Amazon River —
When you live on a houseboat and it starts raining sideways outside, Molly git yer slicker on because there are no hatches to batten. Everything is about to get very wet. Thankfully it's the Amazon—and we knew that getting wet, whether by rain or sweat, is just part of what we do to minister here. Recently though we had a doozy of a storm that took us all by surprise!
For months our Amazon nights had been hot and clear with no breeze, with only occasional lightning flashes far enough away that we couldn't hear thunder.
We had traveled to the Peru-Colombia-Brazil border to pick up a visiting work group from the US. With all the baggage and construction material loaded we untied and headed downriver toward the site, but due to a very complicated docking situation that I didn't want to attempt in the dark we stopped for the night about an hour above our destination.
No sooner had we gotten everybody in some sort of accommodations for the night and fallen asleep ourselves, than a huge gust of wind rocked the boat. We could hear the roar of a solid wall of heavy rain approaching—FAST.
The storm must have broken right on top of us because the wind kept coming from different directions. Suddenly, a strong onshore gust snapped our bow rope—and ready or not, we were going for a ride!
Pivoting around the stern the wind pushed us upriver so that we were seconds from crushing several canoes that had tied up behind us. I already had the engine going—with no time to untie the stern ropes, we had to power out of there. Thankfully the stake that held us to the bank yanked free and cleared the canoes.
Out to the middle of the river in the darkness and blinding rain, I was trying to keep the bow pointed into the variable wind-confused waves and avoid the shallow water that's seemingly everywhere at the peak of the dry season. I was very thankful for the channel marks I had made on the GPS.
Over the past year the state governor has been installing electricity in some of the small villages along the river. It was so helpful to catch glimpses of them to verify our direction. Only crazy boat people like us really understand hymns like, "... To us He gives the keeping of the lights along the shore. Let the lower lights be burning. Send a gleam across the waves. Some poor fainting struggling seaman, you may rescue, you may save.
A tense half hour later the storm had pretty much blown itself out leaving only diminishing waves. It wasn't the biggest blow we've had, but it wasn't just a little sneeze either.
We tied up again on a very slippery mud-bank and mopped up inside. In the end we sustained little more damage than some wet hammocks, and a wet computer—all of which eventually dried out. It took a few days of hardware and software therapy, but praise God we were able to save many of our computer files.
Meanwhile, we're carrying on with the job you've sent us to do and for which you are praying and supporting us. We're installing and improving the "navigation lights" in several communities by doing evangelism and discipleship with Mayuruna and Matis Indians who until now have been wandering in darkness with false references. We're also setting firm Bible anchors in muddy river bottoms, training the Ticuna who are exposed to all sorts of wild currents and tossed by "winds of doctrine" (Eph 4:14).
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