After 35 years, we retired from Wycliffe Bible Translators. Many of you have been with us much of, or even all this time, praying, giving money, counseling, or enjoying each other’s company when possible. We want to revel with you in all the things we’ve gotten to do, people we grew to love, twists and turns, and welcome and unwelcome surprises that God seemed to orchestrate in our journey. But there is waaaaaay too much to include, and we’re feeling kind of tired. So after this highly condensed overview, get ready to enjoy just a few of our favorite stories.
The Call—Does God Send Faxes and Emails?
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Many people talk about a specific call to be missionaries. I’m glad God still speaks plainly to ordinary folks like us.
We were speaking at a Sunday School once, (in Central Kansas where everyone knew that Schrag rhymes with Frog) and the pastor asked how we received our call to missions. Brian glibly replied, “We got a fax.” It was the most advanced technology at the time, and our boss in Africa used it to invite us to come. But the deeper answer is that when we were at Brown University a petition circulated among people in the student ministries there. It said something like this: “Because there is a clear commandment in Scripture to go, I will make plans to go unless called to stay.” We both felt like God wanted us to cross cultural and geographic boundaries to extend his kingdom, but we didn’t know any specifics. What the call is specifically in our lives has changed many times over the years. Currently it’s to minister to our family here in Hamilton, Ohio and people in our church and small group. We still correspond with several whom we have mentored over the years. We get phone calls and WhatsApp messages in various languages at all hours of the day, and it generally makes us feel happy and grateful for the rich ways God has blessed us. What is God asking of you in 2026? Did you check your inbox?? |
First Prayer Card
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An Unnerving First Entry into Zaire
Driving through and around roads that looked like moon craters. Being stuck in the mud. A flat tire. Help and hospitality from my colleague Jim’s many Zairean friends. We were finally in Zaire. Barb and the kids flew, but Jim and I drove. Well, we drove until the wheels locked, and the car skidded to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road. Our rear differential was not differentiating. We were 60 miles from Gemena, and 10 miles from a 2-way radio.
Though about 20 Zairean men and boys began to take the truck apart for us, they were eventually stymied by the lack of one tool. It was about 1:30 in the afternoon, the sun was blazing overhead, and the truck sat peacefully immobile. Somebody had to get to a radio and call for help (there were no telephones in NW Zaire). Two somebodies went: Sana Mosala and me. All we shared was a bit of French, and the willingness to go on an adventure. He knew a shortcut - only 5 miles. Beware of shortcuts.
We walked through tall grasses, dense jungle, swampy swamp, met hunters carrying two dead monkeys. We traveled in a dug-out canoe across a swamp. That wasn’t so bad, but then we reached a deep stream . . . and he stopped. He wanted us to go through the water. So we carried our clothes, and waded 50 yards through the cool water. It was actually quite pleasant. We continued our trek, drinking unfiltered water along the way from bottles carried on the heads of little kids (the equatorial sun was merciless), wading through more water and eventually coming to a village of mud and thatch houses.
I had expected us to be arriving at a mission station, complete with radio, windows with screens, Spam, and “English spoken here” signs. Nope. There was a radio in the local pastor’s house, but none of the other amenities. I was hot, tired, thirsty, hungry, unable to communicate clearly with anyone, afraid of parasites greedily taking over my body, and completely at the mercy of my Zairean hosts. Fortunately, their mercy was great. They figured out what I wanted, gave me water and a chair, and stilted conversation. At the right time, they took me to the radio, and got me started. I nervously broke into the missionaries’ chatter with a cry for help. They heard and would send someone in the morning to help us limp home. The next day, after about 6 hours of back breaking work (the mechanic’s), the unmovable 4-wheel drive truck was a movable 2-wheel drive truck, and we started. I was exhausted, exhilarated, and eager to reunite with Barb and the kids a day late.
