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Cyangugu, or rather Kemembe, (Cyangugu is really the province) is small-town Rwanda, tucked into its south-western border with the Democratic Republic of Congo. Bananas, birds and burden-bearing people string the roadsides, while the single main street is clogged with bicycles and goats, hawkers and tatter-clothed urchins. From its slopes we stare across Lake Kivu, decked in silver silk, and shot with grey wind-lines. Flecking its limpid sheen, fish-replete dugouts paddle back to more prosperous Bukavu sprawling across the Congolese shore and her steel blue hills.
We drove the five hour journey the day before, escaping orange floods in Butare, where a number of village houses had been washed away not minutes before us. We picnicked in precipitous Nyangwe forest before dragging ourselves away to descend almost a thousand metres through topiarised tea plantations, livid green against the black of the forest.
Above: Tea plantation in front of beautiful Nyungwe forest
Below: crippled boy healed at Cyangugu SOH.
Below: crippled boy healed at Cyangugu SOH.
Our School of Healing was to be held in the Cathedral, a brick and tin shed that was up to the task, and came with that view! The local Hope:Rwanda committee had gathered the churches and about 120 delegates for the three-day School, who were all anticipation. What a delight to preach to the hungry! We had even managed to translate and photocopy most of the Manual which was absorbed like Cyangugu’s incessant rains into its brick red soil.
We were soon among the miracles and at least a dozen were instantly healed. Fevers left and pains disappeared on the simple command to ‘Be healed, in the Name of Jesus!’ by the delegates praying for each other in pairs. One crippled young boy walked for the first time in months. God is so faithful!
On Saturday morning we sent the delegates to their neighbourhoods and the local hospital, from where many wonderful testimonies flowed. A dumb man began speaking, pains
dissolved, and sicknesses vanished. A bedridden lady, commanded to rise in the Name of Jesus, promptly did so, and went to take a shower! Her neighbour, seeing the miracle, gave her life to Jesus there and then.
Elsewhere, in a queue for aid, a small boy had tripped and fallen, knocking himself unconscious. The distraught mother was just carrying him to the hospital when two of our delegates arrived. ‘There is a muzungu [white person!] in town, why not get him to pray?’ suggested one. ‘No!’ said the other, ‘WE have the authority ourselves! We have the keys!’ And without further delay prayed for him, and he awoke, rose to his feet, and promptly asked his mother for sweets.
Bron & I were taken to the Anglican Dispensary – a small cottage hospital high on a hill overlooking the lake – where we found one patient suffering from malaria and high blood
pressure. Before I had finished praying for him his face lit up like the sun! ‘I am healed!’ he declared. Later we learned that he had discharged himself, (to the chagrin of the superintendents, who grumbled jokingly that they were trying to run the Dispensary at a profit) so we can truly claim that we have actually emptied a hospital!
In the afternoons I was asked to preach in a ‘Convention’ on the subject of Hope for three days, a task which daunted me, but not the Holy Spirit, who once again rose to the occasion. More were healed, and some 50 gave their lives to Jesus in the Sunday morning service. Subsequent reports have been very positive, and we rejoice in the privilege of being able, again, to change the lives of those the Lord loves.
Meanwhile the administration work of Hope:Rwanda occupies my days. It is a roller-coaster of emotions and