river of blessing for those we love, and those we barely know. Yet our own river feels drained too, by weeks of intense medicines (3 now) and the frequent drives to our appointments, preparing for the next stage of daily intensive radiation. 

Last year I prayed Lord, enlarge my heart. This year the promise of Jesus to simply flow through our hearts sounds more possible. Though we are low, weary, and heavy, we need only to wait for rain, in our Area and in our medical care, through prayers the Spirit can bring life. Let us be waterways.

Spring Conspiracy Theories

Equatorial living for all but two of the last 31 Springs (?) renews the wonder of the season. Bulbs planted decades ago, divided and dispersed, erupt splotches of bright yellow from nearly colorless ground before the snow has even melted. And that melt gurlges into the river's hum, augmented by clouds blowing north. The grey trees against grey meadows have buds only seen up close, but now the leaf litter through the forest is heaped and srcatched where deer search for early meals. One morning we realized through the windows shut against overnight frost that cardinals are back, cheeping out territory.

I'd forgotten Spring as a conspiratorial season. March still calls for morning fires in the woodstove, yet some afternoons the sky turns glorious with sun. New life whispers more than shouts. You have to pay attention, to seek signs. Summer's arrival still seems debatable.

The quiet greening of the fields, the occasional trill of unseen warblers, precludes smug confidence that summer is inevitable.

March along the Buckhannon river

Which in 2025's overlap of Spring and Lent reminds us of how the Kingdom comes, how God's will is done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Not by armies, courts, kings, force, drama, sudden "wins".  Not by an earthquake of flowers, growth, fruit and warmth, but by an almost imperceptible progress. By change so subtle one could argue it's not real . . . until one day you realise it's warm enough to swim, and berries exceed thorns.

    

I'd like DRC, Rwanda, Uganda, Burundi, Malawi, and all their neighbors to sign peace agreements and abide by them, to have fair-trade mean that every village gets a dividend of coltan and gold profits, to wake up to adequate hospitals and electricity and roads and food. I'd like Sudan and South Sudan to do the same. I'd like Kenya to listen to their people who hit the streets in protest last year and find non-violent paths of change. And like the disciples, as none of that reliably seems to be happening, we wonder why Jesus doesn't bring in a few angel armies. Or at least a theocracy that harkens back to David and Solomon. We wonder why we get budding bulbs, not full-grown grains.

Jesus talks a lot more about wait, delay, seeds, and don't-tell than about winning. Even the proverbial wedding parties have rejectable invitations, not overpowering presences. 

Spring gives us a tangible picture of slow-motion resurrection. 

Praying to keep attending to that by faith. As schools turn out another twenty, another hundred kids who care for their neighbors enough to forgo dishonest gain at their expense. As our ophthalmology trainees in Rwanda surgically restore sight to another hundred, even a thousand people. As our Nairobi Bible Storying team spends a week encouraging another dozen or two dozen leaders who face arrest for their faith. As our surgeon in Malawi visits a handful of prisoners in jail, or our OB in Burundi teaches interns to do ultrasounds. As our theology professor in Kapsowar holds another class. As our team leader in Uganda gathers school kids to learn about God through nature. All tiny specks of incremental good outpacing evil, not by might but by the Spirit. 

Those buds of East/Central African "Spring" represent hours and weeks and years of cost to people who left home comforts, and represent generous decisions by hundreds and thousands of supporters, and represent even less-seen intangible grace in hearts and souls. A conspiracy of change more powerful than rulers or riches. And they give us hope for the change we need, too, the hidden melt of cancer cells this Spring and the the flow of the river of life in Scott. Come Lord Jesus, in all your quiet disguises making all things new.

This bud is in the picture below . . just hard to see in the dust of snow!

Our days are spent remote-working with teams in Africa, then driving back and forth 4.5 hours from WV to Baltimore, consults and plans and procedures and pain and hope.

Went for coffee yesterday next to the clinic and this guy watched over our table.

The Spring Conspiracy pictured here on the road to Baltimore day before yesterday . . heavy dark wet cold clouds, yes, but God is in the cloud, and shines an arc of light to remind us to hope.

So, walking by faith, into the drab woods, towards the sun.

Dust & Ashes, Cloud & Fire

 Today, Ash Wednesday, begins the season of Lent, a 40-day attention to our mortality. God knows we gravitate towards denial. Towards comfort, health, wealth, ease, youth . . . all good things but stale centers to a life purpose. Humanity that denies mortality risks a selfish, world-destroying grab. Whereas a life lived in the boundaries of mortality clarifies the great commandments, loving God and loving neighbor as central seeds that blossom into true joy. 

Even Jesus lived for a defined journey on earth, that ended with the cross.

A helpful exercise to stem our self-promoting greedy slide away from love is to intentionally mark the 40 days with habits of discipline, with a voluntary fast from something good.

In 2025, we are "giving up" our last 31+ years of normal life for Lent. Scott was diagnosed just over a month ago with metastatic Stage-IV prostate cancer, spread into lymph nodes through his abdomen and looking dangerously aggressive on biopsy. We scrambled to get into expert care given his advanced disease and relatively young age, which as missionary workers means leaving behind for now our home, our work, our community, our day-to-day life, in Africa and relocating for an indefinite period within range of medicine and testing and care. Dust and ashes mark this day, and this year for us. He began his first injection two weeks ago, but we see the months and hopefully years stretching ahead dimly, holding onto sober reality and faithful hope at the same time.

Dust and ashes are the residue of drought and fire, a reminder that our shiniest works have a temporal vulnerability. 

Dust and ashes keep us humble, realistic, grounded. 

But dust and ashes are not the end of the story. We have needed the 40 days from late January into March to re-orient our life from East and Central African edges of good hard work, to supporting all that through others' hands as we continue at distance.

This lent we've moved from resident in Bundibugyo focused on CSB, team, BundiNutrition, church, Bible translation and more . . . .  to resident in America working by internet. From on-continent hourly investment in our Area's holistic cadre of 80 workers, and many more partners, immersed in education, Bible, medicine, youth, sports, arts, business, residency programs, research, film, the myriad of ways that we inch good towards overcoming evil, to doing all that a step removed. From hands-on presence, to mentoring and writing and zooming. From an equatorial yard of palms and mangoes and banana trees where we have a half dozen visitors any given morning chattering in Lubwisi, to bleakly cold days with hours at a computer. And from an unseen horizon of aging and retirement to one that catapulted us into cancer care. From mortality in the unseen background to mortality as a present reality.

By faith we know: Dust will be reformed by resurrecting rain; ashes fall but leave behind a tested core that can't be consumed by fire. 

God chose the cloud and fire to represent his presence in the wilderness. As we walk into the next 40 days and the wilderness beyond, join us in praying we would see God's presence. That the obscure cloud of how-long, how-much, would shine with the glory of his mercy. That the night of our sorrow would be lit by the fire of his truth.

The path to care at Hopkins, the path to Jesus' hard call on our lives.

And pray for our Area, our work that continues, that is not all dust and ash. So many wonderful people 10-30 years younger than we are, doing way more than we could and way better. We are still team Serge. Cancer is part of our story for now, but not the whole story, so we will try to keep the complex story lines going here.