Wait, We Have Icons?

Icons are the most mysterious to a Protestant like me and I spent a lot of time learning what icons actually are and what they were used for while researching my D.Min project. (My D.Min project also holds all the blame for my extended silence on this blog!)

How are these images stamped on the candles in the grocery store not idols? (I will not attempt the full theological study of that question in this post…but stay tuned.)

Perhaps the most lovely descriptive explanation of icons comes from Pavel Florensky in Iconostasis. Florensky, an art historian and philosopher who became an Orthodox priest at the turn of the twentieth century, spends dozens of pages describing how an icon is not simply a painting. He describes it in terms of a window: 

Thus a window is a window because a region of light opens out beyond it; hence, the window giving us this light is not itself "like" the light, nor is it subjectively linked in our imagination with our ideas of light—but the window is that very light itself, in its ontological self-identity, that very light which, undivided-in-itself and thus inseparable from the sun, is streaming down from the heavens. But the window all by itself—i.e., apart from its relationship to the light, beyond its function as carrier of light—is no longer a window but dead wood and mere glass.

He continues the metaphor, “An icon is therefore always either more than itself in becoming for us an image of a heavenly vision or less than itself in failing to open our consciousness to the world beyond our senses—then it is merely a board with some paint on it.” 

This research into icons turned my preconceived ideas of Orthodox art on its head. To read Florensky is to hear about a beloved cloud of witnesses who join us in the work of the Kingdom of God on earth as it is in Heaven. Those who have gone before in faithful service to God’s mission approach the throne of God with us in petition. I was reminded of all the times I have asked friends and family to pray for me or a certain situation. This is what the purpose of icons for the Orthodox church seems to be. Elizabeth Zelensky and Lela Gilbert write in Windows to Heaven:

For the Orthodox, the church is the body of Christ, the sign of God's providential wisdom as manifested here on earth. Since the Christian God is a living God, all believers, whether living or dead, are part of Christ's body.

In the same way we hope to live a life pointing others to God, reflecting Christ with our very lives, so too are icons and the iconpainters. 

William Dyrness wrote in his book Visual Faith:

The icon, therefore, was much more than an aesthetic image to grace the church and stimulate holy thoughts. It was something that expressed deeply held theological convictions, and it was meant to move the viewer to love and serve God. In many respects, an icon was theology in visual form.

I came to the realization that we in the Church of Christ, and most Protestant traditions, are asleep to the icons we have created for ourselves. Icons help to prepare one’s heart for worship; to orient one’s spirit and physical presence toward God. Venerating objects and spaces are a part of preparing one’s physical, mental and spiritual being for communion with God.

The rich legacy of faith I received from my family and the Church of Christ with her traditions of simple buildings, felt boards and Bible study formed me into the person I am. I am forever grateful for this heritage and experience. But, if we are unintentional about the ways in which we venerate some spaces or objects we make them into idols.

Those of us familiar with the Church of Christ can likely spot a Church of Christ building from the highway before reading its sign declaring as much. Even though there is no official governing body or overarching set of brand standards, the architecture for those in the Churches of Christ has been an expression, however unconscious, of the particularities of our faith. Many of the churches built in the mid 20th century were built by the Paden Construction Company* simply because of word of mouth from one congregation to another.

Ravenswood Church of Christ, Paden Construction, 1965

In contrast to the detailed records kept by the Catholic Church recalling who the master artists, architects, and patrons were of the multitudes of works created for their houses of worship, the Church of Christ often keep records on an individual congregational level. The Paden brothers' contribution to the Church of Christ heritage is more similar to the unnamed monks who copied scripture and illuminated manuscripts or the anonymous icon painters who reproduced icons. In fact, a brief Google search reveals eight Churches of Christ in seven states that list the Paden Construction Company as having built their building in the 1950s and 1960s. (see the full list in my D.Min paper).

