THE LIFE OF RICHARD WILLIAM MUELLER, JR.
(Continued)

Dad’s Autobiography – Chapter 10 – In Book, Page 20

Copperbelt – Ndola, Reminiscing on the Northwest Province of Northern Rhodesia

Copperbelt – Ndola This preaching place was a result of Timothy Tonga’s spread of the Gospel. He had written to his brother who lived near Chipata, two hundred fifty miles east of Lusaka, about the Lutheran Church of Central Africa. His brother asked for our Christian literature to be sent to him. His brother used them to instruct his children – and all those in his village. Then, after a few years, one of those children moved to Kitwe – and asked for our literature to be sent to him.

With that literature, he instructed his family – and many others in a compound of Kitwe. However, one day we received a letter from him saying that he thought he would join another church – because we did not come to visit him – and because sheep need a shepherd. Within days, we were on our way to call on him. We suggested to him that he could establish a church of the Lutheran Church of Central Africa. We would send him all the materials he needed to do so – sermons, Sunday School lessons, prayers, and Bible Instruction materials. Without hesitation, he agreed to our suggestion.

The next time we visited him, he had built a church with his own money. Granted, it was not an elaborate edifice. It was built out of sticks with cardboard for siding and roof covering. It had mud pews with a few wooden benches. But, simple as it was, it was a place where the Word of God was taught.

This is how the Word of God spread in Northern Rhodesia – through the people we had come to serve.

REMINISCING ON THE NORTHWEST PROVINCE OF NORTHERN RHODESIA

The trip from the Copperbelt to the far end of the Northwestern Province was over three hundred and fifty miles. Those miles were rough miles, miles of dirt road. There was only one road into the Northwest Province. In the dry season, that road was a corrugated road, a washboard road. The only way to stay on the road was to travel at least fifty miles per hour. At any lesser speed, it was almost impossible to hold the vehicle on the road. This made for a rather exciting journey, never knowing whether a sudden lurch of the steering wheel would bring disaster – would bring the ditch much closer than we wanted it to be..

During the rainy season, — and, I must say, we avoided that time of the year for a trip to the Northwest Province as much as we possible could – the road was a quagmire. In some places it was just muddy. In other places, it was a lake. And in still other places, it was a sinkhole. I remember one of those place distinctly. It was always in the same place – and was always traversed with fear and trembling. We knew that if we were ever caught in it, we were there to stay for a long, long while.

In the early years, whenever we went into the Northwest Province, we carried extra petrol with us. Once we left the Copperbelt, there were no gas stations. This meant a trip of over seven hundred miles with all the gas we would see would be the gas we brought with us. However, we did have a safety valve. There was a Catholic mission station in the area and people there who would help us out in case of dire need.

And there were always people who would help us out. On one trip, my loving wife asked me if I wanted to take extra water with me. I told her, “No. I have never needed any on these trips. Well, I should have listened to her. We broke down on the road about one hundred fifty miles from the Copperbelt. As soon as we did, truck drivers began to stop, asking if they could help us. Of course, we did not refuse. One of those truck drivers helped us determine that our coil had packed up.

With that knowledge, our son, Dick, who was fourteen years old at the time, hitch-hiked back to the Copperbelt, picked up a new coil, and hitch-hiked back to where he had left me. One man picked him up from where we had broken down – and took him all the way to the Copperbelt. Another man brought him all the way back. With two rides he covered over three hundred miles. Hitch-hiking was not dangerous in those days. Also, in those days, people who traveled in Northern Rhodesia we always most helpful.

While he was gone – which was a matter of three days – I ran out of water. I shaved with the coffee I had picked up in the Copperbelt. But soon other vehicles stopped to help – to learn my plight. Africans also came out of the bush and offered their help. Consequently, before Dick returned from the Copperbelt, I was declining the offers of water. I had more than enough to fill all my needs.

It was in the Northwest Province that I learned just how far American influence and Christian influence had penetrated into Africa. No matter how far back in the bush we would travel, we would see a Coca-Cola sign. Every time I saw one of those signs I would think of all the money that was being spent to sell that drink – and of how little money was being spent to give away the Water of Life.