Though about 20 Zairean men and boys began to take the truck apart for us, they were eventually stymied by the lack of one tool. It was about 1:30 in the afternoon, the sun was blazing overhead, and the truck sat peacefully immobile. Somebody had to get to a radio and call for help (there were no telephones in NW Zaire). Two somebodies went: Sana Mosala and me. All we shared was a bit of French, and the willingness to go on an adventure. He knew a shortcut - only 5 miles. Beware of shortcuts.
We walked through tall grasses, dense jungle, swampy swamp, met hunters carrying two dead monkeys. We traveled in a dug-out canoe across a swamp. That wasn’t so bad, but then we reached a deep stream . . . and he stopped. He wanted us to go through the water. So we carried our clothes, and waded 50 yards through the cool water. It was actually quite pleasant. We continued our trek, drinking unfiltered water along the way from bottles carried on the heads of little kids (the equatorial sun was merciless), wading through more water and eventually coming to a village of mud and thatch houses.
I had expected us to be arriving at a mission station, complete with radio, windows with screens, Spam, and “English spoken here” signs. Nope. There was a radio in the local pastor’s house, but none of the other amenities. I was hot, tired, thirsty, hungry, unable to communicate clearly with anyone, afraid of parasites greedily taking over my body, and completely at the mercy of my Zairean hosts. Fortunately, their mercy was great. They figured out what I wanted, gave me water and a chair, and stilted conversation. At the right time, they took me to the radio, and got me started. I nervously broke into the missionaries’ chatter with a cry for help. They heard and would send someone in the morning to help us limp home. The next day, after about 6 hours of back breaking work (the mechanic’s), the unmovable 4-wheel drive truck was a movable 2-wheel drive truck, and we started. I was exhausted, exhilarated, and eager to reunite with Barb and the kids a day late.
Vele & the Deceptively Simple Task
Vele nonchalantly holding log
The church was redoing the roof of its building. That means taking off the old thatch and putting on new. I decided to help by going to cut some uwu batima. Uwu batima is the vine used to tie thatch to a roof. I went with Vele (Vay-lay). Vele is 5’ 6”, weighs about 110 pounds, 74 years old, and hard as iron. When you shake hands with him you immediately know that he’s not an accountant. It’s like shaking hands with a teak tree.
So at 6:45 am, we set out. Me half running to keep up with Vele. He shared his aged wisdom: “Most people think that their work for God ends when they get baptized. But that’s not true, is it? God’s work is hard. We keep working until we die. God’s work is very hard.” A light flicked on in my brain’s Posterior Warning Lobe.
I ran after Vele for an hour and a half. We entered the dark forest. Pretty soon we were trudging through calf deep mud. We reached a big tree, and Vele stopped. He went behind the tree, took off his hat, and handed me a five-foot stick. “Take off your pants.” “What?” “You have underwear on, don’t you?”. “O.K.” The warning in the back of my head struggled to break into my consciousness, but it was too late to go back now. I took the stick, and gave Vele my shorts and flip-flops.
As we glurched through the rain forest (why is it we want to save these things?) we moved slowly along, until Vele finally spotted some uwu batima. It’s a creeping vine that winds itself around tree trunks and other plants on the ground. Vele showed me how to take hold of it, find the root end, cut it off, pull until you can find the other end where it’s attached to some other growing thing, cut it there and then throw the 8-to-15-foot vine into the water behind you where you’ll pick it up on the way back. Then start looking for some more. Easy.
Nobody had told me that these vines were a direct result of The Fall. Not only were they all connected to each other in fiendish Möbius strip patterns of never-ending complexity, but they were covered with invisible thorns.
We kept moving deeper into the jungle swamp, throwing the devilishly-thorned uwu over our shoulders like road signs to Sanity. Water dripped from the leaves above. Insects hummed. Only an occasional “Whooooa!” followed by a plunging sound made by one of us discovering a deep hole in the muck below broke the reverie of our steady search and cut mission.
Finally, my energy spent, I asked Vele if we could go home. He agreed, and I love him for it. We started back, picking up the vines as we went along. Vele walked a few yards into a nearby garden and came back with a four foot long, two-foot-thick log tied to his bundle of vines to take back for firewood. I asked, “Aren’t you tired?” He just grinned, put the log on his shoulder, and ran off down the path.
