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If there is one thing that can be said about our life here in Nyankunde, it is that there is always something to be fixed. These past few months we have had to replace multiple parts of a turbine engine in a plane, split the tractor in half and replace the transmission case, rebuild two chain saws, put up more solar panels, swap two engines in our land cruisers, clean eight carburetors, rebuild a motorcycle engine, weld countless broken parts on everything that moves, and much more that I cannot remember.

If you are wondering at this point how I was trained for these things, the answer is that I wasn’t. Each day is a challenge and a new adventure. With a little bit of courage and a lot of tools, everything that breaks can eventually be fixed. Google and Youtube are your best friends when knowledge fails.

The truth is that every small thing that is fixed is another piece of the big story that God is weaving together here in Congo, for His glory. Even the chain saw will be used to process lumber from the forest in the village of Itendey to build new hospital wards bringing the blessing of healthcare.

Thank you to every one who gives and prays so that Dave and other pilot/mechanics and maintenance specialists can serve in this vital way. 

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“All of my favorite instructors were from MAF,” said Luke Nelson, describing his flight training at Moody Aviation in Spokane, WA, and one of the reasons he chose to serve with Mission Aviation Fellowship.

Luke and his wife, Amy, had both wanted to be missionaries when they were kids, even though neither was sure what that would look like. But today they know. They’re preparing to serve as a pilot/mechanic family with MAF Lesotho.

Growing up, Luke’s idea of a missionary was someone who lived in a grass hut and ate bugs, or who stood on a street corner, shaking his Bible at people. He saw himself as more of a behind-the-scenes guy and was uncertain which path to take. Then one day, God pointed the way.

“Imagine my excitement when I was reminded that Nate Saint, the MAF pilot who flew Jim Elliot and was with him on that beach, was a missionary, too, and there was a school where you could learn to fly planes just like him,” Luke said.

As a shy, tender-hearted girl, Amy went from telling her friends about Jesus to teaching in her AWANA club as a teen and serving with AWANA Korea for two months after high school. God used these experiences to transform her into “a bold, outgoing kid” who could talk to large crowds about Jesus.

When she returned from Korea, she moved to Spokane, WA, to pursue a degree in Intercultural Studies at Moody Bible Institute.

This is where Luke and Amy’s lives intersected. After they were married and both had graduated, they continued taking steps toward MAF.

Currently they’re visiting with individuals and churches, searching for the people whom God has selected to join their team of financial and prayer supporters.

“It’s not a transactional thing,” Amy explains. “We want to be partners and share our lives with these folks.”

Luke and Amy are looking forward to getting established in Lesotho and “life finally starting” for which they’ve been preparing for years.

“We’re just excited about the ministry of the Lesotho team and how the church of God is being built,” said Luke, referring to the Lesotho Flying Pastors, whom MAF equips and sends to evangelize in the mountain villages.

With their move overseas delayed by six months, they say it’s forced them to live what they believe.

“We’re putting in effort, of course, but it’s not up to us how the provision will come in,” said Luke. “It’s a constant reminder that He is our provider.”

The Nelsons want to invite you to share in the work God is doing in Lesotho. To learn more and join their team, visit maf.org/lnelson.

Story ran in the Vol. 3 2022 edition of FlightWatch. Read the entire issue here:

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It’s May 2010. MAF aircraft have brought visitors and copies of the first Kimyal New Testament to the village of Korupun in Papua, Indonesia. The people have celebrated and given heartfelt praise to God, overjoyed to finally have His Word in their heart language.

A small group of village women crowds into a tiny wooden building. A young woman glances around the room and speaks.

“You look at these older ladies. They will receive the Word of God. They will pass it on to their children and grandchildren. I will pass it on to my children, and it will keep them on the path of righteousness. And once we’re gone, our children will pass it on to their children.”*

Gospel transformation rarely happens in a generational vacuum, and she knows it.

So does MAF. Because this moment has been generations in the making, and God has graciously allowed us to play an ongoing part in it, along with our faithful supporters.

A Fatal Trek

It was September 1968, and missionaries Phil Masters and Stan Dale were hiking to reach certain members of the fierce Yali tribe of Irian Jaya (now Papua, Indonesia) with the gospel.