Christian influence was also there. I remember being in the Throne Room of one of the chiefs. Above his throne were written these words, “Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.” Acts 4:12 Sad to say, the full Gospel of Jesus Christ was not known.

But the Law was. An adulteress was banished from the tribe. A thief, when caught the first time, would give up a finger. If he was caught the second time, a hand was forfeited. And, if he was caught the third time, his life would be taken from him. They had the Law of God written in their hearts. The Gospel, however, had to come to them through Holy Scriptures – which we had come to preach and to teach.

In the Northwest Province of Northern Rhodesia, I had the privilege of being able to stand on the banks of the Zambezi River where it flows into Northern Rhodesia from what was then known as the Belgium Congo. It was there that I took a picture which I was to show on many of my lecture tours back in the United States. It is a picture of a man in a canoe. He is paddling his canoe across the Zambezi River at sunset. The sun is in the background. Its bright orange rays flow over the water and his canoe, bathing him in the last light of day. It reminded me – and still reminds me that, “As long as it is day, we must do the work of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work.” Luke 9:4

Whenever we made our mission forays into the Northwest Province, not only did we take a supply of petrol with us, but we also took enough food to last us for a week at least. However, we did not always make use of all of the food we brought with us, thanks to our African friends. More often than not, they would ask us to partake of a meal or two with them – meals served mostly the African way.

One of those meals was a meal I will never forget. It was a meal prepared with fish that I had seen before they were cooked. They were fish which had been caught many days before and laid out to dry on the thatched roof of an African hut. There were flies crawling all over them. It was the only time in all our days in Africa that I had a difficult time eating what was put before us – but eat I did.

Another meal that we shall never forget is the meal we were served by the husband of a chieftenness. Our children, and Irene and I had been directed to their home by one of our members who wanted her to grant approval to the Lutheran Church of Central Africa to labor among the people of her tribe. After visiting with her, and after being granted permission to carry on our work in her area, she invited us for dinner.

Her husband had worked in a European home — and had served them as their cook. He had learned his trade well. He prepared a delicious meal for us – chicken, mealy-meal with gravy, and a salad. The only course missing according to our American way of thinking was a dessert. There was a reason it was missing. More often than not, Europeans do not eat a dessert after their evening meal. Rather, it is a serving of cheese and crackers with coffee that is served – and taken in the lounge.

While on one of our mission trips, I was taken into a village quite far back in the bush. As we entered the village, we passed a man who was sitting and attending an illegal still. The man who took me to that village told me that very few white men ever see such a sight.

It was a simple still. On one end was a calabash filled with water and perched over hot coals. Into that water went everything and anything, but mostly maize or cassava. As the water boiled, the vapor was directed through a bamboo rod and through another calabash filled with cold water. When the vapor condensed, the fluid was directed through another bamboo rod. When the fluid came out of that bamboo rod, it dripped into a glass container. In this case, that glass container was a coca-cola bottle.

That fluid was deadly. It could cause blindness in adults and deaths to children. It should go without saying that drunkenness was rampant in the Northwest Province. Actually, it was prevalent everywhere in Zambia and Malawi. It was so prevalent that one of our African pastors told me that “maybe it would be the best to have everyone die so that we could begin all over again in proclaiming the Gospel”.

Did I consider seeing this still a blessing? I certainly did. He gave me an insight into African life – and showed me how much the message of the Gospel is needed in Africa — a message which not only changes hearts, but also changes lives. The Gospel cleans us inside – and makes us want to be clean outside. We had not gone to Africa to preach cleanliness. The Gospel did that work for us.

As I reminisce on the Northwest Province of Northern Rhodesia, a picture of a four by eight foot plywood board comes to mind. It is perched high on two poles and comes to view after traveling three hundred miles without seeing such a sign. It is a sign emblazoned with the logo of the Lutheran Church of Central Africa – and has those meaningful words printed in large bold letters on it. It is a friendly sign, telling us that we are at home – that fellow Lutheran Christians are here – a long, long way from home in Lusaka.