So at 6:45 am, we set out. Me half running to keep up with Vele. He shared his aged wisdom: “Most people think that their work for God ends when they get baptized. But that’s not true, is it? God’s work is hard. We keep working until we die. God’s work is very hard.” A light flicked on in my brain’s Posterior Warning Lobe.
I ran after Vele for an hour and a half. We entered the dark forest. Pretty soon we were trudging through calf deep mud. We reached a big tree, and Vele stopped. He went behind the tree, took off his hat, and handed me a five-foot stick. “Take off your pants.” “What?” “You have underwear on, don’t you?”. “O.K.” The warning in the back of my head struggled to break into my consciousness, but it was too late to go back now. I took the stick, and gave Vele my shorts and flip-flops.
As we glurched through the rain forest (why is it we want to save these things?) we moved slowly along, until Vele finally spotted some uwu batima. It’s a creeping vine that winds itself around tree trunks and other plants on the ground. Vele showed me how to take hold of it, find the root end, cut it off, pull until you can find the other end where it’s attached to some other growing thing, cut it there and then throw the 8-to-15-foot vine into the water behind you where you’ll pick it up on the way back. Then start looking for some more. Easy.
Nobody had told me that these vines were a direct result of The Fall. Not only were they all connected to each other in fiendish Möbius strip patterns of never-ending complexity, but they were covered with invisible thorns.
We kept moving deeper into the jungle swamp, throwing the devilishly-thorned uwu over our shoulders like road signs to Sanity. Water dripped from the leaves above. Insects hummed. Only an occasional “Whooooa!” followed by a plunging sound made by one of us discovering a deep hole in the muck below broke the reverie of our steady search and cut mission.
Finally, my energy spent, I asked Vele if we could go home. He agreed, and I love him for it. We started back, picking up the vines as we went along. Vele walked a few yards into a nearby garden and came back with a four foot long, two-foot-thick log tied to his bundle of vines to take back for firewood. I asked, “Aren’t you tired?” He just grinned, put the log on his shoulder, and ran off down the path.
The Love Choir Leads to More Love
La Chorale Ayo
We didn’t want the fruit of the Mono translation project to be just a book on a shelf. One way to counteract this possibility would likely be experiencing Jesus through the most powerful parts of their language: their own arts. So I started cataloging Mono instruments and genres, and began learning to play the kundi, a hand-held harp.
The church, however, sang almost exclusively in the trade language, Lingala. These song styles were either those popular in the rest of Congo, or hymns translated from European languages. Very different from Mono arts.
When we saw the church being so different from its surroundings, and so connected to the U.S. and Europe, but disconnected from the community around it, we were convinced they were missing something vital. There’s so much beauty, genius, and ability to communicate in the local artistic forms, but there was no place for them in the local church.
Pastor Gode, some of the deacons, and I met to talk about why the kundi, and other Mono instruments were not being used in the church. We started talking about what the Bible says about musical instruments, about worship, and love, and culture, and creation.
Eventually, I could tell they were starting to think about something…something new. About the possibility of reclaiming their instruments, in their artistic genres, for their lives as Christians. Together, we listed and evaluated each genre in Mono culture. Some were very closely tied to the worship of other gods, to drunken parties, or other experiences inconsistent with life in Christ: they decided that those would not be good places to start.
But when we got to the genre of gbagaru, the one that uses the kundi, they said, “Hmmm. We use this to give advice to people. What if we used gbagaru to communicate Scripture?” I was thrilled at the prospect, and asked the church leaders how we could take a next step in using gbagaru in the church. That’s when we hit our first big barrier.
They said, “Fifty years ago, the first evangelist said that every part of our previous lives was sinful. So we burned everything, including our instruments. Nobody in the church knows how to play the kundi. For them and for us it’s been a sin.”
Somebody mentioned Punayima, a master kundi player who was outside the church. “What if some of the men in the church learned how to play the kundi, learned how to compose new gbagaru songs from him?” And so we started meeting with Punayima.
