From Headhunters to Helicopters

June 24, 1982. The plane circled the small village of Dibagat, before landing on a tiny airstrip in a remote area surrounded by jungle, hills, and a wide winding river. The pilot, Leonardo (Nard) Medina Pugyao, alighted from the plane and stretched; taking in the familiar scents and sounds of his home.

“Papa, me down.” Nard turned as a small boy about two held out his arms to him from the doorway of the plane. He lifted him down and then offered his hand to the young woman who appeared in the doorway behind the boy.

The sound of excited voices grew louder as a group of villagers called greetings to the three from the plane – it was Nard’s family. They began to unload the small cargo hold.

A woman about forty, with the same high cheekbones and forehead as Nard, picked up one of the boxes, put it on her head and turned to walk back to the village.

"Hey Manang (older sister)," Nard called, “Do you know what you’re carrying?"

"Yes Ading (younger brother), it is a box."

"Manang, those are New Testaments in our language."

She brought the box down and hugged it, "Are you serious?” she asked. “New Testaments in our language? You mean I'm going to have a copy of my very own? "

Nard’s heart was about to burst as he realized again the penetrating power of the Bible and what it means to read God’s Word in your heart language.

But this is only a part of the story. The really exciting part happened twenty-six years earlier when a tall white man, Dick Roe, walked into Nard’s village. It was 1956 and Nard was six years old. The man didn’t speak Isnag, and they did not speak English so the elders asked as best they could. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to learn your language.” The man said. “I’d like to write it down and give you God’s Word in your language.”

“Who is your God?” the elders asked.

“He’s the God who made heaven and earth,” Dick replied, pointing to the sky, the ground, and the surrounding area. “He’s the Creator of the whole universe. He created me and you, too.”

“Is He powerful?” the elders continued. “More powerful than the spirits who have controlled our lives from the beginning of time? Is He more powerful than our ancestors, the head-hunters?”

“Yes, He’s more powerful.” Dick told them.

The elders conferred, and then took Dick to a spare hut. In hope, they began to teach Dick their language. Maybe his God could free them from the spirits.

Nard was fascinated by this white man and talked with Dick often, his ability to pick up the Isnag language was phenomenal, and he in turn taught Nard English. He told Nard about God’s son named Jesus. He tried to explain the concept of God’s grace, but their lives revolved around the revenge killings of their head-hunter ancestors. Grace made no sense to them.

When Nard was thirteen, Dick had to return to America to raise support to continue his work in the Philippines, but before he left, he translated the Gospel of Mark into Isnag, and gave Nard a copy.

It was Christmas day and sitting on top of a ridge overlooking the river, Nard read the Gospel of Mark in his heart language. It was as though he were there, seeing things as they happened. But the further Nard read, the more distressed he became. Deep in his heart, anger at God swelled. He shook his fist and shouted. “I hate You God, why did You let that happen to Your Son?” and he hurled the book down onto the rocks below and started walking home.

Suddenly God reached down into his heart. “Nard, don’t you understand?” Nard heard Him say. “That’s how much I love you. I gave my son to die in your place.” And for the first time, Nard understood grace. He understood how much God loved him.

“God, if You love me that much,” he prayed, “I want to give You my life, my heart – everything I have is Yours.” Nard turned and ran back to retrieve his Gospel of Mark. He brushed it off and sat down to see what happened next. It was an amazing moment when he read about the resurrection on the third day. Nobody from among the Isnag people had ever risen from the dead. The resurrection story changed Nard’s life and the rest, as they say, is history.
       
                                                  
                           
  Author's Note

Nard and I became penfriends through a Christian Youth magazine (Young Ambassador) when we were both in High School – he in the Philippines, and I in Australia. He graduated from Bukidnon Provincial High School in 1968, 10th out of 174 students. From here he attended University and Bible College in America and went on to work with Wycliffe Bible Translators where he met and married Sandy, an MK (Missionary Kid) they have two sons, Steven and Phillip.

Nard continued his studies and took a degree in aeronautical engineering. God had given Nard the dream of being a missionary pilot, flying missionaries into remote villages like his own. He and Sandy continue to do this to today.

Just So's You Remember...I'M the Boss

Reading my friend DJ's blog yesterday reminded me of something that happened a couple of years ago.....

My son-in-law came into my granny flat and plonked himself down on the spare chair. “Deb and I are considering getting a puppy," he said, longingly eyeing the fresh muffins, "but we wanted to run it by you first.”

