Two Angels in a Boat

The afternoon air was hot, a Mozambique heat that brings bubbles of sweat to your forehead even when you’re not moving. My friend Simoque and I were resting on a stack of bricks in the shade of an ancient cashew tree. We were supposed to be working and had, in fact, spent the past half hour moving freshly made bricks into stacks where they could dry quickly. 

I should tell you a bit more about our situation. Simoque and I were attempting to help a group of volunteers build a new primary school in Liberdade, a suburb of Maputo, the capital city of Mozambique. The volunteers were pushing wheelbarrows filled with thick red dirt toward the wheezing brickmaking machine. Several local workers operated the machine, pouring dirt in one end and extracting cubes of well-pressed bricks from the other.

Everything—including the machine, the palm-thatch kitchen hut, a nearby tractor, and all the humans—was covered in thick red dust. Well, that’s not quite accurate. It may have begun as dust, but as humidity mixed with sweat, the dust transformed into a murky burgundy slime that matted our hair and dripped from the tips of our noses.

The volunteers had come from America, Australia, South Africa, and Holland. Most knew far more about building than Simoque and I could ever hope to learn. We were pastors, two nonagile fellows whose life experiences did not include brickmaking.

“Simoque,” I asked my friend, “does it ever rain in Mozambique?”

He was quiet for such a long time that I cracked my eyes open to see if he had fallen asleep. He noticed, smiled an Africa-wide smile, and said, “Pastor Dick, may I tell you a story?”

I adjusted my seat on the bricks and leaned toward my friend.

“I’m ready.”

Twenty-Two Churches and One Pastor

“Once upon a time . . . actually, it was about 12 years ago,” Simoque began, “I was a young pastor living with my wife and children up-country in the seaside town of Xai-Xai. We chose to live on the edge of the Limpopo River because it was near the railroad station and near a road where I could quickly jump on a bus and travel to any of my many churches.

 “I was responsible for 22 congregations, if I remember correctly.”

“Twenty-two?” I questioned.

“Yep,” he said, smiling. “The elders from all those congregations joined me one afternoon each week beneath a giant cashew tree—like the one we’re under today. I’d give them the week’s sermon, discuss the text, and then help them think through the biggest challenges they were facing in their congregations.”

“What did you do on Sabbath?” I asked.

“I’d go to two or more churches every Sabbath. Usually my wife and two sons would join me for what was always a very long and tiring Sabbath day. We didn’t own a car, so we traveled by minibus or train. Church members led the evangelism and Bible studies, and I came whenever I could to preach a sermon and baptize new believers.”

“I’ve never imagined serving as pastor for that many congregations,” I groaned. “With so many churches to care for, I imagine that you were away from home most of the time, traveling wherever you were needed and helping everyone stay on the right path.”

Simoque ignored my interruption and continued with his story.

Underwater Prayers

“One day I was away on a journey when a giant typhoon blew across the ocean from Madagascar and landed on Mozambique. The rain fell in buckets, turning dry ground across Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and Malawi into lakes of water.

“Knowing that the rain and wind would terrify my wife and children, I immediately started for home, praying loudly for the good Lord to protect my family and guide me to their side.

“Travel was very difficult. The streets were flooded, and no minivans or taxis were operating. The rain was so heavy that even the trains had stopped running. I was on my own, with only one way to get to my family: I would have to walk the many kilometers home.

“I chose to walk on the railroad tracks, hoping they would be above the rushing flood. With every step I reached out in prayer, hoping to grasp my guardian angel’s steady hand.

“Late in the night I finally came to the wide Limpopo River, where a new sound roared in my ears. Muddy typhoon water had risen high and was rushing across the Limpopo railroad bridge, threatening to wash away my only way of escape.

“I could see partway across the river and knew I would have to hurry if I was going to reach the other side before the bridge tore away and made it impossible for me to get home.

“I moved slowly along the railroad rails on the bridge, ice-cold water tearing at my feet—water that quickly rose to cover my ankles and then my knees. I slogged on, placing each foot carefully on one of the wooden ties that ran between the iron tracks. With one hand I still clutched tightly to my angel’s imaginary hand. Every breath was a prayer.

“When the water reached my waist, I knew I would probably not make it across the Limpopo. I shouted out to God for protection—not for me, but for my family.

“I knew I had to keep going, had to get home to my wife, must be with my boys. As I took one more dangerous step, the railroad bridge shuddered beneath me. I slipped, and the water ran clear up to my neck. In big trouble, I shouted a prayer as loud as I could!

When the water reached my waist, I knew I would probably not make it across the Limpopo. I shouted out to God for protection—not for me, but for my family.

“That’s when I fell into a very deep hole. My head went under the water, and I knew I would never see my family again—not until heaven.”

Simoque stopped speaking, and suddenly the air felt hotter, more clammy, redder, and dirtier than before.

The brickmaking machine clanged far off in the distance. I had stopped breathing, as if drowning in muddy water with my friend.

“Pastor Dick, God answers even underwater prayers.”

Simoque’s voice—and the truth that he was right here, sitting beside me and telling me his story—pulled me back to reality. His eyes were closed and his hands clenched, as if reliving the moment he was drowning in the river.

“Deep down under the water,” he continued, “I shouted for God to come to me, to help me, to save me!

“Suddenly I bobbed to the top of the river like a stray plastic bottle.”

Strangers in a Boat

Simoque stopped speaking, looked over at me, took a deep breath, and smiled.

“I breathed all the air I could and looked around for something to grab on to, something that might give me a chance to live. Instead of a floating log, I saw the impossible. Paddling hard beside me were two men in a small fishing boat!

“They saw me, caught me, pulled me in, and handed me a dry blanket.

“ ‘Where are you going?’ one of the men asked.

“I coughed up a lot of water while I told them about my family and why I needed to get home. Then I asked what they were doing out there in the flood.

“ ‘We’re fishing,’ one of them laughed.

“ ‘In this flood?’ I responded, amazed that anyone would be out in weather like this.

“ ‘Oh, yes. This is a very good time to fish. We caught you, didn’t we?’

“The men carried me for many hours until we saw a light shining in my house up the hill above the river. They seemed to know right where to go and drove the boat deep into the mud below my house.

“ ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ I cried. ‘Please let me go inside and get my money to pay you.’

“The fishermen argued with me, saying they didn’t need to be paid. But finally they agreed to wait for me while I went to get them some money.

“I splashed up to the house, every step sending a bucket of ugly mud toward the sky. My family was so happy to see me, but I hugged each one quickly, ran to my room to get the money, ran back out the door, and sloshed through the mud down to the boat.”

Simoque’s storytelling went silent.

“Pastor Dick, there was no boat.

“There were not even any marks in the mud where they had driven the boat aground so I could jump off. There was nothing! No trace. No sign that they had ever even been there.”

Simoque looked through my eyes and deep into my heart. Then he cleared his throat and spoke again, almost silently, as if in the quiet of a cathedral.

“Pastor Dick, there was no boat. No fishermen. Just two angels—out fishing for Simoque!”