He taught us how to carve the wood for the resonator and the neck, how to work the sheet metal for the top, and how to make holes by burning through the wood. Then on to stringing and tuning the instrument. Finally, he taught us how to play a few simple songs on the kundi.
During this time, when we were Punayima’s apprentices, some of the Mono Christians came up with an innovation. They wanted to make a choir—a kundi choir—even though the gbaguru genre is normally performed by just one person. And they wanted to call it “La Chorale Ayo,” The Love Choir.
I can still remember the first time I sang with the kundi choir in a church service. We were all carrying our kundi’s, walking in a procession up to the front of the church.
Normally, there would be lots of “amen-ing,” clapping, vocal affirmations. But this time…silence.
We reached the front and sang about God creating man and woman from clay. And still silence.
I got more and more nervous, thinking that we had made a huge mistake. That somehow, we were making people think about Jugwa, the god of the forest, or something else that was wrong. My heart just sank.
As soon as the service was over, I hurried to a Mono friend and asked: “Why was everybody so quiet?” He replied, “Well, what could we do? Ekati motema na biso!” It cut our hearts.
At that point, I started to feel relief. Because “it cut our hearts” means that the truth of that song—the truth that God created man and woman—entered into their souls; it touched their emotions in a way that a translated hymn could not.
Since then, kundi choirs have spread to almost all the Mono villages, and the Mono church is beginning to use even more traditional art forms. This whole approach: getting to know communities and encouraging them to look at their own arts as gifts, as priceless resources, helps bring them into a more Christ-like future.
And another gift from God: 10 years later, my Cameroonian mentee and friend, Roch, led Punayima to follow Christ.
The church, however, sang almost exclusively in the trade language, Lingala. These song styles were either those popular in the rest of Congo, or hymns translated from European languages. Very different from Mono arts.
When we saw the church being so different from its surroundings, and so connected to the U.S. and Europe, but disconnected from the community around it, we were convinced they were missing something vital. There’s so much beauty, genius, and ability to communicate in the local artistic forms, but there was no place for them in the local church.
Pastor Gode, some of the deacons, and I met to talk about why the kundi, and other Mono instruments were not being used in the church. We started talking about what the Bible says about musical instruments, about worship, and love, and culture, and creation.
Eventually, I could tell they were starting to think about something…something new. About the possibility of reclaiming their instruments, in their artistic genres, for their lives as Christians. Together, we listed and evaluated each genre in Mono culture. Some were very closely tied to the worship of other gods, to drunken parties, or other experiences inconsistent with life in Christ: they decided that those would not be good places to start.
But when we got to the genre of gbagaru, the one that uses the kundi, they said, “Hmmm. We use this to give advice to people. What if we used gbagaru to communicate Scripture?” I was thrilled at the prospect, and asked the church leaders how we could take a next step in using gbagaru in the church. That’s when we hit our first big barrier.
They said, “Fifty years ago, the first evangelist said that every part of our previous lives was sinful. So we burned everything, including our instruments. Nobody in the church knows how to play the kundi. For them and for us it’s been a sin.”
Somebody mentioned Punayima, a master kundi player who was outside the church. “What if some of the men in the church learned how to play the kundi, learned how to compose new gbagaru songs from him?” And so we started meeting with Punayima.
He taught us how to carve the wood for the resonator and the neck, how to work the sheet metal for the top, and how to make holes by burning through the wood. Then on to stringing and tuning the instrument. Finally, he taught us how to play a few simple songs on the kundi.
During this time, when we were Punayima’s apprentices, some of the Mono Christians came up with an innovation. They wanted to make a choir—a kundi choir—even though the gbaguru genre is normally performed by just one person. And they wanted to call it “La Chorale Ayo,” The Love Choir.
I can still remember the first time I sang with the kundi choir in a church service. We were all carrying our kundi’s, walking in a procession up to the front of the church.
Normally, there would be lots of “amen-ing,” clapping, vocal affirmations. But this time…silence.
We reached the front and sang about God creating man and woman from clay. And still silence.
