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<title>delorenzoflyer writing</title><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/index.html</link><description>stories and essays</description><dc:language>en</dc:language><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:rights>Copyright 2009 M.DeLorenzo</dc:rights><dc:date>2010-07-26T21:13:45+03:00</dc:date><admin:generatorAgent rdf:resource="http://www.realmacsoftware.com/" />
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<lastBuildDate>Mon, 26 Jul 2010 22:40:52 +0300</lastBuildDate><item><title>The View From the Right Seat</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><category>None</category><dc:date>2010-07-26T21:13:45+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/4e2bdad088ece88a1678b1b4442aef4a-21.html#unique-entry-id-21</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/4e2bdad088ece88a1678b1b4442aef4a-21.html#unique-entry-id-21</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[Looking down while the earth rolls past in the mesmerizing arc of a level steep turn, I grip the bottom of my seat, lean into the five-point harness, and grin. ...  It's moving fast across a field and a dirt road, that unmistakable silhouette of an aircraft, a dark symmetry of wing and fuselage, making a tight circle to the right after making one to the left. ...  From the steep turns to the stalls, and the many takeoffs and landings we pound out on a thin strip of dirt outside of Kajiado town, just south of our base in Nairobi, our activities are all part of a plan. ...  The one-hour flight will qualify as one of the many proficiency checks we require of each pilot at AIM AIR, and I'm the check pilot on this ride. 

...Another day is soon approaching when a pilot will be called upon to perform&mdash;to demonstrate his mastery over this fantastic machine&mdash;and do it well. ...  Or when the simulated instrument flight is wed to a simulated instrument failure and, impossibly, the engine suddenly "fails" at the wicked hand of a grinning check pilot.   When you jump from one checklist to another wondering what you missed while a very real million-dollar airplane sighs heavily and starts a downward trek to the very real earth below. 

...On a thousand mile journey across Ethiopia, the faint and infrequent voice of Nairobi Flight Following is the only voice he will hear&mdash;if he hears any at all. 

...I know the flaps never actually extended, but this is something he will need to discover for himself before we get precariously slow on the approach. ...  I see quite a bit from the right seat actually: the slightest deviation from a directed altitude or airspeed, a missed radio call, or a hesitation in an emergency procedure. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Soil&#x2c; Sheep&#x2c; and the Work of a King</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><category>None</category><dc:date>2010-03-13T13:05:19+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/596b7d29e2319b6a5349c33cfd9b72c8-20.html#unique-entry-id-20</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/596b7d29e2319b6a5349c33cfd9b72c8-20.html#unique-entry-id-20</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[With an exuberance well matched to his lively South African accent, and with the experience of a man who holds a soulful connection to the land, he carefully rubbed the moist earth between his fingers. 

...As August began to identify the agricultural disaster threatening the land and livelihoods of the people he came to serve, he quickly switched his focus from preaching to developing a program to address the seemingly intractable problem. 

...August summed up his frustrations, and the wrong-headed approach of applying Western methodologies to the uniqueness of Lesotho, in a short, sober revelation: &ldquo;The plough has killed more people in Africa than any war.&rdquo;


...August quotes from the book of Genesis&mdash;God "planted a garden in the east, in Eden&rdquo;&mdash;and with this unexpected revelation begins to teach a new way of thinking about farming&mdash;God&rsquo;s way.


Adopting a mindset called &ldquo;Farming God&rsquo;s Way&rdquo;, August has found a means to address the ecological needs of the land, as well as the theological needs of the people. 

...Speckled upon the hills, adrift among herds of sheep and goats and cattle, is an outcast community of shepherds doing a job which knows no Sabbath, and fulfilling a societal role which places them in the least-reached people group in Lesotho.


...Ranging in ages from 5 to 65, the boys and men who comprise Lesotho&rsquo;s ubiquitous shepherd community work for wealthy stock‐owners who need to graze their animals in a country without provision for formal, individual land ownership. 

...AIM&rsquo;s reach into the lives of these boys took root more than a decade ago when missionaries established schools to provide a basic education and a point of evangelization for the marginalized shepherds. 

...And in this beautiful imagery is a new way of thinking about the shepherds just outside the door at 'M'e'Matankiso&rsquo;s home, and all over the country.   Suddenly the shepherds are more than just an unreached people, but also potential messengers with the right vocation, and unique opportunity, to carry the message of Christ across the country. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Downsizing</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><category>None</category><dc:date>2009-04-12T18:13:24+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/c729cbb9aa2b7e6353eaffbcf26aabae-19.html#unique-entry-id-19</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/c729cbb9aa2b7e6353eaffbcf26aabae-19.html#unique-entry-id-19</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[For more than a decade, our lives have been packed and repacked, re-arranged and uprooted, with the help of a humble plastic box known as the "Action Packer." ...  The essay also helped me work through some of those emotions of coming and going between vastly different cultures that we have (not yet) become accustomed to.


...Sitting alone at a Subway restaurant strategically embedded within a north Jersey Walmart store, I munch on a roast beef sandwich and gaze into the bustling activity before me -- as if I'm watching a documentary on the minds and mannerisms of American culture.   As our family counts down the days to our departure for Africa, I have once again entered into a state of willful detachment from it all. 

