Omera- That is "hello, how are you?" in the Luo language of Kenya.
to the Editor: Steve Van Nattan
Editors: Bible believers world-wide-- MAYBE YOU!
© Whole Journal--
To Make an Omelette....
The following is politically incorrect, definitely NOT the heaviest stuff in this journal, but it IS the truth-- well, sort of. I really have NO respect for Americans who insist on being hyphenated, but, with due disrespect for all of you American-Americans, I give you here my qualifications to also be hyphenated.
I am an African-American
was born in the south suburbs of Los Angeles, California, which is African-American
for sure. My early days of scholarship included a stint at 79th Street Elementary
School in Los Angeles. That's hard core African! To add a bit of hubris
which will date me for sure, I'd like you to know that on one occasion I represented
the Third Grade class at 79th Street School at Art Linkletter's Houseparty. I
was given a cardboard horsie and a set of Golden Books, and I messed my pants
on the way home. Aren't childhood memories a blessing.
was the view I had as I waited for the dinner bell to be rung by Allan Hovingh.
of Longonot, on left, and Kijabe Hill, on right, taken by Mike
Steeves, AIM Ministries.
The badge at the left was worn on our school uniforms. The girls' had a strange British type uniform which is really impossible to describe without a picture. The boys work khaki uniforms, with an Eisenhour jacket. The British boys' schools in Nairobi, Prince of Wales and Duke of York, were said to envy us guys for being allowed to wear the well known Eisenhour jacket rather than a dress blazer. A red tie was only required when a British colonial official or a big shot from the USA was on campus. The younger boys traditionally wore baggy walking shorts like the British, but once a boy was in about tenth grade, he would wear "long bags" of long trousers.
OLD FRIENDS FROM
Swahili was the language I learned by mixing with African neighbors. I can also greet you (and, I am sorry to say, cuss a little) in Luo, Kijita, Nandi, and Maasai. I can get by in Kikuyu in any circumstance with two words- "Niwega mno." I played with African kids because I liked them, and, much of the time, I had no other playmates. I argued politics in the shops and union offices (eat your heart out Rev. Jesse). I ate in dung plastered houses and cafes that your average American civil rights light weight would find terrifying. I learned to savor fried flying ants, cartilage and potatoes, ugali, and I bet I can eat chili pepper fire with any Alabama Cajun fakir (try my Habañero Salsa). I can also eat Indian curry as hot as Jaliwal Patel can serve it. Also, try the lime pickles, Fara-con.
I've hiked across Mt. Longonot- across, I said- it was still an active volcano. [See Mt. Longonot above on the right-- left peak] Read about climbing Longonot as a rite of passage. The line of march Bob Capen and I took would be right across the middle of the photo on the Web site linked. I have found Mau Mau hide outs. I have been stalked by leopards. I have talked labor union dandies and Kikuyu rebels out of thumping me-- we ended up the best of friends. All of the above WITHOUT Bud Lite!
colorful bird in the thorn bush is a roller.
At the right is the Ethiopian national dish, Injira b'watt. This is beug watt, or lamb. Also, lentil watt. The bread is like a very thin crape that was cooked only on one side.
TAKE NOTICE: President Kibaki, Musaveni, and all democracies in Africa-- Beware of men from afar bearing gifts (IMF "loans") and guns.
Heile Sallassie refused their bondage, and note what they did to him. Any African leader who refuses the loans and financial advisors of the New World Order should double the palace guard at once. Also, if you find oil in your country, don't tell George's Harlan Oil Company in Texas. You might get "liberated" like Kuwait. I keep wandering from the point, right?
Being American and known as "Imperialist Running Dogs," we felt it would be prudent to leave Ethiopia and move to Nairobi, Kenya in 1974 :-) After arriving there (kind of like going home), we were asked to go to Eldoret, Kenya to teach. Kipchoge Kinyo, the Olympic gold medal winner, also called Eldoret his home town.
I taught in the African High School where my boss was an African Headmaster-- good man too. On the side, I taught teachers to teach in a night school run by a Baluya friend. We lived with four gasoline cans ready because that gentle Muslim soul in Uganda, Idi Amin, claimed that the area we were living in was his territory, and he intended to invade it. The Israeli planes that rescued the Jews from Entebbe, Uganda, flew right over our house. Hubris in large portions, all around, to you who read. Hey, you Zionist boys in Jerusalem, I know about the deal you cut with Jomo Kenyatta ;-)
Click the image of the Emperor, and read his life story.