I got more and more nervous, thinking that we had made a huge mistake. That somehow, we were making people think about Jugwa, the god of the forest, or something else that was wrong. My heart just sank.
As soon as the service was over, I hurried to a Mono friend and asked: “Why was everybody so quiet?” He replied, “Well, what could we do? Ekati motema na biso!” It cut our hearts.
At that point, I started to feel relief. Because “it cut our hearts” means that the truth of that song—the truth that God created man and woman—entered into their souls; it touched their emotions in a way that a translated hymn could not.
Since then, kundi choirs have spread to almost all the Mono villages, and the Mono church is beginning to use even more traditional art forms. This whole approach: getting to know communities and encouraging them to look at their own arts as gifts, as priceless resources, helps bring them into a more Christ-like future.
And another gift from God: 10 years later, my Cameroonian mentee and friend, Roch, led Punayima to follow Christ.
God & the Two Roads: A Crucial, Unclear Choice
After spending 1996 studying French in Chambéry, France, we were supposed to return to Zaire to work alongside the local team in translating the Bible into Mono. Instead, we received regular reports of a rebellion in eastern Zaire slowly, inexorably advancing nearly 2000 miles toward the capital, Kinshasa. In 1997, they overthrew the Mobutu regime, changed the country’s name to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and continued undermining the fragile infrastructure throughout the whole country. Including in the northwest, where we lived. Most of the missions organizations evacuated their people to see what would happen next. Wycliffe wasn’t allowing anyone to be in that war zone. See our village house before and after the war.
So we stayed in France a while longer, moving just after Christmas 1997 to Yaoundé, Cameroon, a hub of training and Bible translation for the countries of central Africa. With dismay, confusion, prayer, and fear for our friends, we had to decide our next steps.
We were committed both to Bible translation for the Mono people, and encouragement of authentic worship all over the world. To continue the Bible work, one scenario would have us living in a border town of Central African Republic (CAR), with Mono people making the 50km trip to do the translation.
To find out if this was possible, I flew to CAR, and “toured” with African colleague Elysée driving me to several possible locations for our family to live. One possibility was Kouango, right on the Ubangi river, across from where the Mono translators would come. There was a moderately suitable house our family could live in.
We had arrived on a newly refinished road (still dirt and some gravel), but I wanted to return by the not-yet-improved route to see all of our possible travel options. Elysée grudgingly agreed.
It was a dicey trip, but we made it to the town of Grimari, the crossroads where the two roads met. There was a big commotion when we arrived. We learned that bandits had just attacked and killed European tourists on the road we didn’t take. Wow.
Voices
But what was God saying about the two roads?
Either was possible, so we had a lot of praying and discerning to do. Ultimately, for the safety of our family and the lack of a clear path to Bible translation in CAR, we believe God wanted us to move from the African jungles to the urban jungle of Los Angeles. In 1998, I started my PhD.
So we stayed in France a while longer, moving just after Christmas 1997 to Yaoundé, Cameroon, a hub of training and Bible translation for the countries of central Africa. With dismay, confusion, prayer, and fear for our friends, we had to decide our next steps.
We were committed both to Bible translation for the Mono people, and encouragement of authentic worship all over the world. To continue the Bible work, one scenario would have us living in a border town of Central African Republic (CAR), with Mono people making the 50km trip to do the translation.
To find out if this was possible, I flew to CAR, and “toured” with African colleague Elysée driving me to several possible locations for our family to live. One possibility was Kouango, right on the Ubangi river, across from where the Mono translators would come. There was a moderately suitable house our family could live in.
We had arrived on a newly refinished road (still dirt and some gravel), but I wanted to return by the not-yet-improved route to see all of our possible travel options. Elysée grudgingly agreed.
It was a dicey trip, but we made it to the town of Grimari, the crossroads where the two roads met. There was a big commotion when we arrived. We learned that bandits had just attacked and killed European tourists on the road we didn’t take. Wow.
Voices
- A missionary colleague: “Don’t do the PhD now. Instead focus on training Africans to do the work, which you can do almost anywhere.”
