By Rebekah Anast
Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday of all. The very word brings the aroma of turkey and dressing so sharply to my senses my stomach starts growling in anticipation. In 1996, I spent Thanksgiving in a remote tribal village in the rainforest jungle of Papua New Guinea. It was a day I will never forget.
The day before Thanksgiving, Rosinda, my language helper, and I spent four hours waiting (after a two hour hike) by a jungle road for a truck to go by that might have some of my supplies on it. True to form, the truck never came, and I spent the four hours describing my favorite holiday to her. She had never heard of Thanksgiving, having been born and raised in a jungle community that had never seen a white person before. I described our big old farmhouse table loaded down with all the holiday food, and the many things that we were thankful for each year. Her shiny brown face furrowed in distress as she asked me what I was going to do for Thanksgiving way out in the jungle without family or food (of my own kind). I replied ruefully that I was going to eat tin fish and rice and be thankful for all the wonderful Thanksgivings I'd had in times past.
The next morning as I stumbled out of my hut into the cold mist to build a fire, Papa Ben (village leader) had made a fire and was chopping more wood.
“Ai yande,” said Papa Ben, “you did not eat since yesterday morning; you must be very hungry.” I agreed that I was, and tossed two ears of corn into the coals to roast. Then I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Rosinda standing there with a prize chicken in her arms.
“Here is your Thanksgiving turkey,” she said. My eyes blurred so that I couldn't see straight, and I dove at her, hugging her so hard that both she and the chicken squawked in protest. “It's Ben's chicken,” she explained.
Ben added (in Kumboi language), “I know that if I give this blessing away, God will give me another.” Papa Ben's tender heart was gratified with the enthusiasm of my response, and he rose from the fire side with an embarrassed gesture made with a gnarled hand and a worn out machete.
I asked Papa Ben if he would like to hear the story of Thanksgiving, and offered to tell it that evening in my own hut, if anyone was interested.
Much to my surprise, nearly the whole village turned out, and my house was a true case of “standing room only”. The men walked gingerly, making comments about the house falling down under the weight of all those people. Soon a common-assent silence fell, and I knew it was time to start my story. I pulled out my old world globe and held it up under the dim florescent light. Rosinda supplied the words I didn't know to the best of her ability.
I talked about the world, pointing to continents and oceans and important countries. Then I took them to Israel and began with creation, God revealing himself to man through the law, and Jesus Christ. I covered a lot of ground, moving swiftly through history as I explained how the human race had spread into Europe, and England. I described England's persecution of Christians and the quest for a new, free country. I added the details of sickness, hunger, prayer, and hope on the Mayflower and finally the discovery of land. The visual aid of the globe was invaluable. I explained that these pioneering white people had no food or knowledge of the land and were dying of sickness and starvation until the natives came out of the bush and shared their food with the newcomers. I described the first Thanksgiving meal, shared by two completely different people groups. Then I concluded that this was how the message of Jesus Christ first reached the continent of America, and how the Indians there heard it for the first time. And now, half a millennium later, the gospel message had reached them, the Kumboi people.
Silence hovered in the room as I ceased to speak, and the faces around me were full of wonder and intensity. Slowly their eyes began to refocus on the present, and they looked at each other with an excitement I did not understand at first. About 15 minutes of rapid comments followed.
“So that is what has been happening since Christ died.”
“That is what the world looks like!”
“We must be the last place on earth. I wonder how she found us.”
“There is so much water! More water than land.”
“God did not forget us, even though our place is very small. Now we know these things as well.”
“Is there anybody else who does not know yet?”
“That village over there, where the people are tiny and naked — they don't know, yet.”
“But nobody ever talked to one of them; they are like shadows that run away from the sun.”
“We could catch one in a snare, and when he calms down, we can tell him.”
Then the conversation turned to what they were thankful for.
“This is Thanksgiving,” they told each other. “What are you thankful for?”
So every one, from the oldest to the youngest, brought an offering of thanks.
Lioni was thankful that her mother had not killed her when she was born, even though her mother had too many children already. Jerry was thankful for the gift of prayer, through which he could talk to God. Natolin, Jerry's wife, was thankful for Jerry, which made him giggle in embarrassment, and everybody laughed. Ben was thankful for my solar light and batteries. Every one of them mentioned their thanks for Nyinuk Nogum Jisas, God's only begotten Son. Thanksgiving became the first “holiday” among the Kumboi people that day.
That was eight years ago. The Kumboi people went on to evangelize their own people, their neighbors, and even their enemies. I hope to go visit them someday, and see what the Lord has done among them in these last years. Until then, as every Thanksgiving Day approaches, I remember my friends on that misty mountain in the jungle. I smile to think of them eating chicken and rice around the fire, and enumerating the things they are thankful for. And I, on the other side of the globe, sit down to feast on turkey and dressing and am thankful for having known my Kumboi brothers and sisters.
Rebekah Anast is a freelance writer and the daughter of Michael and Debi Pearl, authors of To Train Up A Child. Rebekah is the wife of Gabriel Anast and mother of three children. She was homeschooled Pre-K through high school and later received a BA in linguistics. www.NoGreaterJoy.org
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