These churches have simple lines, often without a steeple; front doors lead to a lobby, then to the auditorium with classrooms on either side, and very little in the way of decorative architectural elements.

Walking into most Church of Christ buildings you will find pews oriented toward the front of a large room. Up until the overhead projector and PowerPoint became widely used, the backs of the pews had song books and Bibles placed in dedicated shelves. At the front of the room may be a wood table carved with the words “Do This In Remembrance of Me.” Above the table is the pulpit placed in the center of a stage adorned with plants of some kind. Above the pulpit is the baptistry, likely encased in some sort of frame of lights, molding or other simple design elements.

South Edmonton Church of Christ Auditorium

These articles symbolize the theology most important to the church body, shown perhaps in height order of importance: Baptism, Word of the Lord, and the Eucharist (or the Lord’s Supper). These are the icons we venerate in the Churches of Christ.

For me, and many others, seeing the simple building from the highway creates an immediate connection between me and those who attend there. If I were to walk into an auditorium that was not my home church, but was dressed in the way I described, I would immediately be brought into a place of veneration and I would feel at home among the familiar icons. I would even say I would feel close to God. This response is due to my Church of Christ heritage and the strong Church of Christ lineage in my family which, from my infancy, introduced me to God while in these buildings and with these objects. This response is not inappropriate, but the result of a space becoming a place of worship and objects becoming reminders of the one I worship.

The problem arises when we in the Church of Christ tell ourselves we do not have icons or that we do not venerate objects or spaces. We look down on “those Catholics” for all their objects and spaces, while in reality, we do the same. In our attempt to steer clear of idolatry, we have missed the point of the Tabernacle.

How many times have people in a church body gotten upset when a backdrop, lighting design, or other visual element was changed without explanation? What feelings were brought to the surface about the desire to worship with each other in our church buildings during the pandemic? How much strive entrenches our church communities when we can’t explain our deep emotional response to these visual aspects of our worship? Isn’t the body of Christ the church? Why do aesthetics matter so much?

If we can demystify why we as people of the Church of Christ heritage, or other Protestant denominations, feel most at home in our plain church auditoriums and parse out icons versus idols, perhaps we could become more open to the use of visual art in edification and spiritual formation. This is part of what I aim to do in my work and research.

1.  Pavel Aleksandrovič Florensky, Iconostasis, trans. Donald Sheehan and Olga Andrejev (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir's Seminary Press, 2000).

2. Elizabeth Zelensky and Lela Gilbert, Windows to Heaven: Introducing Icons to Protestants and Catholics (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos Press, 2005), 128.

3. William A. Dyrness, Visual Faith: Art, Theology, and Worship in Dialogue (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2003), 85.

   *Special thanks to LaJuana Gill for teaching me about this phenomenon

Gratitude in the Drought

There are very few moments - if any - where I have witnessed vulnerable, raw, piercing, gut wrenching gratitude like what I was privileged to witness in Zambia this month.

It took three flights, two long drives and nearly 40 hours of travel before we were unexpectedly greeted with a cheering mob of villagers. They were running through the dust to greet our SUV as we pulled through the bushes on the sandy road into the village of Mulibu.

Village Excitement from Emily Bruff on Vimeo.

We hadn’t even done anything yet. In fact we - Kevin Colvett, Jon Lee, Troy Link and myself - were not going to do anything. We were just following The Living Water Project’s partner on the ground, Shadreck, to the site of the newest water well to be drilled.

Shadreck grew up in a town close by. He knows everyone in a 300 mile radius because he has ministered to these villages and facilitated over 70 new wells for many of them. Shadreck had already secured the local well drillers to come and they were about to get started on the laborious task of finding water beneath the drought-scorched earth.

We traveled over at least five dry creek beds on the way to this village. The sky was a brilliant blue, weeks void of rain clouds. The air was so dry I had gotten two nose bleeds since arriving the day before and lotion evaporated as soon as it touched my skin. I wondered to myself, “What if there is just no water?”