- A Wycliffe administrator: “Do your PhD now, then return when you can actually live with the Mono people.”
- Mono leaders in DR Congo: “Don’t come now – it’s too unstable. Soldiers would take your truck if you came back.”
But what was God saying about the two roads?
- “Trust me. I will protect you from any danger.” Or
- “This place is dangerous. You would be wise to go somewhere else.”
Either was possible, so we had a lot of praying and discerning to do. Ultimately, for the safety of our family and the lack of a clear path to Bible translation in CAR, we believe God wanted us to move from the African jungles to the urban jungle of Los Angeles. In 1998, I started my PhD.
Impacts of Sharing Hard Won Spiritual Insights
When Jesus came to earth. He lived among people, shared life with them and taught them using everyday examples. As we lived in the Congo Basin of Africa, we lived among many Africans and also many who had come from far away. We shared meals and other experiences together in friendships, and we taught each other using everyday examples.
One of the ways Barb did this was in preparing devotional talks for various gatherings. Many people have commented on the meaning of these talks in their own lives, especially these past 18 years when we lived in the US and she worked at Seed Company. In fact she’s been asked to come back and lead three days of devotions and worship as part of the annual meeting of her former team - the Congo Basin team. She is thrilled.
Brian often wrote songs for events, friends, or our family. Usually ending with the audience joining in with three-part black gospel harmony (start high and go even higher). “This Day,” and “Glimpse” are two of our favorites. You can listen to some of them at BrianAtPlay.org/brians-songs.
One of the ways Barb did this was in preparing devotional talks for various gatherings. Many people have commented on the meaning of these talks in their own lives, especially these past 18 years when we lived in the US and she worked at Seed Company. In fact she’s been asked to come back and lead three days of devotions and worship as part of the annual meeting of her former team - the Congo Basin team. She is thrilled.
Brian often wrote songs for events, friends, or our family. Usually ending with the audience joining in with three-part black gospel harmony (start high and go even higher). “This Day,” and “Glimpse” are two of our favorites. You can listen to some of them at BrianAtPlay.org/brians-songs.
Village Dread
Most of you are familiar with Spiritual Warfare. For those who are not, the basic idea is that when I try to do something with and for God, to extend his kingdom, there is an actual Satan who is the enemy of God and who wants to thwart my efforts. One place we felt this a lot was when Brian was doing his dissertation research among the Ngiemboon people of Cameroon. Brian joined a Ngiemboon dance group in the capital city, Yaounde, where we lived. He studied them, but he also made trips to the Ngiemboon area to get a fuller picture of the music and dance traditions of the Ngiemboon.
He often made the five-hour drive on good roads alone, in our trusty Nissan Patrol. He stayed with Papa David, his village host. He worked with David’s twenty-year-old son, Ferdinand, by his side as interpreter and research assistant. He made four or five trips a year. For every trip, a few days before leaving Yaounde he would start to feel a deep dread. He started thinking of all kinds of reasons to postpone or cancel the trip. But, this was not a time to “trust his gut.” If he had, his research would never have been completed.
The Ngiemboon still practiced many traditions that honored other spirits above God the Creator. The New Testament in Ngiemboon was in the process of being published, but at the time the Ngiemboon had little Scripture they could understand well. Discerning which traditional practices can be redeemed to honor God and how, is a process which takes deep understanding of the Bible and a growing, united church. This was not yet in place. Satan still had control of many in the Ngiemboon area and he wanted to keep it that way. We are so thankful for those who faithfully “prayed us through” this spiritually difficult assignment. Cameroonian pastors knew who the local gods were, and their prayers seemed to lift Brian’s emotions most.
The Ngiemboon people have since completed the translation of the Old Testament and the Ngiemboon Bible will be dedicated this month. Papa David is dead, but Ferdinand still follows God and publishes a newspaper of cultural events in the Ngiemboon area. Unfortunately there is violent instability in their region. We are glad that Brian was able to study and encourage Ngiemboon art forms when it was peaceful. We pray that peace will return.