I would also like to humbly offer my services to the NAACP as a consultant on African affairs. After all, I am more "African" than all the civil rights leaders in America rolled together. All I ask for my services is half as much salary of Jesse Jackson gets. I could probably get along fairly well on that. My offices would be in Loitokitok, Kenya on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro, and I would insist on a guest house or two where African-American civil rights leaders could stop for a visit.
This is a "matatu."
You must hit the link!
north of Eldoret:
PHOTOS OF ETHIOPIA
Injera b'Watt-- National
food of Ethiopia
I am a Dutch-American
My ancestors came to America from the Netherlands in 1695 and settled in upper state New York (condolences accepted with thanks), and they promptly got into a family feud. Mario Cuomo's clan was still rolling out pasta in Venicci long after my American roots were established.
The old patriarch of my ancestors came home one day and said that my great, great, great grandfather was not sired by him, and the kid walked out the door and promptly changed his name. That's the kind of nice story you get from checking out your family tree. Do you see why I prefer to be known as an African-American?
One redeeming note. Our Dutch gang produced five Civil War Chaplains. We know how to keep out of trouble when Yankees and Rebels get their noses out of joint. Open the church house, and ring the bell.
I have made the pilgrimage to Amsterdam. I am a Haji Hollander. I have walked the charming streets and floated down the canals, and I think Amsterdam stinks- physically and spiritually. Volendam was nice, and there we ate Pelinge (smoked eel)-- it gives you bad breath. But there is a limit in returning to one's roots-- I could eat fried flying ants in Africa, but the sight of dignified Hollanders tipping their heads back, precisely at 4 PM every day, and sliding raw slimy fish down their throats was hard on my zeal. Having seen the Netherlands up close, I prefer Arizona, Michigan, or Sultan Hammid any day.
I lived through 17 years of Western Michigan winters where thousands of real Dutch high browed Calvinists live, yah? I have resisted their cold Dutch theology and I am still born again in spite of it, Praise the Lord. Calvinism is like mackerel in the moonlight-- it shines and it stinks. My favorite Dutch writer-- one of the late Christian era's genuinely godly thinkers-- is Leonard Verduin-- Anatomy of a Hybrid and The Reformers and Their Stepchildren.
I have seen Amway's New Jerusalem, in Ada, Michigan, and I worked for that famous Hollander, Rich De Vos-- autographs on sale in the foyer. Am I not a Dutchman of the Dutchmen? My wife cooks banket and olie bollen, and I love to drain puddles and plant tulips there. Do you know why the Hollanders wear wooden shoes? Answer: To keep the wood peckers away from their heads. I can tell Dutch jokes because I am a Hollander :-)
Dutchman, Dutchman, belly full of straw; when he laughs, he goes Yah, Yah, Yah.
I am a Native-American
My Grand Daddy on my Mom's side was about a quarter Cherokee. I say "about" because there is said to be Cherokee blood in both of his parents.
He worked hard from Los Angeles, California to Jacksonville, Florida taking care of his family. He never asked for special treatment, and his mother was skinned out of some prime real estate in downtown Muskogee, Oklahoma by a shark Gringo. You White folks owe me one. But, never mind, you can keep Muskogee if you like. Just give me fishing rights if you please.
My grand dad owned the hamburger stand above in Corpus Cristi, Texas in 1948. He clamed that, during that time, a shark came into the harbor and was making life terrifying for the swimming vacationers. He took a winch, bolted it to a dock, and put a chunk of meat on a hook on the end of the cable. The shark went for the bait, and my grand dad winched the shark in.
Usually, the porpoises kept the sharks out of the harbor, but they had been frightened off by the size of the shark. Porpoises will kill a shark by swimming at full speed (up to 50 MPH), and hit the shark in the belly from beneath. On this occasion the shark must have been big enough to frighten the porpoises off.