...Like the clandestine hero in some Sci-Fi adventure who manages to remove the mind-control chip from his brain, but who nonetheless must pretend to be under the spell of the controlling authority, I finish my lunch and blend surreptitiously into the crowd.


...Tired from a long day on the shopping circuit, I wandered into the Cheesecake Factory with Renee and almost passed out. 

...Coaxing my reluctant shopping cart to the rear of the Walmart store, I was already planning my exit strategy -- my escape from the entanglement of consumerism that brought me to my knees that day outside the Cheesecake Factory.


...It was likely envisioned for the purpose of amassing and storing people's stuff, but has the curious ability to also reduce it.


For a missionary preparing for a move to Africa, you simply multiply the number of people in your family times 3... (the allotted checked-baggage limit for British Airways). 

...Maneuvering into place like an everyday consumer, I could be mistaken for someone who adheres to the philosophy of storing up stuff. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Move Against the Fear</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><category>None</category><dc:date>2009-07-30T17:45:37+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/c2544bf28883a0e76ebbb14267bde5df-18.html#unique-entry-id-18</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/c2544bf28883a0e76ebbb14267bde5df-18.html#unique-entry-id-18</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[This essay was written as a narrative for a video documentary on AIM's Central Region -- an area that encompasses six countries near the middle of the continent of Africa. 

...Our objective was to gauge the state of the church here, if there was one, and to learn how to re-engage these lands with a renewed missionary effort. 

...But one has a sense, on a journey such as this, that there&rsquo;s more to the story of the people and the land than you can catch at a glance.   Where your boots meet the rich, red African soil, and where your itinerary makes time for a cup of tea and a conversation, you begin to see the real picture. 

...My boots plodded through the thick elephant grass in the Datooga Mountains, tracing out a path up a hillside and back in time to an era when missionaries lived and worked here. 

...I sat and listened to James and John, two young Sudanese pastors aptly named, as they told the story of reclaiming a village for the Lord, and how they fought for it, literally, on their knees next to a slab of concrete that was once a whole church.   I listened to a Zande choir rock their church, and my soul, with the sound of drums and voices lifted above the vaulted roof of a sanctuary built long ago, above a canopy of trees in the rainforest of C.A.R. ...  I saw an old man, his life long ago transformed, rebuilding that old Bible school there in the Datooga Mountains.


...All throughout this region, there are places where the church does not yet exist, and places where the church is barely holding on. ...  They ask for missionaries: people who love Jesus and are willing to share their lives and talents, to perhaps meet a practical need, while all along addressing the most important one &ndash; transformational discipleship.
]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Man with a Message</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2008-02-02T22:23:21+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/ea905dfa2a90a13a8e94d31576807b2d-17.html#unique-entry-id-17</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/ea905dfa2a90a13a8e94d31576807b2d-17.html#unique-entry-id-17</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[&ldquo;I was a very bad man,&rdquo; Timothy recalls, as we rocket along in a rattling old mini van, a matatu, heading straight for Kibera.   &ldquo;I was a fighter,&rdquo; he continues, &ldquo;The man you see before you would be dead if not for Jesus.&rdquo; ...  His tale unfolds into a drama of guns and despair and an old woman with a New Testament who found him on the street. 

...At some places there is nothing left to post a slogan on&ndash;just a patch of blackened soil, and shattered glass trodden down into the earth.

Pastor Timothy has brought me to this place, his mission field, for a look into his life&rsquo;s calling. 

...Against a backdrop of looted storefronts, they talk about the week&rsquo;s classes at the Bible school, hoping some of the other missing students will also return.

...These strategically placed lay-people from the church help distribute and collect Bible study materials for the 7000 slum residents enrolled in his makeshift discipleship classes. ...  Back at the office, his daughter will mark them and record the new names in a book&ndash;a sort of humble version of the Lamb&rsquo;s Book of Life, I think. 

...He was once a student of Timothy&rsquo;s and now serves with him in ministry. 

...And when he walks with his enemy, shoulder to shoulder in the ministry of reconciliation, people cannot help but notice.]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>A Hill in the Heart of Congo</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2007-11-18T19:08:09+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/551f8a38756de7f574d05de199e0f0e9-16.html#unique-entry-id-16</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/551f8a38756de7f574d05de199e0f0e9-16.html#unique-entry-id-16</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[Not children anymore, both of them nearing seventy-years-old now, they travelled here for a reunion of sorts, returning to their childhood home atop the hill and down a curious avenue of memory lane.    Richard not only grew up in the Congo, but he returned with his wife to work as missionaries at Nyankunde station in the eastern part of the country.    During those years, they would make occasional visits to the old homestead in Banda, but it had been a long while since his last return.  

...Supported by a single wealthy businessman who soon after lost his fortune in the throes of the Great Depression, it might appear that Earl&rsquo;s mission would be short lived.  ...  He married his wife Helena there on the field in 1930, built her a little mud hut to get started with, and then rolled up his sleeves for fifty-four years of ministry.  

...I leaned against the smooth mahogany frame of an open doorway in one of the old homes, listening to Richard and Carol tell stories on the veranda, and I began to glean bits about their father and mother through shared memories punctuated by rounds of laughter or quiet reflection.