He often made the five-hour drive on good roads alone, in our trusty Nissan Patrol. He stayed with Papa David, his village host. He worked with David’s twenty-year-old son, Ferdinand, by his side as interpreter and research assistant. He made four or five trips a year. For every trip, a few days before leaving Yaounde he would start to feel a deep dread. He started thinking of all kinds of reasons to postpone or cancel the trip. But, this was not a time to “trust his gut.” If he had, his research would never have been completed.
The Ngiemboon still practiced many traditions that honored other spirits above God the Creator. The New Testament in Ngiemboon was in the process of being published, but at the time the Ngiemboon had little Scripture they could understand well. Discerning which traditional practices can be redeemed to honor God and how, is a process which takes deep understanding of the Bible and a growing, united church. This was not yet in place. Satan still had control of many in the Ngiemboon area and he wanted to keep it that way. We are so thankful for those who faithfully “prayed us through” this spiritually difficult assignment. Cameroonian pastors knew who the local gods were, and their prayers seemed to lift Brian’s emotions most.
The Ngiemboon people have since completed the translation of the Old Testament and the Ngiemboon Bible will be dedicated this month. Papa David is dead, but Ferdinand still follows God and publishes a newspaper of cultural events in the Ngiemboon area. Unfortunately there is violent instability in their region. We are glad that Brian was able to study and encourage Ngiemboon art forms when it was peaceful. We pray that peace will return.
Brian & Papa David, 2002
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Ferdinand & Brian, 2015
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The Mono Bible’s Long, Treacherous Road
The Mono people among whom we lived and worked in Congo, began to believe in Jesus and form a protestant church in the 1950s after hearing a Congolese Evangelist, Pelendo, speak. As was common at the time, Pelendo advised burning all instruments and most cultural artifacts as they had been used in the worship of ancestors. Around 1970, CEUM (the Evangelical Free Church in the area) began asking for a Bible Translation for the Mono people. Mono pastors had been trained and commissioned, but struggled with the model of servant leadership presented by Christ. When we arrived in Bili, the prominent Mono village, the church had been asking for a Bible Translation for over 20 years. So they renamed Brian, too hard to pronounce, Gyaregbo - which roughly means we worked for a long time (praying) and finally got what we asked for. They named Ken Olson who arrived a few months later Awuka - meaning we’ll see. They couldn’t believe they had really welcomed two Bible translators (plus Barb)!
We helped develop a writing system, then went to the US followed by France. In May 1997 the civil war in Congo passed through Bili. All of our worldly goods were taken, including the hardwood we had used for door and window frames in our adobe house.
It was unclear when we would be able to return to Congo, and we wanted the project to start in earnest. So Ken Olson ran a Translator candidate course to identify top potential translators. He picked two of the most educated Mono People (Gaspard and Marie Yalemoto), who moved to the neighboring country of Central African Republic to earn a degree in Bible Translation.
There were many adventures, dangers, and delays along the way, and two teammates joined the translation team. Finally, in 2021, the Mono NT was dedicated in the provincial capital of Gemena. Two translators had died before the dedication. Barb was able to attend, along with Ken Olson and his wife Jessica. Pray that Mono people would continue to use and study the New Testament so they can understand God better and respond to His call to repent, follow, thrive…
We helped develop a writing system, then went to the US followed by France. In May 1997 the civil war in Congo passed through Bili. All of our worldly goods were taken, including the hardwood we had used for door and window frames in our adobe house.
It was unclear when we would be able to return to Congo, and we wanted the project to start in earnest. So Ken Olson ran a Translator candidate course to identify top potential translators. He picked two of the most educated Mono People (Gaspard and Marie Yalemoto), who moved to the neighboring country of Central African Republic to earn a degree in Bible Translation.
There were many adventures, dangers, and delays along the way, and two teammates joined the translation team. Finally, in 2021, the Mono NT was dedicated in the provincial capital of Gemena. Two translators had died before the dedication. Barb was able to attend, along with Ken Olson and his wife Jessica. Pray that Mono people would continue to use and study the New Testament so they can understand God better and respond to His call to repent, follow, thrive…