The Miracle Meal
“Anyone here know how to deal with the government?” our pastor asked. “We came here to drill a well, but we can’t do it with our drill rig locked up in customs!”
I’d worked as a legislative aid to Texas Congressman Charlie Wilson, so I raised my hand. Little did I know, five soldiers with automatic weapons would soon escort me to a jail cell as a result.
None of us could have imagined this was the founding mission trip of Living Water International. We didn’t even have a drill rig. Harry Westmoreland had shipped a rig to Kenya six months before, but nobody could get it out of customs. Harry and I started traveling from Mombasa to Nairobi to work with the government, freight forwarders, and even Kenyan President Daniel Moi to free our captive rig. On our third such trip, we left Mombasa at 5:00 am, and pickpockets had stollen all our money by 9:00. The US Ambassador said he could get the rig out of customs…in just six months.
“Six months? We were hoping to drill a well before we go home on Monday!”
Harry suggested we call the President, who had given us his private number along with his commitment to help. We prayed, called, and an aide said President Moi was at his country estate for the weekend, but we could contact the Vice President.
“That’s a miracle!” said the ambassador.
At the Vice President’s office officials asked for a bribe. When we refused to pay it, they showed us our seats. Two hours later we were still waiting, so I asked to borrow a phone.
“President Moi,” I said, “we’ve been waiting here at the Vice President’s office for the past two hours, so I just thought I’d call to say thanks, and tell you how much we appreciate you setting up this meeting.”
Three minutes later the door flew open. Five soldiers with machine guns burst into the room and led me to a jail cell for interrogation: “Who are you? Why are you here? Where are you from? Who did you call? Whose number is this?”
When I finally convinced them that the President really had given us his private number, they let us talk to the Vice President.
“This equipment doesn’t belong to us,” I said, remembering the bribe they’d demanded. “It belongs to the Lord Jesus Christ. We got pickpocketed this morning, so we have no money, but if you’ll get on your knees with us, we’ll ask God to bless you.”
With that, the Vice President signed the paperwork. We arrived at the shipping lot 15 minutes before it closed for the weekend. As they raised the forklift to get our rig there was an explosion, then a whistle sounded, and the lot was closed. One of the forklift’s tires had blown and we’d be in Houston before they could change it. All was lost. They dropped us off at a Methodist mission house around 9:00 pm. We hadn’t eaten since we left Mombasa at 5:00 am. There was nowhere to buy food, and pickpockets had taken our money anyway.
Scrounging for something to eat, I found a single teabag and an oatmeal cookie in my jacket pocket. We split them and prayed, remembering the story of the loaves and fishes. On the second syllable of “amen,” there was a knock at the door. A man and three kids, missionaries returning home the next morning, held leftover portions of meatloaf, bread, and green beans.
We still didn’t have our rig, but through tears of gratitude we finally saw God’s abundant provision. Perhaps this mission trip would result in something big after all.
-Malcolm Morris
Pictured above: The Morris Family