Looking across the lawn I could imagine their ubiquitous pet lion, as it paced to and fro on the porch, waiting for Earl to emerge from the house and causing the local Azande workmen some concern.    I could see Earl, in story after story, putting his clever mind and Nebraska farm-boy know-how to take on the challenges of the day.  

...But on this day, I stood in a magnificent church with high vaulted ceilings held aloft by massive timbers, and at the same time supported by the vibrant sounds of two hundred secondary school children singing hymns in French, loud and beautiful.  

...With a tattered Bible matching the smooth, worn wood of a small table at the front of the sanctuary, he stood and preached both in his father&rsquo;s shoes and upon his father&rsquo;s shoulders.  ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Whole</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2007-09-03T21:46:56+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/8a431ef963205e5b8d75d09d4ffe4731-15.html#unique-entry-id-15</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/8a431ef963205e5b8d75d09d4ffe4731-15.html#unique-entry-id-15</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[Arriving in our smallest Cessna some weeks ago, I made a swift pass close to the ground, eyeing the ruts on the runway and inadvertently emptying out a nearby schoolhouse of several hundred children who ran out to see the plane up close.  

...Successfully dodging both rivulets and children, the landing was smoother than expected, and my three passengers and I made a hasty retreat to a waiting truck that would take us across the river and toward the reason we were there.

...Each waited for his or her name to be called, and upon hearing it, clambered to his feet (or foot) and took a seat opposite one of the physicians.  

...I had pulled the gold stripes off my shoulders before we arrived at the compound &ndash; they often attract too much attention when I don't particularly want to.  ...  But the kids at the John Paul Home were on to me, and they cornered me after lunch to get my story.

...Two boys, both amputees, leaned in closer on their crutches, gazing at me as if I wasn't the same person who was just standing there a moment ago.

Transformed, I began to tell about my work as a pilot and what it is like to fly around &ndash; how exciting it is to climb above the clouds, and to come down and land again.  

...Some of the boys asked questions about what I studied in order to qualify as a pilot, and how long it would take to learn &ndash; questions about the process of becoming.  

...My feelings of inadequacy must be the reason that, shortly after taking off that afternoon, I leveled the airplane low to the ground and, with a devious smile, turned directly toward the John Paul Home for Crippled Children. ...  For one second suspended overhead, as the late Pope's picture rattled on the wall, I rolled the gleaming white wings left and right in a raucous wave - my salute to the soaring spirits of a bunch of really great kids.]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Lost and Found in Sudan</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2007-03-24T11:01:24+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/726248f754b89866173eaf7bfa6c484c-14.html#unique-entry-id-14</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/726248f754b89866173eaf7bfa6c484c-14.html#unique-entry-id-14</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[And like Joseph, he would have a day of revelation, when it would all come around full circle and there would be tears, and God's hand would be seen and understood.  

...He is one of Sudan's &ldquo;Lost Boys&rdquo; &ndash; children separated from their parents or orphaned in the onslaught of Sudan's civil war.  ...  They ran for more than a decade, grew up in the bush as refugees, and were witness and victim to every kind of horror imaginable.  

...But he kept in close contact with some of his fellow &ldquo;Lost Boys&rdquo; and together they fostered a vision to go back to Sudan &ndash; to bless their people as they had been blessed.    In the wake of this boyish, and contagious dream were a mixed assortment of Americans whose eyes had been opened to a world beyond the one they knew, and who were driven to follow these boys home, however reluctantly, by their restless hearts.


...The nearest usable airstrip to Panther's home sits at an abandoned outpost on the waterless Jongeli canal &ndash; a massive, unfinished project to bypass a length of the Nile river lost in the Sudd, one of the world&rsquo;s largest swamps.  

...But the  instants of recognition or disbelief over the faces of his fellow Sudanese were the moments when I saw a man like Joseph.    Panther, like Jacob's favored son,   was found, and he had a story to tell of God&rsquo;s goodness and divine intervention &ndash; and a captive audience to hear it.


...For the myriad of people caught up in his remarkable life, from the First Presbyterian Church of Skaneateles, NY to the reunited family in southern Sudan, it will likely be an enduring theme.


...But as I watched Panther from my place crouched down at the rear cargo door, I believed that his greatest testimony would come from simply being there again.  ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>What is Misssionary Aviation?</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2001-01-01T21:14:27+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/ebb94f4809e28e163460368c9848b7b8-13.html#unique-entry-id-13</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/ebb94f4809e28e163460368c9848b7b8-13.html#unique-entry-id-13</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[It&rsquo;s wrinkled maps and a bag lunch under the seat, a missionary family asleep in the back, exhausted but tranquilized by the cool air at ten thousand feet.   It&rsquo;s realizing that you carry these precious servants of God in your airplane, that you are a lifeline to them, spanning the void between their place of calling and the rest of civilization.