But the crowd was cheering.

They brought us to their current water source, a 10-12 foot hole in the ground with a mud puddle at the bottom. Retrieving half a bucket of nonpotable water took two people several minutes: one climbing into the hole, the other lifting the water out.

One of the men from the drilling team began the “Water Witching” practice - an exercise in walking around with two sticks waiting for them to cross, thus “revealing” water. Kevin, an Environmental Engineer, was loathe to admit that this ritual inexplicably seemed to work more than it didn’t.

When the team was satisfied, they began to drill one 15 foot pole into the ground at a time.

Several hours, 11 poles and about 160 feet later, there was only dry, glittering, rock to be found.

The hard decision had to be made to try another location.

So the process began again. Water Witching. Move the truck to a new spot. One 15 foot pole at a time drilled into the rocky ground. Men, women and children had surrounded the workers all day in the torrid heat.

As the sun went down and the women began to leave to get back to their homes, we gave up for the day. On the long drive back to town, again, I wondered, “What if there is just no water?”

The next day, we got to the village very early but the people were already there.

The workers began drilling again - another pole, 100 feet. The people began to sing. They sang their prayer of thanksgiving even before they knew there was water to be found. The workers drilled another pole. 115 feet. The people sang. Another pole, 130 feet. The workers drilled. 145 feet. The people sang. 160 feet.

drilling a well from Emily Bruff on Vimeo.

And then the most miraculous thing happened - the glittery, sandy, rock dust was damp. There was water! The whole village erupted in louder song. And the workers kept drilling.

A couple of hours later, beautifully clear water sprayed from the new well for the first time. More drinkable water emerged with one pump of the well than this village had seen in months, and maybe a lifetime. By this point the people of the village were singing, dancing and cheering in a circle surrounding us and the well. “Praise God! The Kingdom of God has come! The Kingdom of God has come! The Kingdom of God has come.”

first water from the well - zambia 2019 from Emily Bruff on Vimeo.

I was overwhelmed. This miraculous event, witnessing God bringing water from rock, was as sacred a moment as I have ever experienced. I just stood there, praising God with the people, wishing I could soak in their sheer faith and gratitude.

It left me wondering, how often do I sing praise to God in the midst of a scorching drought? Before God brings water to relieve my thirst and pain, do I praise God for what I believe God will do? How often do I stop my questions and just sit in gratitude? When was the last time I cheered while climbing into a pit to draw undrinkable water because I knew God would eventually restore me?

Of all the things I learned from the beautiful people of the village of Mulibu in Zambia, the most searing was their example of faith-filled unconditional gratitude.

Praise God! The Kingdom of God has come. May we all find moments, even in drought, to lean into unconditional gratitude.

Mended Canvas

There was a time when I pursued a career as an artist. I opened a studio in a renovated old factory called, “The Factory at Franklin.” I worked off commissions, sold originals and taught lessons. The exposure from having a public studio space allowed me to expand into area galleries for a while. 

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Eventually, I transitioned from the open studio to working out of my tiny townhome keeping up with the demand of the galleries. To be efficient with paint and time, I would set a dozen canvases on the 10x12 floor, the dining table, the counter and my easel to paint all at once. This worked well (sort of) - until I had a toddler.

The sound of a 40x60” canvas ripping into the corner of a wooden table was as comical as it was devastating. I stared at the hole in the expensive pre-stretched gallery wrapped canvas and back at my precious toddler. For a brief second I was consumed with despair. This was going to be a huge waste of money. Money I didn’t have. Profit and time lost. I had to try to fix it. But, I wasn’t sure if I could because I’d never painted on a mended canvas. I didn’t know if a blemish would show, if there would be an obvious dimple or bump in the fabric. But I had to try. With careful application of gesso on the front and back, I pulled the torn pieces back together. It was clear something had happened from the back, but not from the front. When I laid down the first layer of underpainting, I realized a mended canvas holds paint just as well, if a bit differently, as a new canvas. I painted a field of bright sky and fluffy cotton over the tear, restoring purpose to the canvas I previously assumed was ruined.