The two men had begun their journey from the village of Korupun, where Phil and his family served with Regions Beyond Missionary Union (RBMU, now World Team) among the Kimyal people. Stan had joined him in Korupun, leaving the village of Ninia where he and his family served with RBMU among the Yali. A few believers from the Dani tribe accompanied them.

As they traveled, a group of Yali warriors ambushed them with bows and arrows. Scores of arrows found their targets, and Phil and Stan were killed.

Three of the Dani missionaries escaped to a nearby village and reported what had happened. MAF—who had earlier helped locate the Yali tribe and had supported Phil and Stan and their fellow missionaries for years—hired a helicopter to pinpoint the area of the killings. When they found it, all that remained were arrows and debris. The men’s bodies were never recovered.

Phil and Stan left behind five children each. Phil’s wife, Phyliss, was pregnant with their fifth child.

Sorrow and Redemption

In a few short paragraphs it is impossible to communicate the depth of grief and dismay experienced by the families of the two men. The whole community of believers in Papua mourned as well—missionaries from various organizations who had labored together for years; MAF pilots and families who had come alongside them; Dani villagers who had recently experienced a miraculous awakening to the gospel.

But God, who walks with His children through every nuance of their pain, also felt the anguish of those who had never known the light of the gospel. He was lovingly writing their story too.

Phil Masters’ wife, Phyliss, though heartbroken, was convinced God had not revoked His call on her life to be a missionary. She shared the love of Christ among the Dani people for decades. The Dani have sent out their own missionaries since the early years of their conversion, and through their efforts God continues to draw many fellow Papuans to Himself.

“God’s purposes were not stopped by what seemed at the moment a devastating blow to the gospel,” says Crissie Rask, Phyliss’ daughter.

Crissie was in eighth grade when her dad was killed. She went on to marry MAF pilot Dave Rask. In 1983 the two of them began serving with MAF in Papua. Today, Dave is MAF’s director of Aviation Resources Division, and Crissie is manager of Mobilization.

Stan Dale’s family moved back to their native country of Australia, but years later his son Wesley returned to Papua to live in the village of Mamit and serve as a missionary among the Dani people. Wesley and his wife Esther live in Mamit to this day, where Wesley lectures at the Bible college and Esther teaches children of the students.

As for the Yalis, other laborers courageously took up the call to reach them, and through the power of Jesus Christ, this once-fierce tribe traded their violence for God’s peace. The first translation of the entire Bible in the language of the Yali people of Ninia was dedicated in 2000. A complete Bible translation for another Yali group was dedicated in 2018.

Full Circle

In May of 2010, poignantly aware of those dedicated missionaries and local believers in Korupun who had taken up where her husband had left off, Phyliss Masters joined in the celebration of the first Kimyal New Testament. MAF celebrated right alongside her.

We are honored to have come alongside countless faithful followers of Christ in Papua since 1952. Wesley and Esther Dale sum it up like this: “MAF is our lifeline. We really feel part of their team, and they’re an essential part of our ministry.”

You are an essential part of this kingdom work as well. We look forward to many more years of partnership as, together, we reach future generations with the love of Jesus Christ.

*This quote is taken from a World Team video about the Kimyal New Testament dedication.

Story appeared in the May 2020 FlightWatch, a special 75th anniversary edition:

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“All right, I’d like everyone to share their name, their major, and where they’re from,” my professor said with a smile. It was a new semester at college, and I was sitting in one of my Bible classes when the inevitable “where are you from” question popped up, instantly filling me with dread.

I never know how to respond. No matter how many times it’s asked of me, it doesn’t get easier to react. Do I say I’m from Indonesia, where I’ve spent most of my life? Or Georgia, where my parents are originally from and where we stayed on furloughs? Or Idaho, where my family moved to a year ago? Or Chicago, where I currently live and go to school? I usually pick a response based on how enthusiastic I feel in the moment about sharing my story. For this particular class, I settled with the straightforward, “my family lives in Idaho.”

The dilemma I face, though it seems trivial, is a common quandary missionary kids grapple with. There’s usually at least two countries we could call home, and often we feel that we don’t completely belong in one or the other.  We drift between worlds — the world of our parents’ homeland, and the world where we grew up, which commonly involves multiple countries/cities/houses.

