Sambu Sisaxo stood in the open doorway in his tattered robe. He spoke calmly, but his words startled us from our leisurely conversation with Paul and Carol Cheshire, our co-workers.
“There’s a wounded lion near the village. It’s very dangerous,” he said. “I’m going to the bush to kill it, but I need a bullet.” A bullet cost 500 francs; to ask for two would seem greedy.
Paul found one. Sambu took it in his gnarled hand, nodded and walked into the darkness.
Soon after, Jim and I stepped into the starless night, intent on making it home. We wished we’d brought a flashlight. We heard every rustling and stirring in the brush, and each time we jumped, imagining a lion ready to pounce. I clung to Jim’s hand and kept going.
Finally we bumped into our gate, then rushed with great relief into our house. I collapsed in a chair … and looked around.
Our “safe place” consisted of mud brick walls with a grass roof; the windows were holes cut into the mud with screens stretched over them. Any lion, wounded or not, could certainly jump through.
Jim read my thoughts and reminded me that Jesus is our only safe place. Holding hands, we committed ourselves to His care, then went to bed and slept quite well.
Next morning Sambu returned to the village dragging a carcass. He’d sat under a tree waiting for his prey, and shot the lion with his only bullet. He’d used his skills to protect the village. But to this day Sambu has no interest in the protection God can give, or the eternal life He offers.