I passed him a muffin. “John, it’s your home, you and Deb can get a rhinoceros if you want.”

“It’s your home too, and you’ll be the one spending the most time with her.”

“It’s fine by me, I’ll bath her and change her nappy, and fix her bottle.” I was really warming to the idea of having a new baby to care for... even if she did have four legs.

My son-in-law grinned; after 19 years of being married to my daughter, he was quite used to my humour.

The one thing none of us had considered doing however, was discussing this with His Majesty, Napoleon. Yes, that’s right – Napoleon.

Napoleon is our four year old, twenty-pound Oriental– jet black, long, lean, muscled and looking for all the world like a small panther. We had no idea what a kerfuffle our new family member would cause.

Calliope a.k.a. Cally, a.k.a. fuzz-ball, a.k.a. Grandma's precious baby, arrived the following day looking just like a ball of black mohair wool with four white paws, a miniscule white tip on her curly tail, a white chest and a white patch of hair on her forehead that curled into an almost perfect question mark. Did I mention she was cute? She had the longest eyelashes I have ever seen on a pup, and so tiny was our new baby she could fit in your cupped hands.

Enter His Majesty – Lord-of-all-I-survey – Napoleon. He swaggered past the lounge and stopped in shock as an unfamiliar scent assailed his nostrils. He turned and stared; his eyes becoming as large as saucers. Cally lay blissfully unaware, dreaming her sweet puppy dreams. He sniffed the tiny ball of fluff and let loose the most blood curdling scream I have ever heard from a cat. He almost doubled in size as his hair stood on end and a stream of snarls and hisses followed the scream and any attempt to placate him with hugs and his favourite treat only enraged him further.

He retreated to the top level of his cat palace, six feet above ground and continued to make known his displeasure. For five days he refused to allow anyone to come near him or even speak to him and any attempt to pick him up sent him into a paroxysm of snarling and hissing. We are talking serious feline temper tantrum here.

Day Six and we tried a new tactic to break through the barriers of fury and resentment. No one attempted to touch His Majesty without first washing their hands. Ahhh, at last we had a minor breakthrough. The King deigned to submit to words of praise, terms of endearment and even some gentle stroking.

Day Seven and he condescended to sit on my lap with the ‘baby’ asleep on the sofa next to me but any movement from the little princess resulted in bared teeth and snarls.

We wondered how much longer this could go on and were beginning to tire of His Lordship’s snit, when on the eighth day, Calliope decided she was tired of lying doggo and advised His Majesty she wanted to play tag. It began with a little bounce towards him. He swatted her (no claws thankfully) and then she ran around him in circles before giving him an Ewok-style growl and bounced at him again. He ran and she chased him as he took refuge in his tower.

From here, I fast forward to Day Twenty One. There is a thunder of hooves (a little poetic license to increase the drama) as Napoleon and Cally chase each other down the hall before spinning around and repeating the chase in the opposite direction. There is an all out wrestling match where a one kilo ball of fluff leaps on a ten kilo bundle of muscle, claws and fangs. The dining table and chairs have become their personal chicane and the tiled hallway their skating rink. Half an hour passes before these two former adversaries collapse exhausted on my spare armchair where they fall asleep snuggled up to each other, the picture of perfect harmony.

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Notable Quotes by Authors

I happened to be doing some surfing the other day (can’t you just picture me hanging ten in some totally narly surf?) and came across a web site that had a list of quotes from well known authors. I decided to share some of them with my friends...

‘Everyone walks past a thousand story ideas a day. The good writers are the ones who see five or six of them. Most people don’t see any’ – Orson Scott Card

It is the writer who might catch the imagination of young people, and plant a seed that will flower and come to fruition’ – Isaac Asimov

The only thing I was fit for was to be a writer, and this notion rested solely on my suspicion that I would never be fit for real work, and that writing didn't require any. – Russell Baker

It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn't give it up because by that time I was too famous – Robert Benchley

If you have other things in your life -- family, friends, and good, productive day work -- these can interact with your writing and the sum will be all the richer. – David Brin

If you write one story, it may be bad; but if you write a hundred, you have the odds in your favour. – Edgar Rice Burroughs.