It&rsquo;s a tiny airstrip carved out of the open savanna, zebra grazing nonchalantly on your runway, a Land Rover in the distance making it&rsquo;s way to this place where the sky touches earth, the missionaries anticipating your landing, waiting and waving as you taxi in. ...  It&rsquo;s being the answer to a prayer, the bearer of mail and good news, or the bringer of a life saving drug or a needed load of supplies.   It&rsquo;s witnessing a tearful reunion of parents with their kids who reside at a boarding school some 400 miles away. ...  It&rsquo;s about being a professional in the pilot&rsquo;s seat, imposing Western standards of time and safety on another culture.   It&rsquo;s about being a servant to the &ldquo;least of these,&rdquo; discarding the cultural stereotype of machoism often associated with flying.   It&rsquo;s pulling the gold bars off your shoulders and spending some time on your knees, under a truck, in a ditch, or at the side of a filthy child. ...  It&rsquo;s realizing that you have a part in their triumphs too, seeing the glory of God where you might least expect it.


It&rsquo;s all the adventure of Africa, all the thrills of flying, all the frustration of the third world, all the camaraderie of a military platoon, all the grace of the Church, and all the joy of serving. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>The Great American Road Trip</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2001-06-01T21:13:08+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/f7361df02826874df6c8ac49859d4738-12.html#unique-entry-id-12</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/f7361df02826874df6c8ac49859d4738-12.html#unique-entry-id-12</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[With no tape deck and a malfunctioning cruise control, we pressed on at times keeping pace with a Wal-Mart truck, searching the airwaves for a clear country music station or tuning into Rush Limbaugh when able.   There&rsquo;s something special about the possibility of seeing this vast country in a thousand dollar car, no passports required, no roadblocks or bandits lying in wait&mdash;every road leads to another and you can, without a doubt, &ldquo;get there from here.&rdquo;   At the momentary sight of a thirty foot American flag filling the sky in powerful, graceful waves you could almost hear freedom ring, and most certainly feel the hair stand up on your arms before it passes. ...  These are moments money cannot buy&mdash;being free, being extremely rich in faith and family&mdash; we savor our time together and enjoy all the good America has to give. ...  As the highways and historic Main Streets lead us from town to town, city to heartland to seashore, we spend our precious days between with the many people across the country who are bound by a common interest and involvement with us. ...  There&rsquo;s nothing quite so moving as a friend telling us we have been prayed for every day&mdash;Every single day for more than three years. ...  There seems to be no shortage of people who count their blessings here in America, and who understand where we are coming from. ...  We find ourselves at a number of impromptu speaking opportunities; to a waitress, a store clerk, a truck driver, in a church lobby, a living room, a country club, and a hair salon. ...  Sweet old ladies stuffing cash in my shirt pocket, being asked to stand up, say a few words, lead in prayer, send our newsletter&mdash;we feel like celebrities at times&mdash;always welcomed, often pampered, and occasionally applauded. ...  People who will give you the time of day, give you a part of their day, and even give you a part of their lives. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>A Beautiful Sound</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2002-02-01T21:11:51+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/71332ec8c7b9a5f4ca19f63a4bfc2708-11.html#unique-entry-id-11</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/71332ec8c7b9a5f4ca19f63a4bfc2708-11.html#unique-entry-id-11</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[A cool and dim dawn hour awakes to the sound of high-voltage igniters firing steadily as the engine compressor spins to life with a speedy whine. ...  This airplane engine won&rsquo;t cool down again until twelve hundred miles have passed below it&mdash;until two tons of supplies, missionaries, and bibles have been delivered&mdash;until two filthy, tired pilots fall from the cockpit door back at base that night. ...  With the power of a jet engine putting 675 horsepower to a massive propeller and a bulky airframe stuffed with the stuff of missionaries and ministry, it is a beautiful sound.


...A day often begins with the universally recognized ringing of an alarm clock or the less desirable squeal of a 5-month-old little boy eager for an early breakfast. ...  With a gurgling baby under one arm, and a reverberating three year old at her side, so begins another day of conversing with children (a.k.a. talking to walls.)   At the hangar, I&rsquo;m busying myself with a preflight inspection on the airplane&mdash;A zip of a rope pulled through the cargo net, the clunks and clasps of securing doors, the sound of a squeaky handheld spring-scale weighing every kilo carefully with hopes of taking as much stuff as possible.   In the relative quiet of a morning departure and among the clatter of organizing my paperwork and pilot gizmos, the sound that makes the most lasting memory is the voice of my passenger&mdash;a &ldquo;thank you&rdquo; from a missionary who thinks the world of me, and I of him.


...It is the absurdity of a pilot from New Jersey giving his Swahili a bit of a New York accent, talking to naked children who seem to appear from nowhere and only understand Samburu. ...  In their homes and schools and clinics I hear people from Michigan and Ohio speaking obscure tribal dialects, a surging, whipping wind generator on a creaking tin roof, and the busy tap-tapping of laptop computers recording the translation work of a decade. 

...Among the snaps, pops, squeaks, laughter, rumbles and roars of our lives out here, there is the sound of men and women singing praises to God in Samburu, Daasanach, Rendilli, Suba, Swahili, and a hundred other languages. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>A Tribute to &#x22;the Guys on the Floor&#x22;</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2002-06-30T21:09:29+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/8d8b002b65372fa386f2a004956f14e4-10.html#unique-entry-id-10</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/8d8b002b65372fa386f2a004956f14e4-10.html#unique-entry-id-10</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[Smack down in the middle of the continent of Africa my flight takes me over not only dense forest but over an unforgiving land ripped by wars and sad, brutal histories. ...  Trained and prepared for an unexpected emergency in the airplane, I occasionally brief through my checklists, make all the regular position reports on the radio, and scan the ground below for suitable landing sites. 