Later, it occurred to me, had I thrown out that canvas in order to start over with a perfect one, I would have missed out on the restorative process. I would have wasted, not only the canvas, but the learning, which turned into teaching for my studio art students later on. 

I have thought about that canvas often in the years since. There have been a couple of times my life has been ripped to shreds, when I was nearly consumed with despair and didn’t know how things would turn out. But, God keeps restoring me and painting a new scene over my torn pieces. Like the scars on our skin, or the wounds on our hearts, these blemishes make us more complex, more interesting and even stronger than we were before. 

You will live in joy and peace. The mountains and hills will burst into song, and the trees of the field will clap their hands! Where once there were thorns, cypress trees will grow. Where nettles grew, myrtles will sprout up. These events will bring great honor to the Lord’s name; they will be an everlasting sign of his power and love.
Isaiah 55:12-13

Now I approach my love for art in a different way entirely. I study the work of others and I explore the artistic cultures that have come before. I work through joy, grief, loss, life and God through creative expression. It’s all a gift.

I’m thankful for where I have been, I’m excited about what is to come and thankful for all the mends in between.

Hello. My Name Is...

This is not a post about my divorce.

This is not a post about my remarriage. 

This is a post about one piece of the reality of my experience. And it has taken me months to gather the courage to share. But, the feeling that it's worth sharing won't leave, so here we go. 

For the second time in my life, I left behind a name that crafted my identity. Even Sarah, Abraham and Paul were only asked to change their names once - and it was by Divine intervention. 

The first time I changed my name, it was the name that was given to me by my parents and gave me a rich heritage of family legacy. As soon as I was married, the name that had been mine for 22 years disappeared behind a new name. His name. 

Although it stung the first time, it was more sweet than bitter. I embraced the identity of Mrs. I wanted to be known as his wife. I wanted to be a family and have his children. This sounds very traditional of me, and I guess it was. But I didn't really think about it.

So, in my careers I branded myself with his name. My artwork was branded with his name. My students knew me with his name. Then when we had children, we gave them his name. This is all very sweet. I chose all those things. Taking a husband’s name in our culture is the traditional and life-altering outward display of love and union and family.

It’s very sweet.

Until it isn’t.

As a woman, I am presented with a choice at the time of marriage and at the time of divorce - what will my name be?

Men are allowed to go through their celebrations or grief with complete privacy in their professional lives and in their everyday interactions. They may even remarry or get divorced multiple times and virtually no institution would know the difference.

While the man who gets married or divorced may move along in his career, (building credibility, publishing books, speaking engagements, gaining momentum as an artist), the woman who gets married or divorced is forced to rebrand herself and start virtually from scratch or retain the status quo. 

If you are male, ponder placing an asterisk next to the year you were married on your CV with a footnote about that moment in your personal life. Then adding another asterisk when you were divorced. Then another asterisk when you remarry - each with a footnote. If this feels like an abundance of prying, non relevant information to add to your CV, you are correct. However as a man, you are privileged with privacy, where women are not.

Depending on which society a woman is in, she will feel pressure one way or the other. In more liberal circles she is pressured to keep her maiden name. In more traditional circles she is pressured to take her husband’s name. These are all pressures and choices men do not have to spend time considering. Nor do they spend money in legal fees or rebranding. Let alone time with the countless phone calls changing contact information at various doctor offices, banks, internet providers and the like.

Perhaps the most difficult and painful part of this patriarchal tradition (and I am purely speaking from a paperwork standpoint, not the global pain of divorce - which is indescribable and could not possibly be captured in one blog entry) is when the severing of divorce takes place, the children automatically retain the father's name. So the mother, once again, disappears on paper.