I feel like a nomad on this planet, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be entirely at home in one place, whatever home is. Still, I would never trade my upbringing in Indonesia, with all the extraordinary people and experiences that made my life more full and bright, for a childhood that was more “stable.”  Feeling not at home in any one place has pushed me closer to God, as I’ve realized that ultimately, I must find my true home in Him. This Earth is not our final destination; we are not meant to get too comfortable in it. As unpredictable as life is now, one thing is certain: we will someday reunite with God and have a home with Him for all eternity.

Living in Indonesia — a country grappling with pervasive poverty, natural disasters, and injustice —  has shown me that the world is not as it should be. That’s why organizations like MAF exist, as we strive to live out the love of God and set things right, even as we acknowledge the deep brokenness that only our Lord can mend. We must remember that we were made for a world beyond this one, and our truest home and security exists in God Himself.

From the soaring skyscrapers and steely winter skies of Chicago, to the humid jungles of mountainous Indonesia, I’m learning to seek home, my anchor in God.  As C.S. Lewis said, “I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death…. I must make it the main object of life to press on to that country and to help others do the same.”

The post Where Are You From? appeared first on Mission Aviation Fellowship.

Saturday – Early morning interlude

Every time my tummy rumbled during the night, I wondered if the papa-cooked-over-a-dung-fire was going to create a desperate situation for me. Now, at 5 a.m., I was trying to ignore the fact that I needed to use the bathroom—somewhat urgently. Of course, there was a problem: Where would I “go”? There were no outhouses here.

The last time I’d been backpacking and had to build a temporary latrine was 40 years ago, as a teenager. That was in the Sierras, in a heavily wooded area. Here, I’d be lucky to find a bush.

I pulled my sleeping bag around me tighter, listening to what sounded like pots and pans clanging. When I finally got up and walked outside just after 5:30, in full morning light now, I realized the noise came from two cow-bell-laden steers in a stone-wall pen not far from our front door.

I remembered last evening one of the women in the village telling us (the girls) that we could “go” down by the river, where there were plenty of trees. Now, in the daylight, it appeared to be at least a half mile away, and with my need to go increasing it was out of the question.

I could walk past the steers into the ravine where I’d gone the night before, in the dark. But now the sheep and goats were out of their pens and running through it. Did that mean the shepherds were close behind? I could already see several of them out and about in the near distance.

I decided against the ravine and turned around to inspect the big hill behind me. There were three bushes up above all the homes, so I headed towards them. When I got closer, I realized they were thorn bushes. Great! Three thorn bushes. The first one was too small, the middle one was “okay,” and the last one seemed just right; that is, until I saw a rock tumbling down the hill out of the corner of my eye. It came from what looked like a tiny makeshift shelter made of a thin board and some rocks. There was an opening in the top corner. Was someone watching me from below? Ugh, back to my second-choice bush.

After all that, now I really didn’t have to go—at least not in the way I first thought. But I was here now and wouldn’t see an outhouse until late afternoon when we returned to the main base. As I crouched down, I could see through the leafless bush that Refiloe had come out of our house below and was looking all around for me. No doubt she was wondering what had become of me, since I’d been gone for a good 10 minutes or more.

Now that I had that uncomfortable situation out of the way, I could get on with my day. I hoped there wouldn’t be any other awkward moments as I just wanted to focus on the Lesotho Flying Pastors (LFP) and how they would minister to the people of this remote village.

Mid-morning

After breakfast, the female pastors and I split off from the men and went to make house calls a few hills over. As we visited with one woman, a young man approached. Refiloe started talking with him, and Makopoi began translating for me. Turns out he had watched the “JESUS” film the night before and was excited to talk about it. He said he’d wrestled with it all night. He couldn’t understand how Jesus could ask the Father to forgive those who had killed him. This man was a traditional healer (aka witch doctor) and wore a vial and other attachments around his neck related to this. It seemed the Holy Spirit was already working on him because he was asking if he would need to remove his necklace. Refiloe spoke to him non-stop for several minutes. She didn’t miss a beat and seemed to know which verses to share and how to answer his questions. Before I knew it, Makopoi was telling me he was going to pray to receive Christ.

I was sitting right behind him and Refiloe as they prayed together, amazed that I was witnessing such a holy moment. I had the thought that I should take a picture as they were praying, but all I had with me was my phone. It just didn’t feel right, as if it would cheapen the moment somehow. Afterwards, I asked him if I could take his picture, and he was fine with that.