It is perfectly okay to write garbage--as long as you edit brilliantly. – C J Cherryh

My task...is, by the power of the written word to make you hear, to make you feel - it is, before all, to make you see. That - and no more - and it is everything. – Joseph Conrad

Never throw up on an editor. – Ellen Datlow

There is no mistaking the dismay on the face of a writer who has just heard that his brain child is a deformed idiot. – L. Sprague de Camp

People on the outside think there's something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn't like that. You sit in front of the typewriter and you work, and that's all there is to it. – Harlan Ellison

It begins with a character, usually, and once he stands up on his feet and begins to move, all I can do is trot along behind him with a paper and pencil trying to keep up long enough to put down what he says and does. – William Faulkner

When writing a novel, that’s pretty much entirely what life turns into: 'House burned down. Car stolen. Cat exploded. Did 1500 easy words, so all in all it was a pretty good day.' – Neil Gainman

Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb at. – David Gerrold

Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost how it feels about dogs. – Christopher Hampton

To be a writer is to sit down at one's desk in the chill portion of every day, and to write; not waiting for the little jet of the blue flame of genius to start from the breastbone - just plain going at it, in pain and delight. To be a writer is to throw away a great deal, not to be satisfied, to type again, and then again, and once more, and over and over.... – John Hersey

It is advantageous to an author that his book should be attacked as well as praised. Fame is a shuttlecock. If it be struck at one end of the room, it will soon fall to the ground. To keep it up, it must be struck at both ends. – Samuel Johnson

James Blish told me I had the worst case of "said bookism" (that is, using every word except said to indicate dialogue). He told me to limit the verbs to said, replied, asked, and answered and only when absolutely necessary. – Anne McCaffrey

We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to. – Somerset Maugham

Prune what is turgid, elevate what is commonplace, arrange what is disorderly, introduce rhythm where the language is harsh, modify where it is too absolute. – Marcus Fabius Quintilianus, circa 65 A.D.

Engrave this in your brain: EVERY WRITER GETS REJECTED. You will be no different. – John Scalzi

The first chapter sells the book; the last chapter sells the next book. – Mickey Spillane

As for the adjective, when in doubt leave it out. – Mark Twain

No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader's intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing. – E. B. White

I never want to see anyone, and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write. – P. G. Wodehouse

And a few of my favourites ...

A blank piece of paper is God's way of telling us how hard it to be God. – Sydney Sheldon

All writing comes by the grace of God – Ralph Waldo Emerson

First, find out what your hero wants, then just follow him – Ray Bradbury

‘Books aren’t written, they’re rewritten – including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the 7^th rewrite hasn’t quite done it’ -- Michael Chrichton

‘I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by’ – Douglas Adams

http://www.logicalcreativity.com/jon/quotes.html#c

Surprised by Answered Prayer

W

hen God answers our prayers, what is our reaction? Do we immediately thank Him joyfully, telling others about it, or are we surprised that He answered; maybe even think, ‘what a coincidence!’

It was like that for the early church when Peter was taken prisoner by Herod. Here’s Peter, in prison, chained up with not one but two chains, and guarded by no less than four squads of soldiers; that’s sixteen altogether.

The church gathered together in prayer – not just any prayer, but the Bible tells us, “but the church was earnestly praying to God for him”Acts 12:5. Yet when Peter turns up at the door of home where they were gathered, they didn’t believe it when a servant girl named Rhoda ran and told them he was at the door. In fact, they said, “you’re nuts” Acts 12:15 (paraphrased) and when she kept on insisting it was Peter at the door, they said, “it must be his angel.” In other words: Nope, it can’t be Peter; he must be dead and his angel is knocking at the door.

So poor old Peter keeps knocking...and knocking and when they finally answered the door and see that it really is Peter, “they were astonished.” Hello, I mean, what’s going on here? This is the early church some of whom would have actually walked and talked with Jesus personally and even seen His miracles, Holy Spirit work through them, and how they sometimes weren’t surprised by what God did, it makes me realise they aren’t so very different to us. God still answers prayer today, and Christians are still sometimes amazed when He does, but we keep praying.

When God answers our prayers, we should be amazed. Not because we didn’t think He would answer our prayers, but amazed over and over again at the greatness and goodness of the God of all creation who loved us so much, that He gave His only Son to die in our place and adopted us as His dearly loved children.

