Morphemics

The Devil and a Can of Green Beans

Just before entering the second grade I prayed that a 12 year old Indian boy would get saved. A couple of years later, I prayed all the more fervently that no one else would find out. It all started when my mother wanted to know why the back of my head was bleeding.

“Duane threw a can at me.”
“But, why?”
“I don’t know. I was just looking at the swing and he threw a can at me.”

Further interrogation brought out more details. I had been outside playing on the swing when Duane wandered in from the village and asked if he could play too. Saying yes was the polite thing to do and, besides, Duane was bigger. After he had been there longer than I thought necessary, I gingerly suggested that perhaps turns would be in order. To my surprise, Duane seemed to be agreeable to the idea. Sporting a rather prominent grin, he immediately jumped to the ground and allowed me to make my approach. But then, grabbing the swing, he threw it over the top bar well out of my reach and headed back to the village.

“So, when did he throw the can at you?”
“Um…”
“Did you do anything to make him mad?”
“No.”
“Did you throw something at him?”
“No.”
“Did you say something to him?”
“ .”
“Kevin?”

It hadn’t taken long to recover from the initial shock. My social status during the upcoming school year required that I take action. I called out to him and Duane turned around to look at me. Soon I remembered that he was obviously too large for me take down on my own. So, I claimed the only weapon that a young Christian boy has in these kinds of situations. I quoted the first Bible verse that came to mind. Then, still maintaining my composure, I turned my back to him and faced the swing.

That evening, my mother suggested that God could still make everything turn out better. I didn’t see how. All I had to do, she explained, was to pray that God would change Duane’s heart. Pray that God saves Duane. I reluctantly agreed. There was, after all, no guarantee that Duane’s salvation would prevent him from throwing more cans. Later that year, after one of the church services that we would hold in our living room, Duane stayed after to talk to my father. He became the only convert to the faith that we had during our two year stay as missionaries in Anvik, Alaska. And the first prayer was answered.

The World Baptist Fellowship exists as a cooperative effort of independent churches in order to send missionaries to the field. Every May, they hold a missions conference to coincide with the graduation ceremonies of their college. There are representatives from WBF churches all over the country. For those that are close enough to the DFW Metroplex, whole congregations may show up. In addition, all of the missionary families that are home on furlough and able to attend come and give testimonies about their time on the field. That year, we were able to attend. I was just completing the third grade and in four months we would be leaving for Brazil.

I didn’t really know what was going on. It looked to me like a lot of the church services we’d been to while raising more support. As usual, I would blend in with crowd while my father said something about our new mission field. Perhaps he would even preach. But then I noticed something rather disturbing. The missionaries who were on stage speaking were up there with their families. In most cases, the man would speak while his family stood dutifully next to him. Occasionally, his wife would say something. They would then exit stage right to a short burst of applause. My fate having been sealed, I began preparing myself. Okay, you can do this. All you have to do is stand there.

An usher broke my concentration, “Y’all are next!” We were escorted backstage and waited our turn. It came and I began to wonder if all the other MKs’ stomachs were in the same kinds of knots. Relief came when my father finished speaking. I started walking off the stage only to quickly realize that my mother was headed in the wrong direction.

What is she doing?

“I’d like to tell you about Duane.”

The sheer intensity of prayer has erased the next few minutes from my memory. However, I distinctly remember hearing the verse, the only Bible verse that had come to mind.

“Ye are of your father the devil!”

And so it happened that, instead of my second prayer being answered to my satisfaction, I was left standing on a stage in an auditorium in Texas while two thousand people laughed at me.

We were never able to do any follow up work and no other missionaries went to Anvik after us. I still wonder whatever happened to Duane. More prayer is in order.

Posted by kcourter at agosto 26, 2003 7:57 PM