Next, we visited another house a few doors down. This one held a single man, who stood in the doorway as he talked with Makopoi. After about five minutes, he also prayed to receive Christ as his Savior! I could hardly believe what I was seeing. The pastors made it look so easy. But I knew they had trained and worked hard to prepare for this ministry. They’d also laid the groundwork during their first visit here, and there were already several new believers in the village as a result.

We met up with the guys again and Lem told me they had had similar experiences at their house visits. We needed to hit the trail and get back to home base as the rain clouds were building again. There was no protective cover for the “JESUS” film backpack, so that was a concern. Refiloe prayed for the group of children that had gathered at the rondeval, then she led them in a praise song she had taught them, in English. “Up, up, Jesus!” she sang and jumped, even as she wore her big backpack.

Late morning

We said our goodbyes, but the kids didn’t want us to leave so a dozen or more followed us on the trail. I imagine from above it looked like the adults were the Pied Pipers with a stream of kids behind us—ranging from toddlers to teenagers.

They walked with us for about an hour. Some of the bigger kids helped carry our backpacks, sleeping bags, or water bottles. Then at the halfway point, Makopoi told them they had to go home. After all, their parents would wonder where they were. They moved slowly, a few teary eyed, lingering. Then, finally, they were moving as a group, going up and over the hill and out of sight.

Afternoon

We continued on and after climbing some rocky hills, the rest of the way leveled out and we quickly arrived back at the base at Thoteng. We dropped off our packs at the main rondeval and then Lem and  Makopoi and I hiked over to the nearby clinic to interview the director and some of the nurses about how MAF flights served them.

Afterwards, as we were leaving the clinic, I pulled out my phone and noticed I’d missed a call from our program manager, Matt Monson. Now he was trying to call again. I answered and put him on speaker phone.

“Guys, the wind report looks terrible for Monday (the day we were supposed to fly out). I think we need to come get you tomorrow morning,” he said.

Thoteng was already a tricky airstrip when it came to landing, and strong winds would make it too risky. The rest of the week looked just as bad, and we risked getting stuck there.

There was a unifed groan on our end of the line. Were we really going to have to leave early? Wasn’t there another alternative?

The only other thing would be to take a taxi two hours to Mokhotlong Monday morning and catch an MAF flight back from there, Matt informed us. There was an early scheduled flight there, and the pilot could wait for us. But that meant traveling two hours in a cramped van over a winding dirt road through the mountains.

I was beginning to feel like we were in an episode of The Amazing Race, Lesotho style. Lem and I looked at each other, knowing we had to make a quick decision. Should we stay longer and take the “taxi,” or leave early and miss seeing what God was going to do through the pastors the next day?

Find out what happened next. Click here.

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Friday – late afternoon

Once the rain died down, we walked back to the middle cluster of homes. There was some activity there now. The pastors found a man willing to offer us lodgings for the night: a rondeval for the guys (shared with the owner), and a simple rectangular building with a tin roof next door, for the girls.

Someone was going to sweep the floors and get the homes ready for us. As we waited, we visited with one of the local families outside their home. At one point, I happened to catch a glimpse of Boomo, one of the male pastors, walking up the hill a few houses away. He was carrying a very large slab of butchered meat. I thought it strange but didn’t ask anyone about it.

A short time later, Makopoi, one of the girls with whom I’d be rooming, walked me over to the home where we’d be staying. The door was wide open, “airing out,” she said. On the floor were two big bloody stains. She explained that since the people didn’t have refrigeration, a butchered animal had been stored in there and someone would come in a bit to clean it up. Ah, so that’s why Boomo was carrying the meat! Inside there was an old bedroom set with a queen-size bed, plus three love seats along one wall. I wondered how the furniture ended up here, in the middle of nowhere.

With our housing situation figured out, Makopoi left to lead a children’s session out on the hillside. The children who had accepted Christ on the pastor’s first visit were hungry for more and followed the pastors around like flies on honey.