Weekend of Victory

Crucifixion was the most painful, cruel, and degrading form of capital punishment in the Roman world. It was a death sentence reserved for slaves, non- Roman citizens and the very worst of criminals. Suspended from the cross by nails 11.5 centimetres long (4.53 inches) through wrist and ankle (angled down through the heel) the victim hung naked in their humiliation, openly reviled, mocked and cursed by onlookers. This humiliation would have increased further when the victim had to urinate or defecate in full view of the onlookers.

Christ suffered this death for you and for me.

In Old Testament times, the High Priest would pass through the heavy curtain into the Holy of Holies—once a year—to make sacrifices for their own sin and the sins of the people. When Jesus was crucified—at the very moment of His death, the curtain of the temple ripped in two from top to bottom, forever opening the way for us to enter into the Holy of Holies. Jesus is our Great High Priest, but he does not need to enter behind the veil each year to make sacrifices for us. “He did not enter by means of the blood of goats and calves; but he entered the Most Holy Place once for all by His own blood, thus obtaining eternal redemption.” Hebrews 9:12

Don’t pass over the tearing of the curtain in the temple as just a coincidence, or something that just happened; it could only have happened by the power of God, for the curtain weighed about four ton, and needed 300 men to hold it up.

The disciples and the women, who ministered to Jesus in His three years of work, were devastated. The One they loved, the One they put their hope was in was dead. He had been taken down from the cross and placed in a tomb. It was finished.

Jesus, had uttered those words Himself, “It is finished.” But His words didn’t have the same meaning as the disciples’ thoughts of “it is finished...it’s all over.”

This weekend is about winning; this weekend is about victory. It is about peace in the midst of chaos, joy in the midst of pain, it is about the defeat of Satan and our freedom guaranteed.

Today is Friday, but Sunday is coming.

Let the celebrations begin!

Blessed or a Blessing

Recently, I was reading about Joseph. You know about Joseph—spoilt, indulged, rich kid—favourite son of Jacob and Rachel. Sold by his jealous brothers to some Midianite traders on their way to Egypt, Joseph eventually rose from slave to ruler of all Egypt, second only to Pharaoh himself.

Joseph went through some testing times, but never lost faith in God. Joseph’s parents may have spoilt him, and his brothers may have despised him, but God favoured him.

How do we feel when God favours our friends? When He showers them with gifts, or puts them in positions of honour? Do we rejoice with them and join in their excitement, or do we react like Joseph’s brothers with bitterness and jealousy because God doesn’t do the same for us?

My best friend of thirty-plus years is a great example of just how much God blesses and favours His children in very tangible ways. When Jan’s husband died suddenly from a heart attack at the age of fifty-one, she lost everything—the family business, their car, and their home. Yet around this same time, a ‘granny flat’ at the rear of a local Christian organization became vacant and my friend had a roof over her head.

Not long after that, she came into some money and was able to buy a new car.
About four years ago, my youngest daughter and her husband were looking for someone to rent a property they’d bought in the local area and guess who, at the same time, was about to have to move from the ‘granny flat’ because the Christian organization was going to be sold and would once again be homeless—yes, my friend.

As a result, Jan went from living in a converted garage with a tin roof—stifling hot in summer and freezing cold in winter—to a lovely three-bedroom house with a greenhouse, a rose garden and plenty of room for a vegetable garden. My friend was now worried how she would furnish her new home—the few pieces of furniture she had wouldn’t go very far, but the Father never does anything by half and she soon had more furniture than she knew what to do with.

A couple of years ago I won a new flat-screen TV at my work’s Christmas party. I had no use for a second TV, but guess who’s TV had just died? There are so many other instances where the Lord has showered blessings upon my friend—sometimes small, and sometimes…well, sometimes huge. Like last year when my youngest daughter and her husband were going to England with their three children to visit my son-in-law’s relatives. They paid for my friend’s ticket so she could go with them and visit her brother who had not long had major heart surgery.

Am I jealous of her? No, of course not, but I must admit, I sometimes ask God why He seems to bless her so regularly. I can almost hear Him chuckle as He says, “Well, you gave her the TV, it was your children who paid for her trip to England, and it was you who gave her extra money to take with her.”

I sigh and try to argue (albeit halfheartedly) that we didn’t really have much choice in the matter because it was He who had laid it on our hearts to do those things.

God blesses us every day and sometimes we’re too busy to notice. My friend notices though, and loves telling people just how much God blesses her. Some people will just shrug and put it down to coincidence—sadly, even Christians. We can bless others too, with our prayers, with our words and with our actions.

Blessed or a blessing? I think we’re definitely both.