This time, instead of disappearing behind her husband’s name, she disappears from her children’s name. Their family tree legacy is forever broken and detached from her. Should she want to prevent this, she is faced with fighting the father in court to change the children’s surname. (Insert more pain and confusion for the children.)

I know my children are mine. They know they are mine. It really isn’t a question of the present. It’s the question of legacy. It is the scarlet letter; a letter men do not have to carry.

So what does a sentimental and somewhat traditional girl like me to do? I can’t change this patriarchal society.

I have found myself in a wonderfully egalitarian relationship built on mutual love and respect for God first and each other second. We help each other based on what needs to be done in our family and not what gender is traditionally supposed to do what role or chore. We both take pride in our careers and in our roles as parents. I have married a man who has given me his heart and soul and I have given him mine. He loves my children as his own and I love his children as mine.

So we are family - and that’s all we need.

He did not ask me to take his name. When I mentioned the idea he told me he would be honored if I decided to take it.

And I want to be known as his wife.

To go against our society's tradition purely on principle seems exhausting to me - and untrue to my own heart. After all, what name would I keep now? My father’s name? My children’s name? 

I am also so tired of explaining my life to strangers. This would only be exacerbated if I was to do something like keep my maiden name - where I would not share a name with my children or my husband.  

It would be easy for me to get angry and resentful toward an invisible patriarchy that hides me behind a man in the best case scenario and announces my departure from a man in the worst case.

Acceptance is the key to my decision in the end. I have come to accept the society in which I live. But I have so much empathy for those who choose to hyphenate, retain their maiden name or make up a brand new name for themselves. I no longer pass unconscious judgment on those who have decided for themselves what their name will be.    

Secondly, I accept that my identity lies in something much greater than myself or my baggage (I am better at this some days more than others). I am a daughter of God - who’s name is above all names.

Therefore, God elevated him to the place of highest honor

   and gave him the name above all other names,

Philippians 2:9

But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.

John 1:12

This is where I can find peace to know that through all the brokenness that brought me to this point to begin with, no matter my name, I am God’s royal daughter. That alone is my identity.

So, I changed my name.

I leave behind the name I once shared with my children. I took the name of my husband, a man who respects me as an equal, who is my teammate, my partner, who I cherish and who cherishes me. This fact makes me so heartbroken and so joyful all at once. This life is broken and messy. Joyful and full of heartache. Piercingly painful and gloriously exciting all at once.

This was the best broken choice for me.

The Hole I Laughed In

Looking around me I was completely alone surrounded by beautiful and soaring trees, fallen logs and the quiet snow. My favorite part of skiing is the tree trails, but this one had led me astray. Literally hitting a dead-end via a giant tree, I had lost a ski and was knee deep in powder. As I started laughing to myself breaking the snowy silence, I realized at some point I had learned this. Not skiing, but laughing at myself. Don’t assume that my laughing meant the difficulty of carrying my gear through two feet of snow, navigating over logs and brush, and reattaching my skis was easy. This process was physically demanding, incredibly frustrating and defeating - especially when all alone. But I was laughing.

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The hole I laughed in.

Some people play sports. Some people go spelunking. Others go rock climbing, build a house, or write a dissertation. All these things have something in common, and it is this thing that teaches us humans how to live life - really live.

It is why I took my kids skiing. All these things have great reward, but not without great process and great failure. For me, skiing not only taught me about having gumption and courage, but how to have joy in the midst of great struggle. It’s the ability to laugh when I am face down in the snow with nothing but a long hike in ski boots up a mountain to gather my skis, poles and sunglasses. Sure, when I make it through the maze of trees and brush successfully and even stick the jump at the end of the trail - that feels like a great reward. But the true success is the ability to look around me in my failure, after I climb out out of the powdery hole, reattach my skis and say, “I’m here, I tried, I failed, but I kept going!”