Refiloe, the youngest member of the LFP group at age 21, went to start dinner, borrowing another family’s firepit, in the middle of their rondeval, to spare the lekhooa (white people) from having to stay in an enclosed smoke-filled hut. Later, Refiloe found me and was excited to tell me how she was successfully cooking our meal over a fire. I finally figured out she was telling me the fire was made of dung, and she was making “papa,” a main staple. Papa is made of corn flour and is like a bland, thick porridge. Back in Maseru we’d tried it with grilled chicken, beef or pork, but on this night, we’d be eating it with milk (carried with us in quart-sized cartons). So it was kind of like breakfast for dinner, which was fine with me. It seemed like a safe choice. I knew the papa would have to boil for quite some time, so that meant the water in which it was cooking would boil long enough.

Over dinner, Refiloe asked us if we thought the papa had a different flavor to it. Lem said no, and I thought better of mentioning the dung fire, even if there was a slight smoky aroma to it. I made a mental note to tell him about it later, along with the image of Boomo carrying the meat. We ate our fill and then the pastors scrambled to set up the “JESUS” film equipment.

As the sun hid behind the mountains, Francis’ voice boomed out over a megaphone to alert the surrounding communities. At the start of the movie, there were maybe a dozen people watching, mainly children it seemed. But every time I looked around, I saw that more people had joined. I was also surprised to discover a group on the other side of the screen. Makopoi explained that you could watch from either side. Who knew? Then she pointed out a guy sitting in a tree watching from 100 yards or more away, which made me think of Zacchaeus.

That night at least a dozen people raised their hands and prayed to receive Christ after the movie was over. God had redeemed our day after all, and the pastors were able to minister in those last hours. But that was just the tip of the iceberg for what God was going to do the rest of the weekend.

Click here to read the next post in the series.  

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Friday – early afternoon

“I’ll take … pictures … when we … get to … the village,” I managed to say in between trying to catch my breath.

I was hiking up into the mountains of the Tlhanyaku area of Lesotho with Lem Malabuyo, my co-worker, an MAF video producer. We were following four members of the Lesotho Flying Pastors (LFP) on a three-hour hike to an isolated village where they would share the good news of Jesus Christ.

It was our job to capture stories—do interviews, take pictures and videos—so we could share with MAF’s donors the impact they’re having through MAF. But at that moment, my camera was stored in my backpack as I focused on where to place my feet. Loose rocks and slippery pebbles could send me sprawling down a hillside. And I didn’t want to be “that person” who fell and slowed down the entire group; or worse, the one who injured herself out in the middle of nowhere.

Known as the Mountain Kingdom, Lesotho was living up to its name, and God’s creation seemed to sing “Glory!” in the breathtaking vistas that surrounded us. It almost didn’t seem real. I certainly never imagined, in my late teens, when I penned my first articles for my high school paper, that as a writer I’d be tasked with telling the story of how God is working in the people of this beautiful, rugged country where I now found myself.

The clouds started rolling in about two-thirds of the way into our hike, which was a nice respite from the intense sun and high-80s heat. But it also meant the possibility of rain. Finally, we reached our destination as the first raindrops started to fall.

We stopped at the chief’s house first, but he wasn’t there. In fact, except for the children who swarmed us and a couple of moms, the place seemed deserted, which was odd because the pastors had phoned or texted the people to let them know they were coming on that day (Yes, many have cell phones!). The chief’s wife let us store our bags in her rondeval (a round, stone structure with a thatched roof), where she was caring for her newborn.

We donned our rain jackets and, as the wind and rain buffeted us, hiked two hills over to another small cluster of homes where the LFP had arranged lodging for us. However, when we got there, we discovered it wasn’t available after all. The owner claimed that family issues were preventing her from hosting us.

So there we were, in the very last village before the border of South Africa. It was raining and thundering and we had no place to stay. Would we have to leave and hike all the way back to where we’d started from that morning? Would the pastors miss an opportunity to share Christ with these people?

These questions were going through my head as the six of us huddled under the eaves of an empty stable, with not a soul in sight.

Click here to read the next post in the series. 

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She and her husband Brian, an MAF pilot, are based in Nabire, in Papua, Indonesia. Heather’s role takes a variety of forms, from caring for their three young children to hosting visiting missionaries and pilots in their home, to creating a character training program for local MAF staff. But using her artistic abilities to build up the local church gives her a special joy.

“I believe anyone can (and should) use their talent for the Lord, whether it’s teaching, IT, flying, writing, art …  We can all use our talents and training for the glory of God,” says Heather. “I think it’s exciting to think of all the different ways we can serve Him. The body of Christ and variety of talents He created is beautiful.”

