But I Don't Speak French... (Part 3 of 4)
Speaking in tongues and an angelic encounter in the middle of a West-African desert
Before you read any further….
Have you read Part 1 and Part 2? If not, you may be a little lost because this post is the third in a four-part series where I am sharing the true and miraculous account of what happened to me and my missions team while serving overseas in Niger, Africa six years ago.
For those of you who have been following along this week, welcome back!
Part 4, the final post that will conclude this series, will be released tomorrow. Be sure to subscribe and download the app so that you don’t miss tomorrow’s conclusion or any other future post, for that matter. God bless!
At a Loss for Words
I began to panic, because I could not speak French. I have always struggled with learning foreign languages, and this trip was no different. As a Secondary English Education major, I had been required to take four semesters of a foreign in language in college, plus the two years I had already had in high school.
However, even after six years of Spanish, I still could not do more than order a meal at the local Mexican restaurant, and even that was a major endeavor. So there was absolutely no chance that I had picked up any French beyond the basic “bonjour” in just the four short days we had been in Niger.
I remember thinking to myself that if only I could speak French, this situation would be so very different. I needed to tell this man about Jesus before he died, and I had not laid eyes on our interpreter since we had first gotten out of our vehicle to help.
I was desperately trying to speak to the man in order to keep him awake, so I just kept talking to him. Somewhere deep inside I knew that if he ever completely closed his eyes, he would be gone.
I remember asking him what his name was and telling him that everything was going to be okay. I told him my name and that we were trying to help. Through the pain and fear, he clearly communicated confusion, as well.
He had no idea what I was saying, and I couldn’t understand what he was saying other than what his name was. I remember that his name started with an “M,” but I am sad to say that his actual name escapes me today.
[Edit: Not long after publishing this post this afternoon, one of my team members and close friends who had been there with me in Niger texted and reminded me that his name was “Mito" (pronounced Mee-toe). I cannot express how grateful I am to add this update. Not being able to remember his name as I was writing this past week has made my heart break, because although it may have been brief in light of the vast scheme of eternity, my encounter with him played such a pivotal role in my spiritual walk with Christ. And I just simply needed you to know his name. Being able to tell you that his name was Mito brings a peace to my heart that I cannot explain.]
Tears streaming down my face, I just began asking him if he knew Jesus. I just kept talking to him and praying.
At some point, I remember looking down at him and his facial expression had changed.
The look on his face suddenly appeared as if he registered what I was saying, and he even began talking back to me in French. I could not comprehend what he was saying, yet he seemed to understand me all of a sudden.
Again, I asked if he knew Jesus and if he wanted to accept him as his Lord and Savior.
He locked eyes with me, again seemingly able to suddenly comprehend what I was saying, and said, “Jesus?” Then he nodded his head yes before placing it back on the ground.
He was still conscious, but it was getting more and more difficult to keep his eyes open. I continued talking to him about Jesus, asking him questions, praying over him, and just reassuring him that we were going to stay with him.
When the sternum rubs seemed to stop working as effectively, I resorted to nearly beating on his chest whenever he would close his eyes. I did not know what else to do.
Help Arrives…Sort Of
Around this time, a white van drove up and we realized that this must be the ambulance. A wave of relief washed over me as a driver and two ladies dressed in uniform got out.
However the relief I had felt was short lived, because when they opened the back doors, I could see that they had no medical supplies or anything with them at all, for that matter.
As strange as this sounds, one of the ladies, whom I am assuming was a nurse or some kind of medic, stood there behind the ambulance holding just a very small tray with nothing on it but a single scalpel.
She held it out to us as if it might be of use to us, but I just shook my head no.
The local men and the guys from my missions team began to carry people to the back of the ambulance, piling them nearly one on top of the other, and we had to fight to secure a spot for the man with the compound fracture.
We kept trying to explain to the driver and the other men that he was one of the worst and had to seek medical attention as soon as possible or he was going to die. He had lost too much blood by this point, and there was no way he could wait there for a second ambulance to arrive, if there was even another ambulance on its way.
The last I saw of the young man whose hand I had held onto and prayed over was that of him being loaded into the back of the ambulance. I saw his face grimacing in pain as he was roughly jostled in the back, and then the double doors were closed tightly.