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I took my kids skiing because the mountain will not bend for them. The trees do not lay down and make the path easy. This is not to say I didn’t try to prepare them. Ski school, proper winter apparel, snacks and at times physical assistance were all required. But, they face the same mountain I do. The hills and trees of those slopes contain an endless amount of fun and exhilaration. Covered in the same snow contains frustration, anxiety, and even tragedy. This is life. For every win there is a loss. For every marriage a divorce. For every life a death. It is the great mystery and beauty of this world. It is His joy that makes the difference.

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To find His strength when all that’s left is bruised and broken. To keep going when we’re stuck in a hole. To find our laugh when all we want to do is cry. This is what I wanted to teach my kids. The mountain is there, in all it’s beauty and all it’s tragedy. When there’s nothing but the stillness of failure, He is there, cheering us on, giving us what we need.

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THIS is what success looks like - see that smile?!

Stop Drawing and Pay Attention!

Since I could hold a pencil, I have been drawing. All my life - in free time, school time, church time, I have been drawing. This has not always been received well. In fact, most of the time, in any of these structured settings I would hear, “Stop drawing and pay attention!” So I would stop drawing, but my mind would inevitably drift to daydreaming. If I was in a classroom wallpapered with posters, I would start studying the illustrations, paintings or graphics. If I was in a church I would start studying the architecture of the building, the pews or the stained glass windows. If I was in a drab college lecture hall, I would study the design of the powerpoint slides, the wardrobe of the professor or the other students. My mind is constantly daydreaming, examining, questioning and absorbing everything around me. Even while singing during worship, I have this talent to daydream about something totally unrelated to the words coming out of my mouth.

But when I draw...my mind zeros in on what I am hearing. The trick for me is to doodle about the moment. When I was younger, I would doodle fairies, flowers or caricatures of friends on one side of my notebook and attempt to take notes on the other. I would stay about half way in the moment, sometimes getting too wrapped up in my doodles and missing a point or two. But if I ONLY took notes, I would daydream altogether.

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My friend Jessica saved a couple of the caricatures I made her

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circa, 1999.

Around 8th grade, a very special teacher, Mr. Adams, recognized this phenomenon and instead of chastising me for my doodles, encouraged me to doodle about what he was presenting. This was so freeing. I remember more from his English class than any other English class I took. But I only had this freedom in his class. In every other class, I continued to hear, “Stop drawing and pay attention!”

Fast forward to my own quiet time, I was finding it very difficult to zero in and concentrate on my prayers or bible study. My mind was constantly day dreaming. I kept a prayer journal for years. But I realized I was doing all the talking. I wasn’t listening or building a relationship with God in any way.

In 2014 I started to journal in a different way. As I read passages, if one stuck out to me that I felt like I really needed to meditate on, I would draw it. Something about drawing the words made me meditate on them. As I was tracing the letters over and over, my mind would say them over and over. Not only was I meditating on the words, I was retaining the words! This became such a special time for me to really commune with God in a way I never had before.

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Then I would sit in church and my mind would drift. I would sit in bible class and my mind would drift. Although I wanted to meditate this way in church, the thought of transferring my method of drawing the words to a public setting was intimidating. What if people thought I wasn’t paying attention? What if people thought I was just trying to get attention? Somehow I imagined someone would “catch” me doodling and yell at me to “Stop drawing and pay attention!”  I would like to say that I realized all that mattered was my communion with God. However, it took a friend’s encouragement to help me summon the courage to just go for it.

At first I just tried drawing the words to sermons. Then I started drawing the words to the songs in service too.

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Eventually I started drawing the words to my bible classes - which felt the most vulnerable because of the small setting. 

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I couldn’t believe how much more the services and classes meant to me when I could fully focus and meditate on the moment.

So I guess I wanted to pay it forward. If I can help others like me to let go of the fear of judgement and just be in the moment, the reward of pure communion with Jesus is so worth it. Likewise, if I can encourage teachers and parents everywhere to empower their visual learning student or child and not stifle them, their experience will be much more rich and fulfilling. You might even find yourself saying, “Start drawing and pay attention!”

