Traveling by Faith
Desperate to get on the already-packed bus, I climbed the three narrow, metal steps and raised my voice so all the passengers would hear my plea. “Will anyone give up a seat? I’ll pay your fare and you can travel tomorrow morning.”
Success! A lady jumped up, leaving me the only woman on the bus among twenty men. We were on our way.
From my village home in a West African rain forest, I looked forward to visiting a friend, an African woman, living on an island 115 miles away. Catherine had invited me to a special Easter celebration. Having no car of my own, I sat with my bags on the edge of the red clay road, waiting for a “bush taxi” to take me north. Not until late afternoon did one finally arrive, empty but for the driver, and I gladly got on.
I was a single woman trusting my heavenly Father for protection and wisdom. Once we got rolling, the driver intimated we spend the night in his village before continuing on to Lakota, my transfer point. I grew alarmed, but could do nothing, a “prisoner” on his vehicle. He laughed while keeping an eye on me in the rearview mirror as we jostled and bumped along. Thankfully he did drive straight to Lakota, my destination.
There I checked in at the Protestant church, where I learned that the man who had promised to give me a ride from Lakota south to the lagoon had never appeared. Hungry by now, I wondered why the pastor and his wife offered me nothing to eat. Then I realized they were fasting on this Good Friday.
I trudged back to the bus station—nothing more than a dirt-filled lot—and hastily bought some bread for my supper. The engines of the last bush taxi leaving for the lagoon were chugging away—with no seats available. Panicking a bit and not being an outgoing type, I nevertheless forced myself to stand at the back door of the bush taxi and beg for a seat. When I got one, I thanked God I did not have to stay in that town and wonder where to spend the night.
A few miles down the road, the taxi’s front axle broke, but not to worry. The ingenious Africans had it fixed within the hour. Night fell, and we arrived at last at the lagoon. Men from a nearby village were spaced along the water’s edge taking their evening baths. Somewhat embarrassed, I courteously turned my back on them and hid behind the taxi until they all came out of the water and dressed.
Lozoua town could be reached only by canoe. After haggling with the villagers over a price to rent one, two men and I pushed off, with me seated in the middle. The canoe sunk low in the water, but what a ride. The calm lagoon surface rippled as we slipped along. A full moon softened the sky and made the forest trees a silhouette of beauty and peace.
I finally relaxed as we approached the far shore and thought, Ahhh, Lord, thank you for this wonderful trip, every leg of it, a testimony to your protection and care.
In many countries around the world, Comfort and Safety do not accompany Travel. Like Christian in The Pilgrim’s Progress, many Bible translators learn that the only way to travel is—by faith. Whether by bus, boat, plane, or on foot, just getting to a location is a repeated test of commitment to their call.
Translation work can be fraught with challenges, delays and spiritual opposition. Add to that the dangers of travel, and stress levels surge. Thankfully, today’s JAARS pilots, transportation surveyors, sea captains and others are seeking solutions to safeguard journeys through seemingly impassable waters and impenetrable terrain.
Your prayers for the provision of adequate and safe transportation will encourage translators and support workers as they press onward for Bibleless peoples. Ask God to grant them miracle journeys, opening up paths towards the Heavenly City—through Bible translation—for all peoples.
—Carol Brinneman has served with Wycliffe Bible Translators since 1970. She spent 20 years in translation and literacy work in West Africa, and is now the editor of Rev. 7. She also freelances and mentors writers.
This story originally appeared in "Getting There," the Spring 2006 issue of Rev. 7.
