The long car twisted through tall grass
In the shy darkness following sunset.
Suddenly it was before us—the village,
Mud huts huddled close like frightened sheep.
Our headlights swept across them and then fell
On a pile of children tumbling from the night
To swarm around the car as we stepped out.
A skinny girl looked timidly up at me,
Hesitantly smiling. She held her baby brother,
Almost half her size, on her small back.
I smiled in return, and almost instantly
Muddy little hands from everywhere reached out
To greet me. We walked slowly, then, into
The cluster of huts, to a courtyard inside.
A boy lit a lantern, and we all sat down
On rough wood benches in the puddle of light.
A dwarfish man took out a tattered book
And we began to sing. Our music wasn’t sweet,
Yet with each song that rose and fell
Those hearts expressed their new-found joy.
A voice spoke quietly, and we all prayed.
A crude green box was passed around,
And from two work-worn fists there dropped
within it hard-won coins, their sacrifice
of love. Dad opened his black Testament,
And children playing near were quickly hushed.
Behind us women pounded grain and talked,
but in the courtyard all were silent, listening.
I looked around at every face, and pondered
On those lives. Four boys and men
Sat on a bench across from me.
One leaned ahead, intent on every word
that Daddy said. The others slumped
Against the wall. Their eyes were deeply tired.
They had worked hard and long that day.
One lonely girl leaned back against a post,
Her face a study in hope lost, now almost found.
She listened, but kept looking at the ground.
Lost deep in inner searching of her heart,
I felt for her, and longed that she might come
To Jesus, and find peace she’d never known.
Then all our heads were bowed again in prayer.
And as we rose to leave, once more
I glanced around at those then near to me,
And saw contentment in the young girl’s eyes.
The earnest listener on the bench was smiling.
But his companions’ faces were unchanged.
I yearned for these—their need was great.
“Oh, God,” I cried, “Please bring these souls to Thee!”
The car was waiting in the pitch-black dark,
And as we waved goodbye the headlights leapt
into the grass again, and left the village
Smothered in the night.
Linnea Slater, 1967
I was a young teen when I wrote that poem about going with my parents to Pisankaha for an evening meeting. There were just a few young believers in Jesus there, men who really wanted to learn more. My parents did not speak their language, Nyarafolo, so they took a young man from church in Ferke to translate from French for them . He did not speak Nyarafolo either, just a related language from across the river, but the men could understand a lot of what he said.
Whenever I was home from boarding school I would join Mom and Dad, drawn to the need of these people isolated from so much. Only these few Nyarafolos knew about Jesus. I just sat in the dark and absorbed the scene, never imagining that in 2025 I would be back in that village in a big new church building remembering how it all got started when Jim Gould was following up young men who had come to the Baptist Hospital for treatment. They had showed some openness, so he went out to their village, Pisankaha, to try to meet with them. They were working in their fields; he went there to find them—they remember him trying to help with the work. Then after a while they agreed to welcome him in the village. He was learning Nyarafolo, doing the best he could, and several decided to follow Jesus instead of worshiping the gods of their traditional religion.
Then on Christmas 1965 Jim had died suddenly when his car rolled off the road, just after taking them back to Pisankaha after the all-night Christmas service at the Ferke town church. Mom and Dad and my Uncle John and Aunt Marion Slater all pitched in to continue his work in Pisankaha, joined by Pastor Bazoumana from the Ferke church as they rotated the responsibility.
This past Sunday (January 26) we gathered in Pisankaha with over 200 people, including pastors from other churches, to celebrate what God had done starting way back then. This was prompted by the visit of Lori Gould McKee and Greg Gould, who had been just six and four when their father died in 1965. Greg’s daughter Hannah was with them, and they admitted that she was the one who really had pushed them to come from America and see the harvest that had grown from the seed her grandfather had planted.
Remembering what God has done is actually a critical spiritual practice! It is dangerous to forget to look back, to quit sharing the proofs of the Father’s involvement in our lives. That leads to spiritual dryness and wandering and the consequences of wrong choices (see how it affected the Israelites: Isa. 17:10; Ezek. 23:35).
Instead, we are told to do this:
Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them. (Deut. 4:9 NIV)
Remember the days of old; consider the generations long past. Ask your father and he will tell you, your elders, and they will explain to you. (Deut. 32:7 NIV)
Seek the LORD and his strength; seek his presence continually! Remember the wondrous works that he has done, his miracles and the judgments he uttered (1 Chr. 16:11,12 ESV)
And the psalmist vows:
I will remember the deeds of the LORD; yes, I will remember your wonders of old. (Ps. 77:11 ESV)
This is why I am in the long process of writing my memoir (maybe autobiography), remembering how I have seen the Lord’s fingerprints on my life. I need to pass them on:
We must not hide them from their children, but must tell a future generation the praises of the LORD, His might, and the wonderful works He has performed. (Ps. 78:4 CSB)
Even when I am old and gray, O God, do not abandon me, until I tell the next generation about your strength, and those coming after me about your power. (Ps. 71:18 NET)
A huge part of my story is how God used Jim’s death, and my father’s prayer that someone would be sent to continue his work, to plant an alert in my heart. I thought I was “just a girl” and could never do that. True—I could not do it alone, especially not as a teen, but the Father sent me and Glenn here to be a part of the ongoing struggle to bring the Good News to this least-reached people group. We have seen Enemy pushback, we have seen amazing church growth in spite of it. Beleivers were once “smothered in the night” of spiritual darkness but now they are walking in the Light! The Lord is accomplishing his purpose!
Most of our work has been at Tiepogovogo, a village northeast of Pisankaha, another place God had chosen to plant seeds that would grow. After the small group of believing men was thriving there and some of their wives came to Jesus, we asked those first hardy believers from Pisankaha to come share their testimonies. As they told about the persecution they had experienced and the ongoing peace they found in Jesus, there was response we never expected: the women brought their idols and sacrifice jars to be burned! They had heard testimonies that Jesus’ power is the greatest, that he has opened the path to rescue and that it is worth it to suffer for him. The believers from Pisankaha were remembering the wonderful works of the Lord, how he had brought them through much persecution and had provided for them
We can find it easy to forget the fingerprints of God on our own lives. A few decades ago I was following a study guide that urged me to draw a timeline of my life, with moments of spiritual impact noted on it. These were likened to a standing stone set in a place to mark it as sacred, a monument to a critical moment (cf Gen 28.18). I had just learned what such a marker would be called in Nyarafolo as we translated Genesis: sɔ̀ngidaadiʔɛ: “a place to think and find”. You would mark the spot so it could be found again, think about what happened there, treasure it. I drew my timeline and began that journey of remembering. It was stunning how many different “standing stones” I needed to insert! Looking back we can notice things that we walked through without realizing what the Lord was doing.
Here is a challenge: take time to remember how the Lord has worked in you and in your world. Then share it with others, especially “the next generation”!
In the photo below there is a standing stone at Pisankaha that we just saw: the church that was burned nine years ago by Sacred Forest initiates (the men’s secret society in the traditional religion, who felt threatened by the growing numbers of Jesus followers), and beyond it, the new building with a crowd of people celebrating the memory of how God sent Jim Gould and then others to build his church there!
Photo credit: Linda Sharp
Linnea's Lines 