Igreja de Cristo Kapango

One of the churches planted by the Angola Mission Team is the church at Kapango.

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When the mission team arrived in Huambo, Angola in 2011, several events led to this church sprouting up. Now it is self sufficient and is fully facilitated by local leaders. The team occasionally visits to encourage the people there, but they have pulled back to allow the church to grow on it’s own and started to focus their energies on a new church plant.

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Robert, the boys and I went out to the neighborhood of Kapango the 2nd Sunday I was in Angola. We drove a while through town and then neighborhoods and then off onto a really terrible dirt road until I couldn’t tell if we were still on a road. All of a sudden Robert stopped the car and said, “We’re here!”

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I looked around for a building, but all I could see was a makeshift pavilion with bright orange fabric for walls. These “walls” only wrapped around the midsection of the structure. The corrugated tin roof was not connected at the top with a 12” gap along what should be the ridge. This structure was mainly for shade, because it was not going to keep anyone dry.

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There were several people already inside as we made our way to a bright blue plastic chair to sit. The worship songs began and sweet voices filled those fabric walls with such exuberance I pressed down the tears welling up.

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I kept thinking how silly I already appeared with all my cameras (yes, plural), I could not start weeping for no apparent reason. But I couldn’t suppress the Spirit and how He was moving through the people there. The people around me are shouting for joy in Jesus with hopeful, sweet spirits. When it was time to pray, the leader asked the church to pray and they prayed, aloud, all together.

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Curious children were laying on the ground to see under the fabric wall to find out what was going on. My head was spinning with thoughts of home, the juxtaposition of my church with this church, and just how amazingly wealthy home is.

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Then the preacher asked Robert to introduce the woman with him that was not his wife--that would be me. Everyone laughed and I was welcomed with a song from the whole congregation.

Robert offered a word of encouragement for the congregation and asked for prayers of healing for Teague’s ankle. There was a song for the mamas, a song for the youth and several songs for the whole congregation.

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The preacher brought the lesson in Portuguese, a translator spoke in Umbundu for the congregation and Robert translated for me. As much as I tried to concentrate on the sermon, I kept thinking, this church is here because my friends listened. They listened to God when He asked them to leave their friends and families and go to a far away land and plant churches.

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They listened. They planted. God sprouted.  When it was over, everyone walked out in a line shaking hands until everyone in the church had shaken everyone’s hand. Small talk ensued. Chairs were taken back to storage.

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I Knew a Guy

When I was doing research to write the grant to study Angolan Art, I discovered the rock paintings at Tchitundu Hulu. However, I found little information on how to actually gain access to the rocks. I knew it was in the middle of the desert near a tiny village in Angola - and I knew someone in Angola, so I figured...I’m sure it will all work out. I wrote the rocks into my grant proposal and was awarded the grant. Had I known the incredible feat it would be to actually get to the rocks, I would not have even attempted. But I am so glad I did. And I am even more glad my dear friends are even crazier than I am.

Just to recap: In order to get to this point, a year ago I dreamed up visiting Robert and Teague in Angola. After 11 months of research, planning and visa applications I flew from Nashville to Amsterdam to Luanda to Huambo. After the 8 hour drive from Huambo to Namibe, Robert, Teague, the boys and I drove 2 hours through the desert to the tiny village of Virei. All this without any certainty that I would even be allowed to see the rocks--or know how to find them. 

Once we arrived in Virei, we followed our friends, David and Dan, to a bright green house in the middle of town.

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Out comes a very chipper man in a full suit greeting David and Dan like old friends. This is Pastor Tito. He is the contact the guys knew could get us through the appropriate channels to gain permission to see the rock art. Pastor Tito invites us into his mud house. Inside was a dirt floor, plastic chairs and a table. The only other items in the room was a bible and a notebook. We sat with Pastor Tito for a while and talked.