...It is several hundred moving parts, steel and aluminum and brass, reciprocating in near-perfect balance with crushing pressures at intense temperatures, manufacturing torque out of carbon fuels. 4,800 controlled explosions every minute. ...  Below my feet is the plumbing to a simple fuel system made up of critical components intertwined with the pulleys and bellcranks and thin steel cables which connect my hands to the flight control surfaces. ...  It is times like these, flying over jungles and war zones, that the complexity of the airplane and the limits to which we push it become vividly clear. 

...In the midst of the jigged up structure and blueprints pinned to the wall is one of the guys, heading up the year-long project and tending to each detail, each rivet, with concentrated effort. ...  Here you will find guys who rarely see the ministries that their efforts make possible, but who nonetheless keep on giving their hands to the work, and their hearts as well.


Over the Congo, I see now that it is not just seven thousand feet of atmosphere between myself and the threatening jungle below. ...  Between are the guys who have assembled this aircraft piece by piece, and in their expertise have made it worthy of such forbidding flights and such precious cargo.   Flying in Africa I am daily made wise by the seriousness of the task that I am undertaking, and yet I am put at ease by the knowledge of the guys who maintain these airplanes&mdash;the guys who make the hangar floor their mission field, and who make these airplanes capable tools in the bringing of hope and life to the most unforgiving lands.]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Flying Congo - Two days on the Job</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2002-07-01T21:06:01+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/c59391f196ea311ed54e524db008cd77-9.html#unique-entry-id-9</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/c59391f196ea311ed54e524db008cd77-9.html#unique-entry-id-9</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[Head bowed slightly so sweat can simply drip off and not run into your eyes, you have to look up at people with wrinkled brow and a bit of an unintentional "what are you looking at?" ...  It was when I left home this morning, but I have since checked the oil a few times, loaded eight hundred pounds of dusty boxes, shook a few dozen dirty hands, and spilled a little Coca-Cola and a splash of jet fuel. 

...It means I will have to roll through many of the humps and whoop-dee-dos this airstrip is hated for, but they are generally more acceptable on takeoff than landing. 

...But tomorrow I have to get off of Likati with a sizable load of passengers and baggage&hellip; and the fuel I don't need is going to weigh me down and lengthen the ground roll at another airstrip which is already too short to begin with. 

...It's pretty, and I enjoy the short approach to the runway, as if my whole day has been for the singular purpose of these last ten seconds - a perfect approach, a perfect touchdown on the soft green grass, power back, a whoosh into Beta with the prop, flaps up in one smooth motion with my right hand, click-click on the switches with my left. 

...I calculate the likelihood of a thunderstorm blowing through tonight compiled with the fact that I've left my flashlight in the plane and probably can't find my way, and decide it will be OK to just leave the plane be. 

...My first thought is that, if everything goes well, this day will end with me lying in my soft bed, next to my soft wife, appreciating both of them more than I did yesterday. 

...I decide this is not worth the risk and start a radio barrage on several frequencies to find out if anyone has heard from Zemio. 800 miles away in Nairobi, our Operations Manager gets on the radio and supports my decision to turn around. 

...One hour to Entebbe International Airport where we add six hundred liters of fuel for the final leg home and where I wash my hands for the first time in a long while. 

...After a few steps I stop, as I always do, and turn to look at the airplane that just carried me two thousand miles for two days in four countries in Africa. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>God in the Chaos</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2002-09-01T21:04:45+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/93226fcb0a506205f9c77f7667cad581-8.html#unique-entry-id-8</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/93226fcb0a506205f9c77f7667cad581-8.html#unique-entry-id-8</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[The stuff of many otherwise organized lives, and the very lives of those who have fled look as though they are littering a hillside with nowhere to cook their dinner, nowhere to lay their heads.   The refugees now living under plastic tarps on the mission hospital compound here in Oicha, Eastern Congo, had walked more than one hundred miles through a forest to reach this safe place. 

...Something like 7000 soldiers, rebel fighters of a neighboring tribal group, descended rapidly upon the place with guns and knives and a drug-induced rage set out to enact some sort of ethnic retribution. ...  After a few days, a mission airplane risked a flight into Nyankunde, and following precarious negotiations with rebel leaders, the pilot secured permission to carry out the missionary families. ...  The killing and looting just continued, and on the morning of September 12th, over 1200 hospital employees and other mission personnel, old ladies and little kids, gathered together and escaped into the forest. 

...Walking with our relief coordinator through the camp, I recalled some of the stories and accounts I had heard regarding what really happened in Nyankunde. ...  I thought about those who were tortured, and about the poor woman and her four-year-old child (who was probably very much like my four-year-old child,) who was brutally killed before her eyes. ...  I felt like a fool, being received with smiles and handshakes and having nothing to say&mdash;nothing but a meager, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry&rdquo; while I searched for an explanation why God had failed these good people. 