I am a Scottish-Irish-American
My Dad's side, though partly Dutch, also included a bunch of potato chewing Scottish Irishmen. Benjamin Franklin called the Scotch-Irish "White Savages." Well, that is OK with me-- the likes of Davey Crockett, Sam Houston, Joe Walker, and Andrew Jackson were better men than the Freemason womanizer, Ben Franklin. My people were Methodists, though I suspect they were Scot's Kirk originally, maybe even Orangemen.
They tried to raise sheep in Colorado before deep wells were invented. One relative, Harry Castle (see photo) , ran the rodeo in Grand Junction, Colorado so that he could cheat at the horse pull event. He trained his horses to back up and jerk the big sled. He was the nice guy-- the rest of the Castles were hard rock miners!
bear in the photo was not shot, it was roped by Harry who dragged it until it
was unconscious! He then rode to town, bought a hunting license, and killed the
roped bear with a jack knife. He took the bear to a butcher shop and had is slaughtered
and gave the meat to friends. The Castles are said to have moved from Kentucky
to Colorado to work in the mines. Harry married Lenna Van Nattan, my Dad's aunt.
I like my Scotch-Irish roots real well, and now that we live in Sam Houston land, the Republic of Texas, I feel pretty much at home.
I am a German-American
I am a true WASP. Saxony is in my blood. Does that explain some of my tender hearted editorial? Probably.
One of our cousins on my Mom's side was out of work, and, as is want to be done by those who live on "unemployment," he decided to follow back the family tree. When he called me one night and gleefully announced that we were related to the Kaiser Wilhelm, I said, "Ach tung, turkey. Stop before you get to Der Fuhrer already."
of the above is pure vanity
If it charms you, go ahead and copy it, and sign your name to it. At 63, I couldn't care less. I am a true gong and trinket man. My time in Africa, and my living room walls, validate my story, so you will have quite a time trying to counterfeit the heritage God has given to me.
What am I proud of? Nothing. It is only by the Grace of God, and the Precious Blood of The Lord Jesus Christ, that I am what I am.
Brother Martin Luther was a real tiger when he nailed his complaint against the Pope to the church house door. He cried, "Sola Scriptura, sola fide, sola gratia, and sola Cristi." But, brother Martin forgot one, "Sola Hema"-- Only by the Blood. The Reformed Church never has finished the job of Reformation of the Whore of Rome. Indeed, they are returning, on the run, to Mother Whore. The Baptist zeal of Roger Williams was the true message of the Gospel, and the Blood of Jesus Christ was his message.
That is the message which saved me when I was seven years old. Through the witness of my Dad and Mom, and through the children's radio broadcast of Theodore Epp, I heard that I was a lost sinner, and that the Lord Jesus shed his precious Blood to wash away my sins. I believed that, and my Mother helped me confess my faith in Jesus Christ, and I have been saved ever since. Since the day I was born again, I began to have an eternal history in Christ. Do you have a history? If not, you can repent of your sin and confess your faith in Jesus Christ for your salvation, and your history will start and last for eternity.
1 Corinthians 15:10 But by the grace of God I am what I am: and his grace which was bestowed upon me was not in vain;.......
I am also a bigoted "racist." I believe that the only "race" that is right is the Royal Priesthood, the Chosen Generation, of saints who are in Christ Jesus (1 Peter 2:9). I sincerely hope and pray that you, whatever your human heritage, are also in that "race" of the Redeemed. If not, why not? When you come into Christ, you come into the only non-political body on earth that will truly love and nurture you without racial or tribal prejudice.
But then, your soul's destiny is YOUR choice. True Bible based Christianity is the only religion in the world that invites you to choose, and if you reject the Gospel, you can go right to Hell, with bells and whistles, without any of us standing in your way.
So, believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and tell Him so NOW, or agree with him later when He sends you to the Lake of Fire.
"This is my story,
To God be the Glory;
I'm only a sinner,
Saved by Grace."
Editor: Blessed Quietness Journal-- Steve Van Nattan
spent in Eastern Tennessee in the shade of "Applacha", town of "Kangston"
not fur from "Murful," the home of Davey Crokett.
OTHER AREAS OF THE JOURNAL THAT MAY BE HELPFUL:
IN JANUARY OF 2011
STEVE IS TUNING PIANOS
IN THE HILL COUNTRY OF TEXAS
NORTH OF AUSTIN