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Through the open front door I could see a  cluster of small children sitting on the porch looking in at us intently.

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I could hear women singing in the next house over. There was a mud brick oven in the yard and a small boy herding cows across the yard.

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After a few minutes we loaded back in the vehicles with Pastor Tito.

First we make a stop to announce our presence to the Special Police. (Please excuse the lack of pictures for this part. It is illegal to take pictures of government buildings or people.) 
Then we go to announce our presence at the police station. Passport information is hand written in a large book.
Next, we go to meet with a representative from the city administration. We are told at this point that we will need to be granted permission by the Grand Soba (the chief of the village).
We go to find the Grand Soba. He wasn’t home.
So we go to the Assistant Soba. He wasn’t home.
Then we went to the nephew of the Grand Soba to see if he knew where his uncle was. He didn’t.
So we went back to the police station to explain we could not obtain permission from the Grand Soba.

At this point I knew we were at a crossroads. They would have compassion on us or not. 

Thankfully, they allowed us to continue on with a police escort named Romeo. Romeo got in the Land Cruiser with me and the Meyers and we parted ways with David and Dan.

As we headed toward the rocks I thought, I can’t believe I knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy who is taking us to ancient rock art in the middle of the desert in Africa.

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The Desert

6am September 9th we got back in the Land Cruiser with packed lunches and water bottles and followed David and Dan 2 hours out to the desert town of VIrei.

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They were on their way to the bush to spend time with the Mucubal Tribe and offered to connect us with their contact in VIrei. We drove about 10 minutes to the edge of town and then turned off a paved road onto dirt. About 20 minutes later our 2 truck caravan stopped. The guys got out and immediately started bustling around the vehicles. I asked what happened and Teague said they were letting air out of the tires to prepare for the desert terrain.

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Everyone seemed like this was a totally normal thing to do, so I just nodded and went along. The road got continuously more like sand, and in fact at one point the poor GPS had nothing but a car on a yellow background.

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There was absolutely nothing for miles. It was silent except for a bird chirping here and there. At one point we lost sight of Dan and David's truck and took a side path detour. It allowed for an exciting few minutes of following a cloud in the desert- like the Israelites!

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David Killough's truck kicking up dust

The boys told me about the Welwitschia that had started to spring up out of the ground. They are crazy looking, slow growing, plants with only a couple of big fat leaves. It takes about 1000 years to get to be the size of a large cabbage plant. This is the only place this plant grows on the whole planet!

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We continued through the desert for about an hour passing one other driver on a moto, miserably inhaling our dust as we passed. We also came upon a roundabout out of nowhere, which I thought was hilarious.

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Finally we arrive at the village of Virei.

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Namibe

We arrived in Namibe within a couple of hours leaving Lubango.

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Namibe is on the west coast of Angola and very flat compared to the places we had been up to this point. It is mostly desert and dry river beds creating shallow gorges, some of which have been irrigated for farmland. As we drive into town we can see the ocean and a haze has settled over everything.

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Robert uses a facebook message to guide us the last few kilometers to the Killough’s home.

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David and Fiona Killough and Dan and Rachel Hoyme arrived in Namibe in the spring as missionaries with Overland Missions. They work with tribes in the bush, specifically the Mucubal Tribe. When we arrived Fiona was furiously baking in the kitchen to prepare food for David and Dan to take with them for a trip out to the bush.

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We spent a wonderful evening talking with Fiona and David about their previous work in Africa and experience moving to Angola. They have two children close to my own children’s ages, 2 and 4. Fiona had decorated their walls with her girls’ art work and family pictures.

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From the inside of their house, I would have thought I was in the states. But a quick look out the window, seeing the huge land cruisers and armed guards against the sandy, flat backdrop, brought me back to the reality that I was in Africa...in the desert.

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The Hoyme Family joined us for dinner and the kids played.

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Again, I was struck with admiration for the choices these families have made in the name of Jesus.