...That night I lay awake thinking about my anger and the faith of those who really had a reason to be angry. ...  He was in the beautiful brown eyes of a baby I held for only a moment, but who I will never forget. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Common Grace in an Uncommon Place</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2003-03-01T21:01:18+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/7365563158658ef780a11c3b99b6c3f2-7.html#unique-entry-id-7</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/7365563158658ef780a11c3b99b6c3f2-7.html#unique-entry-id-7</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[Fingers numb, dizzy from a lack of oxygen and chilled through five layers of clothing, I pull myself up the final rock wall here at sixteen thousand feet above sea level. 

...It was the kind of place where you are literally at a loss for words, where you occasionally kneel and stroke the grass with a swollen, chapped hand and are immensely thankful for the weight of your pack, your aching feet, sunburned face and every mouthful of clean, cool air&mdash;A place which makes you feel alive&hellip; and blessed. ...  The top was a barren place, where plants and animals had given up the will to make a habitat, and where some men had, over the years, lost their lives.   A final climb to the summit is traditionally attempted the following day, in the darkness of a few early morning hours&mdash; they say, so you can witness the sunrise from the top, but more likely so you can&rsquo;t see what you are climbing from the bottom.   There&rsquo;s a sermon somewhere in there, but as I climbed my thoughts returned to the previous day and its beauty I could not seem to absorb.   And I was lost in this perfect night with a perfect moon casting shadows on the rocks, Orion overhead, the Southern Cross set precisely between the majestic twin peaks of a very old volcano. 

...At 16,300 feet, very near the equator, I sat on a frozen rock in Africa and watched the sun rise above the clouds east of Mount Kenya.   As golden light spilled over the ragged landscape before us, revealing the heights to which we had climbed, I came across a weathered, metal plate set into the rock face where I sat. 

...That here in the midst of the ugliness and destruction of sin, we had possibly both found on the mountain a fresh reminder of the grace which draws men away from darkness, and back to their Creator.   What we had was the blessing of looking at this rock and seeing more than a mountain&mdash;of loving life and knowing it&rsquo;s just a glimpse of more to come. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>In the Fight</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2003-06-01T20:59:42+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/a97f8b857fe4963f55d725c8f9bc28ed-6.html#unique-entry-id-6</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/a97f8b857fe4963f55d725c8f9bc28ed-6.html#unique-entry-id-6</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[It took two days to get our first airplane on the ground followed by five days of shuttles out by three planes and a bunch of people both flying and organizing the loads. 

...Matt had already been in over the past few days and he took the controls out of Entebbe to show me how it would be done. ...  At the airport were a few of our seasoned missionaries preparing the loads of those fleeing, making sure we carried the right people, and staving off the abuse of &ldquo;officials&rdquo; who would rob them of their last few earthly possessions. ...  Remembering the faces of those we flew, I recall that there was a fear much greater than flying which they were leaving behind them as we departed each time. ...  Some weeks later I learned that our presence there that week was possibly the greatest single testimony ever, to the Congolese church, that they were part of The Church&mdash;the Body of Christ. ...  I am told that word has spread among the Christians in Eastern Congo about what happened that week&hellip; as well as some bewilderment surrounding just what kind of people would come to their rescue.


...Razor wire, armored trucks, troops and children, arguments and petitions, and the roar of C-130s dwarfing our sizable DC-3&mdash;through all this chaos, the dust, wind and searing heat, I looked on at my colleagues; Dale and Tim in the madness of a sea of people, Brian and Rod in the cargo door of the twin-turbo Dakota&hellip; and Matt in the middle of it all. ...  At first it struck me as an odd thing to say as a missionary, but after that day on the ramp in Bunia, I knew exactly what he meant. ...  That week in Eastern Congo was a reminder to me what an amazing team God has placed within the ranks of AIM AIR&mdash;from the radio operator to the pilot in the scruff.   In one single day perhaps, I learned what it meant to be part of such a team&hellip; and to see how small and how large is my place in the Body of Christ.]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Walking With the Sudanese</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2003-11-01T20:57:44+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/bd9ac565cadcf72ab5ce2a7d5e6160ee-5.html#unique-entry-id-5</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/bd9ac565cadcf72ab5ce2a7d5e6160ee-5.html#unique-entry-id-5</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[The heat can top 120 degrees plus humidity, the flies simply will not leave you be, and the mud cakes so thickly to your shoes you cannot lift your feet. 

...Two million are dead, and there is a whole generation here who has never known the meaning of peace or a moment in a world without pain - growing up without ever having a chance to be a child.   I've walked with some of these children; And beside the one-legged young man on crutches; And with some of the one hundred thousand refugees in the cramped camp near Kenya's northern border.   I've covered thousands of miles over their battered land in my little Cessna&hellip; lost in a big, sad sky as it dumps rain on abandoned crops and burned-out huts. 

...They take their college degrees, engineering skills, or surgeon's hands to this hard place, working to bring peace to the hearts of the people even if they cannot bring it to the land. ...  This inner transformation can be hard to understand, especially after you have seen the deep needs, but it is as real and tenacious as the soil sticking to your boots. 

