B arefoot tracks in the muddy path zigzagged through the tall cornstalks toward the thatched roof of a Camsa home. This new path was exciting to Linda Howard, Wycliffe Bible Translator, as she mapped the locations of Indian homes of the Sibun- doy Valley in southern Colombia. Dogs, chickens, and ducks announced Linda’s ap proach, but Linda paused at the log bridging the drainage ditch at the edge of the clearing, and called, “ Bosti!” She waited, but there was no answer. Camsa people never leave their houses unguard ed. Even if it is only a small shelter made of cane poles with a grass roof, someone “ watches” the house. This house was made of weathered, wide boards set perpendicularly, blackened by the smoke of continual cooking fires and topped with a mossy grass-thatched roof. Surrounding red geraniums stood five feet tall, fuchsias with purple and white bell shaped flowers nodded their heads in welcome and salmon-colored salvia lifted their friendly little faces to greet us. Snowy calla lilies bordered the smooth dirt patio. Evidently this was a rich family’s home, judging by the size of the building, the number of animals scurrying about, and the striking flower garden surrounding it. Linda was about to repeat the greeting when a woman quietly stepped into view. She seemed as frightened as her year-old child who was peering out of the black shawl on the mother’s back, his big brown eyes watching Linda’s every move. “ Enter,” the Camsa woman nervously invited, but she didn’t offer a stool, so they just stood study ing each other. “ Would you like to see the photos of Camsa Indians?" Linda asked as she handed her the photo graph album. This book had been the key to most homes lately. When Linda and her partner first came to the valley five years ago, there seemed to be no way to get to know the Indians. Neighborliness even among them selves was not acceptable. The family who rented a room of their home to the missionaries wouldn’t allow them to come into their own living quarters. Linda and her partner walked the footpaths for hours just to be seen so the fear of their strangeness gradu ally would wear away to acceptance. When sick folk started coming for medicine or when the paths of the Camsas crossed theirs on the way to market for supplies, their camera would catch the natural poses of Indian life. Now, the book of pictures was the key which opened many doors, for it never failed to in terest the curious Camsas, even if they were strang ers.
dim light filtering through the cracks, she saw the garb of a witch doctor— a feathered head-dress, doz ens of strands of beads and a brightly-stripped red- and-white robe hanging on the wall. On another wall hung a shelf, holding pictures of saints framed with candles and fresh flowers. Evidently this home was a strong mixture of pagan religion and Catholic ism. In the evening Linda met some friends on the road wanting to know where she was going. When they heard the name of the family, a quick look of apprehension crossed their faces, “ Did you know that man was a witch doctor, Señorita?” Ever since the encounter of the morning, Linda had been praying about the return trip. Loud laugh ing and yelling of drunken men could be heard at the edge of the cornfield. It took courage for Linda to walk through the tall corn and call out in a steady voice the evening Camsa greeting, "Buajtina!” The noises stopped but no one answered. Did that mean they didn't want to see her? She knew she must not walk a step closer to the house uninvited even though the woman had said to return. One’s house is one's domain and maybe the witch doctor was angry at the earlier visit. Silence must mean rejection. From the back corner of the house, a boy’s head with bowl-cut black hair, appeared just an instant and then disappeared. Voices murmured from inside as he evidently pleaded for permission to ask Linda in. Then he bobbed into sight at the front patio and said, “ Enter.” Camsa men in their black dresses bloused with woven belts clustered around the picture book in the witch doctor's house, asking questions until the dusk blotted out all light. “ Where did Linda live? Why did she live here among the Camsas?— to write God’s words in their language?” The witch doctor gave her a hearty invitation to return later and one of the men said, “ Come to my house on Sunday and bring the book.” “ Heart-paths” are sometimes camouflaged by activity, but the Master knows the hidden trails to reach you. He stands at the border of your inner self quietly asking for your attention. He knows just the words that will communicate, even if it’s “ Bosti,” "Buajtina,” or “ Hey, man! Stop hustlin’, give an ear." You’ll want to answer Him, “ Look, You’re for real! What I really crave is Your Presence within.” However, the Saviour doesn't trespass, for your soul is your domain, to choose your own Master. The friendship He offers you is based on neither fear or ritualism, for an acquaintance on a person-to-person basis is all He asks. Patiently He waits or comes again. He listens for your “ Enter.” Christ stood beside Linda Howard in the patio patiently waiting in the breathless silence for the Camsa greeting. He waits at your door for one word, "Enter.” KB 15
This woman “ coed and ahhhed” over three pages of the album, then reluctantly handed back the book. The man of the house and his workers would be home at five that evening; would the lady please return then so everyone could see the picture book? Linda promised to return. Looking about in the I NOVEMBER, 1970
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