We Have to Leave Now
Then what felt like all at once, things at the crash scene began to get more chaotic. When I snapped back to the reality of the scene before me, I was aware for the first time that a crowd of motorists and passers-by had joined in the melee in the middle of the desert.
People were shoving one another, beginning to shout, and brandishing machetes. Again, I did not speak the language, so I was not sure of what was going on, but I knew the atmosphere had rapidly changed and things felt as though they had gone from bad to worse.
Suddenly, Issa was next to me, firmly grabbing hold of my arm and urgently telling me that we had to leave right then.
By that point, I was nearly hysterical, crying and telling him that there were others who were severely injured and needed to be taken to the hospital now, but he wouldn’t listen.
He was nearly dragging us back to our vehicle and just kept repeating, “We have to go. Right now. You don’t understand, we have to leave.” Reluctantly, we piled back into the vehicle, all eight of the passengers fitting into a car meant to carry five at most.
Once back in the automobile, we all sat in absolute silence for several miles. Looking back now, I suppose we were each in shock.
Suddenly, I felt the adrenaline leave my body, and I tried to choke back the sobs, but I eventually gave in and that was all it took.
It was as if once the tiniest crack had formed, the whole dam broke loose. We all were sobbing, just trying to process what we had experienced.
Poor Issa didn’t know what to do with this car full of unhinged Americans, so he just kept driving and asking us if we wanted to go see the “gee-raffs” at the nature reserve that we had planned to visit that afternoon. We thanked him, but explained that we just needed to go back to our hotel for the rest of the evening.
Sharing Our Stories
After we had put many miles between us and the crash site, one team member after another began to talk and share of his/her own personal experiences from the site of the wreck.
One mentioned how she had remembered in the middle of everything that we had just-so-happened to have bought several water bottles after leaving the village right before we came up on the wreck. So she had ran back to the car and retrieved them, passing out the bottles to the ones able to sit up and take sips of water.
A couple of the others were examining the cuts on their hands they had received when breaking branches to create the splints. I silently prayed as I recalled that these two, now with open wounds on their hands and arms, were the same two whom I had seen blood smeared on their hands at one point in all of the chaos.
Then, three of my team members shared what we can only explain as an angelic encounter.
Again, the wreck had happened in the middle of the desert along a long stretch of road with no businesses or homes in sight.
For what felt like an absolute eternity, no one had driven by or stopped, and I’m still not sure exactly how long it was before anyone had a phone or signal to call for an ambulance.
But in the middle of the pandemonium, they recalled how one of them had felt a tap on her shoulder. When she turned around, there stood a man dressed all in white, and he held a first-aid kit in his hand.
She said she strangely remembered thinking that she couldn’t believe how his clothes were so clean and white to be standing in the middle of the dust and sand. Because in stark contrast, we were all covered in dirt, sweat, tears, and blood.
He simply gestured for her to take the kit, so she did and then quickly handed it to another one of the team members who was trying to administer first aid equipped with nothing other than some strips of cloth.
When she turned around to thank the man in white, he was gone.
There was no car or any other visible sign of how he had arrived or departed so quickly.
Because of the man’s gift, the team members had been able to use what was in the first aid kit to help some of the ones who were injured and needed help while the other three of us had been with the young man who had the severe leg injury.
In the midst of us sharing our personal accounts, one of my team members and close friends looked at me and casually said, “I didn’t realize you had picked up that much French this week. When did you learn that?”
My mind was still a little foggy, and I looked at her with confusion.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
She said, “You know, when you were talking to that guy with the broken bone in his leg. I didn’t know that you knew how to speak French.”
Perplexed, I asked, “What are you talking about? I wasn’t speaking French.”
Now it was her turn to be confused.
“Yes, you were! That guy on the ground - when you were sitting next to him and praying with him, you were talking to him in French! I heard you. You were speaking French to that man. I was just surprised, because I didn’t know you were conversational in French.”
Still unable to grasp the situation, I said matter-of-factly, “But I don’t speak French…”
Utterly bewildered, I sat in silence, staring out the window at the scenery flying by in an effort to allow what she had just said to truly sink in.
Yes, I obviously recalled the man on the ground with the broken leg. How could I forget? That whole grisly scene was still replaying in my mind like a movie reel stuck on repeat.
I vividly remembered talking and praying over him, but the facts were still the same - I did not know French. So how could I have been speaking to him in that language? It just didn’t…
Wait a second.