...Soberly and with a strange mixture of calling, duty, and privilege, my co-workers and I serve these faithful ones, and the brave missionaries who live on the ground in southern Sudan.   I get to see so much of it from the air that some have asked what it is like to view the world from God's perspective - being "above it all" in an airplane and such. ...  For the Sudanese this is fortunate, because they desperately need a God who knows their suffering, and their shattered dreams; A God who sits next to them on earthen pews, and counts every fallen sparrow - because so many have fallen here. ...  It is a rare privilege to walk with some of the Christians here when I do, and always a joy to have a few scruffy, smiling children at my heels. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>From the Front Lines to the Refrigerator Door</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2004-04-01T20:54:36+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/7ed02d912ee6230cc3d29dfb512e641c-4.html#unique-entry-id-4</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/7ed02d912ee6230cc3d29dfb512e641c-4.html#unique-entry-id-4</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[Home again &ndash; in the familiar pew of a hometown church, I touch the wood and upholstery and then look down to see the scuffed leather of my familiar shoes set against the deep, clean carpet.   My mind wanders for a moment and I imagine these same shoes against the red dirt of Kenya where they were just a few short weeks ago. ...  I imagine it gripping the contoured control yoke on the Cessna Caravan, gripping it hard as I steer through a rainstorm with a backache and a soiled flight shirt at the close of another privileged day. ...  I look at some of the familiar faces around me &ndash; people who have sent us and have prayed for us faithfully while we have been away. 

...Knees on carpet &ndash; The Caravan blasting through a muddy rut on a Sudanese airstrip &ndash; Folded hands &ndash; Hands strapping in Congolese children as they flee a village in flames &ndash; Whispered words at the altar &ndash; Squeals of joy across the ramp as refugees are reunited with their family &ndash; A tear from the eye of an average American &ndash; Tears of pain and suffering across a continent met head-on by the love of Christ at the hands of a missionary &ndash; Quiet supplication &ndash; An engine&rsquo;s roar at a hundred and fifty miles per hour &ndash; sound, fury, calloused hands, and ministry happening on the other side of the world.


...The difference is so astounding that those on the front lines consider it a privilege to be there, and so keep going back. ...  But I plainly remember those times in the field when I felt God&rsquo;s protective hand over me or sensed His wisdom guiding me through another impossible day. ...  I imagine her with her morning coffee, in her humble home, alone, seventy-something in years and pausing to pray for two young missionaries a world away. ...  Being home among our friends and churches again we are amazed at the unfailing commitment of the people who have sent us to Africa. ...  The surprise, perhaps, is how much our lives have been intertwined, 6000 miles apart, and how much our ministry is carried along right here on the carpets of the average American church and around the ordinary kitchen tables of the Saints.]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>What&#x27;s in a Word?</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2004-10-01T20:51:42+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/83de521cd22b411844c032d12849126f-3.html#unique-entry-id-3</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/83de521cd22b411844c032d12849126f-3.html#unique-entry-id-3</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, after coming in from the blazing sun of a Kenyan afternoon. ...  The Rendille language is completely unintelligible to us, and yet I suspect I could have gleaned the message simply from her lively animations and the joyful light in her eyes. 

...What history and missionaries have realized is that for the millions of people without a Bible there is no substitute for it &ndash; no calculated outreach or talented preacher that can penetrate the hearts of people and communities like the Word can. ...  Here in Korr, AIM AIR has supported some folks like this, folks who are treading the sand and carrying-on through the journey of learning to speak a foreign tongue, developing a written form for a language without one, literacy classes for the Rendille people in a nomadic classroom of wood beams and grass thatch, and achieving the privilege of writing the timeless words of the Bible into an old, and yet new language. 

...She looked up as she spoke (again that light in her eyes,) &ldquo;I went to the literacy class so I could graduate, and maybe get a goat. ...  What we were reading was the book of Mark, and then I realized that God was speaking to me&hellip; God was speaking Rendille.&rdquo; ...  We learned that the Bible lessons in the literacy classes spoke to her heart, and in some way God changed her heart&hellip; which of course, was evident in her eyes.   Mine welled up a bit, and maybe it was just the smoke, but I remember flying a few of the boxes in for the dedication service, the translation of Mark, some time back. ...  I did not readily imagine those books to such an end when I carried them in my airplane &ndash; that they might come to settle in an obscure, dark hut someplace or explode in the blazing light of a heart reborn.


In the blazing sun of the following day we joined the Rendille for another dedication, a massive celebration of the newly translated book of John, and John&rsquo;s letters &ndash; Another little paperback with a punch. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>The Volunteers</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2005-06-01T20:48:23+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/6429f2b2f2763cca80404b72c410ceb3-2.html#unique-entry-id-2</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/6429f2b2f2763cca80404b72c410ceb3-2.html#unique-entry-id-2</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[Maybe that&rsquo;s part of what draws them here each summer, the teams of volunteers, coming to give something of themselves to a land they know very little about. ...  But, even at the onset, there is a suspicion that what a person takes away from two weeks in Africa will be much more than what he leaves behind.


...Packed in and around all the stuff team-members bring for their work are just a few personal belongings, which they will probably leave behind as well. 

