On Saturday night, we were at Hillcrest Baptist Church for the Harvest Dinner. We told this story as part of our presentation:
A young Sudanese man made his way to our SIM base in January 2007. We had announced to the village that we needed help to clear land and build houses. The goal in that area was to establish a primary school for adults and later a secondary school. Jobs in this village were particularly scarce, so we had plenty of workers. The work was physically demanding. The heat was oppressive. One could work up a sweat by simply stepping out of the shade. And these young men were slashing grass with machetes, cutting down thorn trees by hand, bundling and transporting huge bails of dried grass and sticks of bamboo, and chasing away the occasional snake or scorpion.
He wasn’t much different than the other workers we had. He was part of one of the smaller tribes of South Sudan. Some had learned a bit of English from refugee camps during the years of war. They were known to be short, stout, and black as the midnight sky. They had markings carved on their cheeks that were distinct from other tribes. They were hard-working, soft-spoken, and very polite people. He told me his name – his tribal name. I couldn’t pronounce it. Then someone said, “His church name is Yuna, like Jonah.” He was just like his fellow tribesmen, but there was a difference. While some talked, joked, and even sang as they worked… he simply labored in relative solitude. He looked sad. His eyes were “dark” and his face gaunt. He had a “church” name, so perhaps he was saved. It was possible, but I didn’t think so.
After 6 weeks of work, the temperature was climbing to 110F degrees by 11am, and often up to 122F in the heat of the day. It was difficult to keep enough fluids in the body. The sweat stopped. It was evaporating off our skin as soon as it squeezed through our pores. Many of the enthusiastic new employees from January became beleaguered and ornery, just working for the weekly wage. But the money wasn’t keeping up with the heat. More than half our work force had simply disappeared. I didn’t blame them. The shade was the only bearable refuge. So the fact that I noticed Yuna’s absence didn’t necessarily startle me. But I asked about him anyway. “He’s become tired,” someone said. “It is very difficult work and the sun is very hot.” Maybe he would rest for a week and come back. Three more weeks passed and we hadn’t seen him at all; not even in the village during our visiting, not even in the market on Tuesdays. That was the day Ethiopian traders arrived each week with their donkeys. It was the only day to buy things other than coffee, tea, and sugar. The clothes they brought often reminded me of early 1990’s fashion in the USA. Everyone was in the market on Tuesdays, but Yuna was nowhere to be found.
Back at the SIM base one day I asked about him again. My question brought very concerned looks. “He’s gone to the clinic,” they said. “There’s blood.” They were motioning as if to indicate that he was coughing blood and had serious diarrhea. This was a problem. I have no medical training at all, but I had heard once that blood in the system like that was an indication of tuberculosis, a common ailment associated with AIDS. We decided to visit him in the clinic the next day. It was a long, hot, uncomfortable night. Sleep eluded me for several hours and then morning came.
We ate breakfast and made our way from the base, across the river, to town. On the way, we learned that he had been sent home after being treated for the diarrhea. His house was among a cluster of other houses, all built with wooden poles, mud walls and a grass roof – circular, nearly 8 feet in diameter. The door was typical, only about 4 feet tall. We crouched to enter the dark and very quiet house. There was one bed and he was lying on it, facing the opposite direction. He was motionless. Only shallow breathing let us know he was still alive. And judging by the smells in the room, I guessed it might only last a little longer. All we could do for him was pray… and so we did. It was simple so our translator could understand, “Jesus, we love this young man. We know that you love him too. We want him to be healed. We will know that you did it if his body becomes good.” Then we left.
It was two weeks later, early March by now. The morning sun brought its usual heat and saw the day’s workers as they came up the hill. It was more of the same: slashing grass, cutting poles, slapping mud on the walls of the houses. But that day brought an unexpected surprise. He was very thin. His clothes hung off his body, made loose with weight loss. He was almost a skeleton. He said through his friend’s translation, “I want to come and work again.” And he smiled. There was a brightness in his eyes and on his face. Something more than just physical healing had happened. He had changed inside. We let him work on a very limited basis and kept a very close watch. His friend helped him with a sort-of “parental” care. It was like this until May, when time came to open the primary school.
Prospective students arrived from up to 15 miles away to take an entrance exam. Of the 250 that came, we were limited to accepting only 35. There weren’t enough teachers, books, or other materials to handle a larger enrollment. Yuna was among the 35 with whom the school started. He wasn’t the most gifted student, but came on time every day (even in the rainy season, when they were swimming against the raging current to come). And he worked hard. Above the other subjects, he took to math; surprising, since his tribesmen called it the “the great enemy of our people!” He worked closely with a Kenyan contractor and learned to frame windows, plumb a perpendicular wall, and lay a perfectly flat concrete floor. He talked, laughed, and sang as he did. The Lord had done a miracle in him!
This past summer, some of our teammates with SIM contacted us by email. They said that Yuna and his wife had a baby boy. It’s custom in the Uduk tribe for the children to take the name of their father. Yuna’s son has a very unique name for his tribe. He is called “Nate Yuna”, perhaps a way of saying, “thanks for coming and praying for me that day.”