Recently Heather gave a presentation to Sunday school teachers at a local church in Nabire. She displayed artwork from a book she illustrated and dispelled some of the myths surrounding Jesus’ birth.

“The book takes a closer look into the culture of the time surrounding Jesus’ birth,” says Heather.

She touches on how there are a lot of details missing in Scripture surrounding the nativity story. And while we tend to view the nativity story through western eyes, she says a Hebrew of that time would fill in the blanks quite differently in their mind.

“A Hebrew of that time would think, ‘Well, of course they put Him in a manger. That’s what we all do.’”

A close-up of the sketch reveals the lower part of the home where families kept their animals at night. The raised level is where the family lived. Divots were carved in the stone floor as feeding troughs. When a Hebrew baby was born, the parents would line the trough with sheep’s wool and that would be the baby’s bed.

The upstairs room you see in the illustration is the kataluma. It’s the word used for “inn” in Luke 2:7. A more accurate translation is “guest room.”

“It means ‘upper room,’ which is where people put guests in their home,” explains Heather. “It’s not a public place. A different word is used in the story of the Good Samaritan, which was indeed a public place of lodging.

The author, Jared Burkholder, fills in more blanks by placing Mary at no more than six months pregnant when the couple arrived in Bethlehem (based on travel back and forth to visit cousin Elizabeth, travel from Nazareth to Bethlehem, etc).

“Dr. Burkholder writes his version of the Christmas narrative with Joseph and Mary staying with relatives in Bethlehem. This is a more culturally accurate assumption,” adds Heather. “With all of the family there for the census, now this statement makes sense, ‘There was no place for them in the guest room’ (Luke 2:7).

“Since they had time in Bethlehem before giving birth, it would have been cultural to arrange for a midwife to come. So Mary was likely in the living room, attended to by a midwife, and animals watching on from the lower portion of the home.”

This presents a different picture from the westernized nativity drama that most of us grew up with—and the idea of a mean innkeeper rejecting them. However, Heather is quick to emphasize that the main point remains the same: “The King of kings was born in an ordinary meager home among His people… not in a palace for kings.”

On Christmas Eve this year, Heather will be doing a live art presentation based around the book. She’s had special training with Eternity Arts in Michigan, where she learned how to become a gospel chalk artist.

“My drawings usually have a hidden picture that I have drawn ahead of time (Using blacklight chalk) that is revealed in the end with blacklight. This hidden picture at the end drives the message home for a lasting impact,” says Heather.

Heather has different versions of her chalk art presentations, for Christmas, for Easter, for missions conferences, etc.

“Art ministry is so effective because it breaks cultural and language barriers,” explains Heather. We usually only remember about 20% of what we hear, but 80% of what we see. Boy, put those two together and I’m etching a message on someone’s mind that they will never forget.”

“It has been amazing to see how God used art for His kingdom over my past 14 years of chalk art ministry.”

The post Art for His Glory appeared first on Mission Aviation Fellowship.

I saw nothing. But the whiny song grew louder. And closer. Suddenly the tail end of a large tanker truck appeared at our corner. The driver never halted, but deftly backed around the restricted turn, then maneuvered through the twisted gambit of parked cars and motor scooters that lined our narrow street. He passed below me and stopped in front of the apartment building next door.

The mad melody stopped and left an enormous silence. The driver hopped down from the cab, went to the side of his vehicle and removed a long, green, flexible tube. He connected one end to a valve at the rear of his tank and the other end to a waiting receptacle near the apartment’s entrance. Then he returned to the tank and opened a valve. And waited.

Water! On the edge of a 10 million-person city, these residents depended upon a man to deliver their water. By truck.

Big truck? Tiny, crowded, crumbling streets? High need? Multiple deliveries every day? What could go wrong? I marveled at his ability, determination, and persistence. They needed him. Desperately. And for the five weeks we lived there, he never failed.

He was just like those MAF folks I know who sharpen their skill, work until the job’s done, and serve others day after day, month after month, year after year.

There are differences, of course. One rolls, the other flies. One plays a raucous tune, the other roars. And, while the truck delivers exhaustible, life-saving water, the MAF airplane delivers eternal, life-giving water. We need both.

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