...At some point in time, all of the planning and packing comes to a juncture on the ramp at Wilson Airport in Nairobi - as the team circles around the plane for a group photo, and the bags (minus the three that British Airways sent to Australia) are weighed. ...  It&rsquo;s a mix of joy, fatigue, and some small concern that the pilot for this harrowing flight into the African bush looks like he&rsquo;s sixteen and just got his pilot&rsquo;s license yesterday.


...In the process I find out that they are from a church in west Texas, or that they are students from different schools across the country brought together for this trip. ...  The copilot seat is then offered up, as a bonus of sorts, to someone in the group who has always wanted to learn to fly, or to the one most unsettled about small airplanes perhaps. 

...For instance, I know that the plane will indeed pick them up in two weeks from the little unreachable corner of Kenya or Sudan that we dropped them off at. ...  They will cry because of the world that these children grow up in - for the first time in their lives having a picture of &ldquo;what it means...&rdquo; what it means to need, what it means to suffer, what it means to fear. 

...I guess that some people have different ways of measuring a return, because I see something else from the left seat of my Cessna. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Hauling Salt</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2005-09-01T15:45:49+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/f2e42292e9a36835d8e481c5cec6cf5b-1.html#unique-entry-id-1</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/f2e42292e9a36835d8e481c5cec6cf5b-1.html#unique-entry-id-1</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[With an often-repeated series of twists and toggles, I can program the latitude and longitude into the GPS computer and instantly get a course, distance and ETA - only fifteen minutes away, roughly southeast from my present position over the vast and featureless Sudan. ...  Three young men are already on board my airplane, and here I&rsquo;ll pick up one more. 8 miles to run, descending and peering through the haze for something, anything that looks like a runway. ...  It&rsquo;s not a runway at all; it&rsquo;s a road&hellip;a Sudanese road, which means it&rsquo;s basically a length of dirt that sees more goats than motorized vehicles. 

...I&rsquo;m gathering up these young men from all over the south &ndash; from humid little communities along the great Nile river, and in a dozen such villages as this... basically bringing them to school.   And almost everywhere I pick up these guys, I have to smile at the way they are sent off &ndash; like a small town&rsquo;s favorite son going off to war. ...  They will probably spend the rest of the day looking for their goats, and maybe talking all about Zachariah and how they want to be like him someday. ...  These men in wrinkled, hand-me-down suits and big grins, whose earthly possessions fit into a suitcase smaller than my flight bag, and who humbly accept God&rsquo;s calling despite the hardships of this land&hellip; I think I&rsquo;d like to be more like them too.


Thirteen thousand feet, on the last leg of the 12-hour day, after I&rsquo;ve made all the stops and filled all the seats, there are twelve such men sitting behind me. ...  Some say the salt refers to the disciples influence being a &ldquo;preservative&rdquo; for the world, and yet others say it means that they, and those who follow, will foster a thirst for truth, just as salt makes one physically thirsty.   But up here where the altitude diminishes my higher brain functions, sharing a battered old airplane with twelve simple, smelly guys and a hundred Sudanese flies&hellip; I think that maybe the &ldquo;salt&rdquo; has something to do with sweat. ]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Remember the Fall</title><dc:creator></dc:creator><dc:subject>writing</dc:subject><dc:date>2006-03-01T15:41:42+03:00</dc:date><link>http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/3256227b0ec75caa817e20cfccc0c058-0.html#unique-entry-id-0</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.delorenzoflyer.com/page6/files/3256227b0ec75caa817e20cfccc0c058-0.html#unique-entry-id-0</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[We passed a field on our left and he waved a hand in passing as he said, "there used to be a garden here." ...  The words worked into my consciousness as we walked and I pulled my cap low over my brow to cut out the setting sun and signal my introspection.   Looking down, admiring my boots and kicking up dust, I imagined myself on a tour of the newly fallen world; As if Adam himself were showing us the creation he had just yesterday ruined. 

...Up the eroded banks of the riverbed and less than a kilometer away was the village; Houses made of grass and tree branches; Children in bare feet running around with runny noses. ...  Any one of them could have been Eve, with faces bearing the remnants of some indistinct regret and resignation, proponents and descendants of &ldquo;the Fall,&rdquo; that famous rupture between God and mankind.   Standing there with them I remembered how deep have been its consequences; From the curse on the land, to the toil of men... and the thorns, a fitting symbol of our rebellion &ndash; the pinprick in my own hand reminding me that I was no mere tourist here. 

...They recalled the prick of her needle as a terrified little kid, victims of the stubborn love of a proper German nurse, unyielding in her own way, but marked with tenderness. ...  The dying man had been clinging to her arm for more than twenty minutes, welcoming her prayers and making his petition, &ldquo;I want to go home with you.&rdquo;


...She has been there for several years turning a different kind of soil with the same persistent love and compassion &ndash; working to reach her elderly neighbors with the Hope she knows so well. ...  But out of that state we are bid to be like Rose, an anomaly in a fallen world, actively knowing and sharing a hope that is not of this world &ndash; drawn to engage the chaos but spared from the error of thinking the answer lies within us. ]]></content:encoded></item></channel>
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